I made it through exactly three hours of work the next morning before Sarah Chen cornered me.
I was in the break room, making terrible coffee from the machine that had been broken for six months, when she walked in and closed the door behind her.
"We need to talk," she said.
Sarah was my closest colleague. We'd gone through our PhDs at Columbia together, had supported each other through comprehensive exams and dissertation defenses and the brutal job market. She knew me better than almost anyone.
Which meant she could tell when something was wrong.
"About what?" I asked, even though I knew.
"About Zachary Hale." She crossed her arms. "I heard you took his case."
"Court-mandated therapy. Fifty sessions. It's good money."
"It's dangerous money." Sarah's voice was sharp. "Nina, I looked into him. The assault victim, Marcus Chen, is still in physical therapy. His jaw had to be reconstructed. He'll never regain full function of his right hand. And Hale showed zero remorse. Zero. He smiled at his arraignment."
I poured my coffee, not looking at her. "He has antisocial personality disorder. Lack of remorse is a diagnostic criterion."
"You're defending him already." Sarah's eyes narrowed. "Why are you defending him?"
"I'm not defending him. I'm explaining his diagnosis."
"Nina, you had two sessions with him. Two. And you're already making excuses for violence that put a man in the hospital for six weeks." She moved closer. "I found sealed records. This isn't Hale's first violent incident. He's been accused three other times. Always settles out of court. Always makes it go away with money. How many people do you think he's hurt that we don't know about?"
My hand tightened on my coffee mug. "What's your point?"
"My point is that rich sociopaths are the worst kind of patient. They see therapy as a game. They see people as chess pieces to manipulate. They're dangerous, Nina. Especially to their therapists."
"I can handle it. I've treated violent offenders before."
"Not like this. Not billionaires with unlimited resources and zero conscience." Sarah pulled out her phone, scrolled through something. "I did some research. There are rumors about his business dealings. Money laundering. Connections to organized crime. Political bribes. None of it proven, all of it whispered. He's not just violent, Nina. He's connected. Powerful. The kind of powerful that makes problems disappear."
I took a sip of terrible coffee. "Rumors aren't facts."
"And facts aren't always provable when the person involved has eight billion dollars and lawyers on retainer." She put her phone away. "Men like Zachary Hale don't do therapy, Nina. They do reconnaissance. They study their therapists, find their weak points, figure out how to manipulate them. You're not treating him. He's researching you."
The words hit too close to what I'd already realized. What I'd been trying not to think about.
"I know what I'm doing," I said.
"Do you? Because you're defending him. You had two sessions and you're already making excuses for him. That's exactly what sociopaths do, Nina. They make you feel special. They make you feel seen. They make you feel like you understand them in ways no one else does. And then they use that connection to manipulate you into doing things you'd never normally do."
"That's not what's happening."
"Isn't it?" Sarah's voice softened. "Nina, I've known you for eight years. I've never seen you defend a violent offender. Never. You're always clinical, professional, boundaried. But you're defending Zachary Hale after two sessions. Why?"
I didn't have an answer. Or I had an answer I didn't want to say out loud.
Because he sees me. Because he's read my work. Because he understands my research in ways my dissertation committee never did. Because when I'm in that room with him, I feel intellectually alive for the first time in years.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"He's self-aware about his condition," I said instead. "That's significant progress. Most sociopaths don't acknowledge what they are. Zachary does. He's honest about his lack of empathy. That's actually a therapeutic advantage."
Sarah stared at me. "Listen to yourself. You just called him Zachary. Not Mr. Hale. Not your patient. Zachary. Like he's your friend."
I felt my face flush. "It's just a name."
"It's a boundary violation. And you know it." Sarah moved closer, her voice urgent. "Nina, please. Be careful. I've seen therapists get pulled into patients' worlds before. It never ends well. And with sociopaths, it's even worse. They're master manipulators. They study you. They find exactly what you need to hear and they say it. They make you feel understood and special and seen. That's how they hook you."
"I'm not being hooked."
"Then why are you defending him?" Sarah asked quietly. "Why are you calling him by his first name? Why do you look different when you talk about him? You had two sessions, Nina. Two. And you're already changing."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell her she was wrong, that I was fine, that I had this under control.
But I couldn't. Because she was right.
I was defending him. After two sessions. I was calling him Zachary. I was reading his emails at 2 AM. I was thinking about him constantly.
I was already changing.
"I can handle it," I said finally. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm a professional. I know what I'm doing."
Sarah looked at me for a long moment. "I hope so. Because Zachary Hale is dangerous, Nina. Not just because he's violent. Because he's intelligent, wealthy, and completely without conscience. That combination destroys people. Don't let him destroy you."
She left before I could respond.
I stood in the break room, holding my terrible coffee, thinking about everything she'd said.
She was right. About all of it.
Zachary was dangerous. Was manipulative. Was studying me as much as I was studying him.
And I was already defending him. Already making excuses. Already calling him by his first name like we were friends instead of therapist and patient.
But Sarah didn't understand. She'd never met him. Never experienced the way he saw through pretense. Never felt what it was like to have someone actually understand your work, your research, your mind.
She didn't know what it felt like to be truly seen.
Wait. Did I just think that?
Did I really just justify my boundary violations because Zachary made me feel seen?
That's exactly what Sarah had warned me about. Exactly what sociopaths do. Make you feel special so they can manipulate you.
And I'd fallen for it in two sessions.
I threw away my coffee and went back to my office, my mind racing.
I needed to establish better boundaries. Needed to stop reading his emails. Needed to stop thinking about him constantly. Needed to remember he was my patient, not my colleague or friend or anything else.
I sat at my desk and pulled up my notes from our sessions. Tried to read them clinically, professionally, the way I'd read notes on any other patient.
Failed completely.
Because I'd written things in the margins that weren't clinical at all.
"Brilliant."
"He's right about the system being broken."
"Why does his logic make so much sense?"
I closed the notebook quickly, like someone might see.
My phone buzzed. Text message from unknown number.
But I knew who it was before I opened it.
"Had dinner with your colleague Dr. Chen recently. She asked about my case. I told her nothing, of course. Client confidentiality. But she doesn't trust me. Smart woman. You trust me though, don't you, Nina?"
My heart pounded.
He'd had dinner with Sarah. Had been talking to her about me. And he knew she'd warned me about him.
How did he know that? Had he been watching? Had someone told him?
I should be furious. Should report this immediate boundary violation. Should document everything and call the court liaison.
Instead, my fingers moved across the screen: "How did you get my number?"
His response came immediately: "I'm a billionaire with cybersecurity companies. Getting phone numbers is trivial. The real question is why you're responding instead of blocking me."
He was right. Why was I responding?
I typed: "This contact is inappropriate. Please limit communication to scheduled sessions."
Deleted it before sending.
Typed: "Stop texting me."
Deleted that too.
Finally typed: "I don't trust you. I understand you. Different thing entirely."
Hit send before I could reconsider.
Three dots appeared immediately. He was typing.
"Understanding is more dangerous than trust. Trust can be broken. Understanding can't be unlearned. You're starting to see the world through my eyes, Nina. And once you do, you can't go back to seeing it through yours."
I stared at the message, my throat tight.
He was right. Again.
I was starting to understand him. His logic. His worldview. The way he saw people as tools and emotions as weaknesses and violence as practical problem-solving.
And the more I understood, the more sense it made.
That was terrifying.
Another text: "Your colleague is right to warn you. I am dangerous. But not because I'm violent. Because I see things clearly. Without the emotional noise that clouds most people's judgment. And I see you clearly, Nina. I see your potential. Your brilliance. Your hunger for something more than the scraps life has given you. That's what makes this interesting."
I should stop responding. Should put down my phone. Should establish firm boundaries.
Instead, I typed: "What do you want from me?"
The response took longer this time. Like he was choosing his words carefully.
"I want you to stop pretending. Stop acting like you're satisfied with ethical poverty. Stop performing goodness when you're brilliant enough to be powerful. I want you to see what I see. The world as it actually is. Not as you wish it were."
"And what do I get from that?"
"Everything you deserve. Everything you've been denied because you were too good to take it. Freedom from principles that only hold you back. Your father's life. Your student loans paid. A salary that matches your worth instead of your ethics." A pause. "Me. Understanding. Partnership. Someone who sees you exactly as you are and wants you anyway."
My hands were shaking.
This was manipulation. Textbook manipulation. Offering me everything I needed, everything I wanted, in exchange for compromising everything I believed in.
I knew this. I'd studied this. I'd written papers about this exact tactic.
And I was falling for it anyway.
"I can't," I typed.
"You mean you won't. There's a difference. Can't means impossible. Won't means choice. And you're choosing to stay in that cramped apartment, choosing to watch your father die, choosing to drown in debt. Because what? Because principles matter more than outcomes?"
I didn't respond.
Another text: "Your colleague Sarah is smart. She's right that I'm dangerous. She's right that I manipulate people. She's right that I see therapy as a game. But she's wrong about one thing."
"What?"
"She thinks I'm trying to hurt you. I'm not. I'm trying to free you. There's a difference."
I put my phone down, my heart racing.
He was doing it again. Making terrible things sound reasonable. Making manipulation sound like liberation. Making me question whether Sarah's warnings were protection or just limitations.
My phone buzzed again.
"See you in four days, Nina. I'm already looking forward to it. And I think you are too. Even if you won't admit it yet."
I should block his number. Should report this. Should do something professional and appropriate and ethical.
Instead, I saved his texts. Reread them three times. Analyzed every word.
And admitted to myself what I'd been trying to deny since our first session.
I was looking forward to seeing him again.
Was counting down the days just like he was.
Was thinking about him constantly, obsessively, in ways that had nothing to do with therapy and everything to do with the way he made me feel.
Seen. Understood. Intellectually matched.
Dangerous.
Sarah was right. I was being hooked. Manipulated. Pulled into his world.
And the terrifying part was, I didn't want to fight it.
Because his world was powerful. And mine was powerless.
His world offered my father's life. And mine offered ethical poverty while I watched him die.
His world saw my brilliance. And mine saw my student debt.
Four days until our next session.
I was already counting them.
And that scared me more than anything Zachary had said.
Because Sarah was right about something else too.
I was changing. After just two sessions.
And I didn't know how to stop it.
Didn't know if I wanted to stop it.
Because the person I was becoming had options. Had power. Had a billionaire offering her everything she'd ever wanted.
And the person I'd been had nothing but principles that never paid the bills.
I looked at my phone one more time. At Zachary's messages. At the words I'd already memorized.
"I see your potential. Your brilliance. Your hunger for something more."
"I'm trying to free you."
"Understanding is more dangerous than trust."
He was right about that last one.
I was starting to understand him.
And I couldn't unlearn it.
Couldn't go back to seeing the world the way I had before I met him.
Couldn't pretend his logic didn't make terrifying sense.
Four days.
I closed my phone and tried to focus on my other patients.
Failed completely.
Because all I could think about was Zachary's question.
"You trust me though, don't you, Nina?"
And my answer.
"I don't trust you. I understand you. Different thing entirely."
But was it? Was understanding really different from trust? Or was it something more dangerous?
Was it the first step toward believing him?
Toward becoming him?
I didn't know.
But I had four days to figure it out.
Four days until I sat across from him again.
Four days until I had to decide whether Sarah's warnings were protection or just limitations.
Four days until I had to choose between being the person I'd always been and becoming someone new.
Someone powerful.
Someone free.
Someone who understood monsters because she was becoming one.
The countdown had already started.
And I couldn't make it stop.