I called the hospital billing department at 8 AM the next morning.
"This is Dr. Nina Reeves. There's been a payment made to my father's account, Michael Reeves. I need to reverse it."
The woman on the phone typed something. "Let me pull that up. Oh yes, I see the donation here. Twelve thousand dollars. Is there a problem?"
"Yes. I didn't authorize it. The donor didn't have permission to pay on his behalf."
More typing. "I'm sorry, Dr. Reeves, but the donation was made legally through our foundation. Once it's been processed and allocated, we can't reverse it. The funds have already been applied to your father's procedure."
My stomach dropped. "There has to be a way."
"I'm afraid not. The donor specifically designated it for cardiac surgery for Michael Reeves. It's been approved by our foundation board. The surgery is scheduled for Monday morning." She paused. "Is there a reason you want to refuse this help? Your father's condition is quite serious."
I pressed my hand to my forehead. "No. Never mind. Thank you."
I hung up.
Irreversible. The money was spent. The surgery was scheduled. My father was going to live.
Because of Zachary.
I spent the weekend trying not to think about it. Tried to focus on my other clients, on paperwork, on anything except the fact that a diagnosed psychopath had saved my father's life without being asked.
Monday morning, my mother called from the hospital.
"Nina?" Her voice was bright. Hopeful. "They just took your father back for surgery. The doctors say he's in excellent hands. They're optimistic."
"That's good, Mom."
"Will you come to the hospital? I don't want to wait alone."
I looked at my schedule. Three clients today. All of them desperately needed sessions. All of them paying barely enough to cover my own expenses.
"I'll be there in an hour."
I canceled everyone.
The hospital waiting room was sterile and cold. My mother sat in a plastic chair, clutching her purse, her face lined with years of worry.
"Thank you for coming." She grabbed my hand. "I know you're busy."
"It's okay." I sat beside her.
"I still don't know who paid for this." She looked at me. "Do you have any idea?"
I could tell her. Should tell her. But what would I say? A client I'm treating paid for it? A diagnosed psychopath who's been systematically manipulating me decided to save Dad's life?
"No idea, Mom."
She squeezed my hand. "God works in mysterious ways."
I didn't believe in God. But I was starting to believe in Zachary's ability to control every aspect of my life.
Three hours later, the surgeon came out.
"Mrs. Reeves? Nina?"
We stood.
"The surgery was successful. We repaired the damaged valve and cleared the blockage. His heart function should improve significantly." He smiled. "He's going to be fine. He'll need recovery time, but he should make a full recovery."
My mother sobbed. I held her while she cried into my shoulder.
"Thank you," she kept saying. "Thank you, thank you."
The surgeon patted her arm. "Thank whoever donated that money. Without it, we would have had to delay the surgery. That delay could have been fatal."
After he left, my mother looked at me.
"Someone saved your father's life, Nina. Someone out there cared enough to help us when we had nothing." Her eyes filled with tears again. "I'll never be able to thank them."
I swallowed hard. "Yeah."
That evening, after my mother went home to rest and my father was sleeping peacefully in recovery, I sat in my car in the hospital parking lot.
And I called Zachary.
He answered immediately.
"Nina. How's your father?"
"You manipulated me." My voice shook with rage. "You paid for his surgery without asking. You took away my choice. You made me indebted to you."
"Your father's alive. Is that manipulation?"
"Yes." I gripped the steering wheel. "You knew I would refuse your help. So you went around me. Made it impossible to say no. That's the definition of manipulation."
"I suppose it is." He didn't sound sorry. "How do you feel about it?"
"How do I feel?" I laughed bitterly. "I feel angry. Grateful. Furious. Relieved. I feel like I want to scream at you and thank you at the same time."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." I closed my eyes. "Why did you do this?"
"Because your father needed surgery and you couldn't afford it. Because watching you suffer over something I could easily fix seemed cruel. Because I wanted to help."
"Psychopaths don't help people."
"This one does. Sometimes." He paused. "Is your father okay?"
"The surgery was successful. He's going to make a full recovery."
"Good. I'm glad."
The sincerity in his voice broke something in me.
"I can't pay you back. Twelve thousand dollars might as well be twelve million for me."
"I don't want you to pay me back."
"Then what do you want?"
Silence stretched between us.
"I want you to stop fighting me," he said finally. "I want you to accept that I'm in your life now and I'm not leaving. I want you to understand that I'm trying to help you, not hurt you."
"You're my patient."
"No." His voice was firm. "I'm someone who sees you clearly. Who recognizes your intelligence and your struggle and your worth. Who wants to make your life easier instead of harder."
My throat tightened. "That's not how therapy works."
"Then stop calling it therapy." He sounded frustrated. "Nina, I've been to six therapists. All of them tried to fix me or analyze me or turn me into something I'm not. You're the first person who actually sees what I am and doesn't run away."
"Maybe I should run."
"But you won't." His voice softened. "Because some part of you recognizes that I see you too. The brilliant woman drowning in debt. The daughter terrified of becoming her father. The therapist who chose poverty to prove she's different from the addicts she treats."
"Stop."
"I see all of you, Nina. The good and the desperate and the scared. And I don't judge any of it. I just want to help."
"Why?" My voice broke. "Why do you care?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"Because you're the first person in my entire life who's treated me like I'm human instead of a diagnosis. You're afraid of me, yes. But you also listen to me. Challenge me. See past the psychopath label to the person underneath." He paused. "That's rare. You're rare. And I protect rare things."
Tears burned my eyes. "This can't happen. Whatever this is between us, it can't happen."
"It's already happening."
"I'm your therapist."
"You're my therapist because the court mandated it. But that's not why I'm talking to you right now. I'm talking to you because I like you. Because I want you in my life. Not as my therapist. As someone who matters to me."
"You're a psychopath. You don't form attachments."
"I didn't think I could." His voice was quiet. "But you're making me question that."
My hands trembled on the steering wheel.
"I helped your family," he continued. "Those aren't the same thing as manipulation. Yes, I did it without asking. Yes, it puts you in a difficult position. But your father is alive, Nina. He's alive because I chose to help. And I'd make that choice again."
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to stop trying to refuse my help. I want you to accept the consulting offer so you can stop drowning financially. I want you to trust that I'm not trying to destroy you." He paused. "And I want you to admit that some part of you wants the same things I do."
"What things?"
"To stop pretending we're just therapist and patient. To acknowledge there's something else happening here. To see where this could go if we stopped fighting it."
My heart pounded. "That's completely inappropriate."
"Yes." He agreed. "It is. But it's also true."
I couldn't speak.
"Think about it, Nina. Your father's alive. Your mother is happy. The surgery was successful. All because I chose to help. Maybe I'm not the monster you think I am."
"Or maybe you're exactly the monster I think you are," I whispered. "And you just found a different way to trap me."
"Maybe." He sounded almost sad. "But you'll never know unless you stop running."
He hung up.
I sat in the dark parking lot, my phone in my lap.
My father was alive. The surgery was successful. My mother was grateful.
And I was more trapped than ever.
Because Zachary was right.
I wanted to run.
But some terrible, desperate part of me wanted to stay even more.
I like you, Dr. Reeves. I want you in my life.
The words echoed in my head.
And I had no idea how to make them stop.
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