Zachary was different this time.
He arrived Tuesday with coffee. Two cups. One black, one with cream and sugar.
"Peace offering," he said, setting mine on the desk. "Caramel latte, extra shot. That's your usual order, right?"
I stared at the cup. "How do you know my coffee order?"
"I asked the barista at the shop near your office." He sat down, sipping his black coffee. "I wasn't spying. I was being thoughtful. There's a difference."
"Thoughtful would be asking me directly."
"You're right." He set down his cup. "May I bring you coffee in the future, or would you prefer I don't?"
The question caught me off guard. Direct. No manipulation buried in it.
"I'd prefer you don't."
"Understood." He nodded. "I'll drink this one myself next time."
We sat in silence for a moment. The coffee sat between us, still steaming. I wanted to drink it but that felt like accepting something I shouldn't.
"Let's talk about your week," I said, opening my notepad.
"I had three violent impulses. Didn't act on any of them. Calculated risk-reward ratios for each situation. Risk always exceeded reward." He paused. "Is that the progress you're looking for?"
"It's a start. Tell me about the impulses."
"An employee missed a deadline. I imagined firing him so publicly it would destroy his career. A competitor leaked information about my company. I imagined hiring someone to leak worse information about him. My lawyer questioned my judgment in a meeting. I imagined having him disbarred." He said it like he was reciting a grocery list.
"And you didn't act on any of these?"
"Correct. I found more efficient solutions that didn't involve violence or destruction." He met my eyes. "I'm not changing, Dr. Reeves. I'm just getting better at appearing changed. Is that acceptable?"
His honesty was disarming. Most clients lied about progress. He was admitting he was performing.
"Therapy isn't about performance."
"Everything is performance." He leaned back. "The difference is I'm aware of it. Most people perform unconsciously. I do it deliberately."
"That's a very cynical worldview."
"It's an accurate worldview." He smiled slightly. "You're performing right now. Professional detachment. Clinical curiosity. But you're actually nervous because I brought you coffee and you don't know if accepting it compromises your boundaries."
My face heated. "That's not—"
"It is." He gestured to the cup. "You've glanced at it four times in the last two minutes. You want it. But you're worried wanting something from me is dangerous."
I gripped my pen. "Let's focus on your treatment."
"Let's focus on honesty instead." He set down his coffee. "I came here to make you an offer. A legitimate one this time."
My stomach tightened. "No."
"You haven't heard it yet."
"I don't need to. The answer is no."
"Nina." He leaned forward. "Just listen. Please."
The please surprised me. He didn't say please often.
"One minute. Then we go back to therapy."
He nodded. "I need a behavioral analyst. Someone who can evaluate candidates for executive positions, predict negotiation outcomes, assess psychological vulnerabilities in business deals. It's legitimate work. Legal. And you're uniquely qualified."
"I'm your therapist."
"Which is why I'm offering consulting work, not employment." He pulled out a folder. "Ten hours of work. Ten thousand dollars. You review resumes, conduct interviews, provide psychological assessments. Nothing more."
I didn't touch the folder. "That's a conflict of interest."
"Not if we keep them separate. Therapy on Tuesdays. Consulting on weekends. Two different relationships, two different contexts. People wear multiple hats all the time."
"Not with the same person."
"Why not?" He tilted his head. "You're a therapist and a daughter. Your mother is your patient's emergency contact and your family. Those roles overlap. This is no different."
"It's completely different."
"How?"
I struggled to articulate it. "Because you're paying me. That creates a power imbalance."
"I already pay you four fifty per session. The power imbalance exists regardless." He pushed the folder closer. "Ten thousand dollars for ten hours. That's one thousand per hour. You currently make seventy-five dollars per hour with your regular clients."
"Money isn't everything."
"No. But it's something." His voice softened. "Your father's surgery is in two weeks. You're still six thousand dollars short. This job would cover that plus give you breathing room."
My throat tightened. "How do you know I'm six thousand short?"
"I called the hospital. Asked about Michael Reeves' account balance. They told me the current amount owed for the procedure to be scheduled."
"That's a HIPAA violation."
"On their part, not mine. I just asked questions." He paused. "The surgery coordinator mentioned they're concerned he'll have to cancel if payment isn't received by Friday."
The room tilted slightly.
Friday. Three days from now.
I had one thousand dollars. Needed six. There was no possible way I could earn that much in three days.
"This is manipulation," I whispered.
"This is opportunity." He leaned back. "I need an analyst. You need money. We both benefit. That's not manipulation. That's business."
"You're my patient."
"Then terminate me. Tell the court I'm not making progress. Take the consulting work without the therapy complication." He met my eyes. "I'll even write the letter myself. Make it easy for you."
I stared at him. He was offering me everything. The money I needed. A way out of the therapy relationship. A legitimate excuse.
And all I had to do was say yes.
"I need to think about it."
"You have until Friday." He stood, leaving the folder on my desk. "After that, your father's surgery gets canceled and rescheduled for whenever you can come up with the money. Which, based on your current income, will be months from now."
He walked to the door.
"This isn't therapy anymore," I said quietly.
He turned back. "It never was. We both know that. But we can keep pretending if it makes you feel better."
Then he left.
I sat alone, staring at the folder.
Ten thousand dollars.
I opened it. The contract was simple. Ten hours of work. Behavioral analysis. Nothing illegal listed. Payment upon completion.
My signature line was blank at the bottom.
I closed the folder.
I wouldn't sign it. Couldn't sign it. This was exactly what Sarah had warned me about. What Patricia had told me not to do.
But three days later, my mother called.
"Nina?" Her voice was shaking. "Honey, I don't understand what happened."
My heart jumped. "What's wrong? Is Dad okay?"
"He's fine. Better than fine. The hospital just called." She was crying. "Someone paid his surgery bill. All of it. Twelve thousand dollars. They said it was an anonymous donation."
The world stopped.
"What?"
"They said a donor specifically requested it go toward your father's procedure. They wouldn't tell me who. Just that it was fully paid." She sobbed. "Nina, your father's surgery is scheduled for next Monday. He's going to be okay."
I couldn't breathe.
"Mom, I have to go."
"Wait, do you know who—"
I hung up.
My hands shook as I pulled out my phone. Scrolled to Zachary's number.
Called him.
He answered on the first ring.
"Hello, Nina."
"You paid for my father's surgery." My voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you needed help. And I could provide it."
"I didn't accept your offer."
"I know." His voice was gentle. "This isn't about the offer. This is about your father needing surgery and you not having the money. I had the money. Simple solution."
"Nothing about you is simple."
"No." He agreed. "But this is. Your father lives. You don't have to choose between your ethics and his health. Everyone wins."
My throat closed. "I can't pay you back."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what do you want?"
Silence on the other end. Then:
"I want you to understand that I see you, Nina. I see you struggling. I see you drowning. And I want to help." He paused. "No strings attached. No manipulation. Just help."
"I don't believe you."
"I know." He sounded almost sad. "But it's true anyway."
He hung up.
I stood in my apartment, phone in hand, my mother's words echoing.
Your father's going to be okay.
Because of Zachary.
The man I was supposed to be treating. The diagnosed psychopath. The manipulator.
He'd just saved my father's life.
And I had no idea what that meant.
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