The contract arrived Monday morning via email, along with a messenger-delivered hard copy that showed up at my office before I'd even finished my coffee.
Marie handed it to me with raised eyebrows. "Courier just dropped this off. Marked urgent. You doing legal work now?"
"It's just a consulting contract. Nothing exciting."
She gave me her trademark skeptical look but didn't push.
I took the envelope to my office and opened it with hands that weren't quite steady.
The contract was fifteen pages of dense legal language that made my eyes cross. I understood maybe half of it. But the important parts were clear:
Consultant agrees to provide ten hours of behavioral analysis and psychological consultation to HaleTech Industries.
Compensation: $10,000, paid upon completion of services.
Confidentiality: Consultant agrees not to disclose any proprietary information acquired during consulting period.
And then, buried on page twelve:
Consultant acknowledges that therapeutic relationship with Zachary Hale is entirely separate from consulting relationship and agrees to maintain appropriate boundaries between both roles.
I stared at that clause.
He'd anticipated my concern and addressed it in writing.
That should have reassured me.
Instead, it made my skin crawl.
Because it meant he'd thought about this. Planned it. Knew exactly how to make me feel safe while maneuvering me exactly where he wanted me.
My phone buzzed.
Did you receive the contract? I had my lawyer draft it over the weekend. Everything should be clear, but if you have questions, I'm happy to discuss. —Z
It seems thorough.
I'm thorough about everything. It's my nature.
I picked up a pen and started reading again, more carefully this time.
Nothing illegal. Nothing obviously manipulative. Just a standard consulting contract.
So why did signing it feel like selling my soul?
Because you know better, a voice in my head whispered. You know this is how it starts.
But I signed it anyway.
Scanned it.
Emailed it back.
Within five minutes, my phone pinged with a notification.
Bank deposit: $10,000.
I stared at my account balance, and for the first time in months, I could breathe.
My phone rang immediately. Unknown number.
I answered. "Hello?"
"Nina. It's Zachary. I wanted to thank you personally for agreeing to consult. This means a great deal to me."
His voice was smooth, warm. Nothing like the clinical tone from our therapy session.
"It's just work," I said.
"It's more than that. It's trust. You're trusting that I'll keep our professional boundaries separate. I'm trusting that you'll bring your expertise to my company. That's not insignificant."
"When do you want me to start?"
"This Saturday. My office. I'll send you the address. The work involves reviewing psychological profiles of potential executive hires and identifying red flags. Completely straightforward."
"How long will it take?"
"Probably four hours this weekend, another six the following weekend. Does that work?"
I thought about my empty calendar, my empty bank account that was suddenly less empty, my father who needed surgery.
"That works."
"Excellent. I'll send you the profiles tomorrow. Nina?" He paused. "Thank you. Really. I know this isn't easy for you."
"You're welcome."
We hung up, and I sat in my office, staring at my phone.
Ten thousand dollars.
I could pay my rent. Cover some of my dad's medical bills. Buy groceries without calculating every item.
I could survive.
So why did I feel like I was falling?
Tuesday morning. Second therapy session with Zachary.
He arrived exactly on time, wearing a different suit but the same controlled smile.
"Dr. Reeves," he said, extending his hand.
I shook it. "Mr. Hale. Please, sit."
We took our positions, and the dynamic felt different. Like we were both pretending yesterday's contract didn't exist. Like we could separate Nina-the-therapist from Nina-the-consultant.
"How was your week?" I asked, starting with the standard therapeutic opening.
"Productive. I closed a significant merger, fired three underperforming employees, and started working with a new consultant who I think will be invaluable to my company." He smiled. "How was yours?"
"We're here to discuss you, not me."
"Are we? Because I find the boundaries of therapy fascinating. You're supposed to remain neutral, objective. But you're a human being with your own struggles. Does pretending those don't exist make you a better therapist? Or just a more dishonest one?"
I set down my pen. "Are you trying to provoke me?"
"I'm trying to understand you. You've built your career on understanding people like me. Doesn't it seem fair that I should get to understand you too?"
"The therapeutic relationship isn't symmetrical."
"Maybe it should be."
We stared at each other, and I felt that same shift from last week. This wasn't therapy. This was negotiation.
"Tell me about your childhood," I said, redirecting. "You were diagnosed at fifteen. What led to that?"
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "My parents' dog went missing. They found it three days later in the woods behind our house. Throat cut. Very clean incision. My father called the police. They questioned me because I'd been seen near the woods that day."
"Did you kill the dog?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Curiosity. I wanted to know what it felt like to end a life. To have that power." He paused. "The answer was: nothing. I felt nothing. No guilt, no satisfaction. Just information gathered."
"And your parents?"
"Horrified. They had me evaluated. The psychologist diagnosed antisocial personality disorder, explained I was likely born this way, that my neurological development was atypical. My mother cried. My father looked at me like I was a stranger. They sent me to boarding school two months later."
"That must have been difficult."
"For them, certainly. For me? It was relief. I didn't have to pretend anymore. At least not at home."
I wrote notes, my hand steady even though my insides were churning. "Do you still have contact with your parents?"
"They're both dead. Car accident when I was twenty. I inherited a modest sum, invested it well, built my first company. Their deaths were... convenient, timing-wise."
The way he said it made my blood run cold. "Convenient?"
"For my business development. Not emotionally. I didn't feel grief, so their absence was simply a logistical shift." He tilted his head. "Does that bother you?"
"Does it bother you that it bothers me?"
"No. I'm just curious whether your therapeutic training will override your human reaction. Whether you'll judge me or try to understand me."
"I'm trying to do both."
"Good. I'd be disappointed if you chose one over the other."
Our fifty minutes ended, and I felt exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical tiredness.
As Zachary stood to leave, he paused at the door. "Nina—Dr. Reeves. Thank you for separating our professional relationship from our therapeutic one. I know it's not easy. But I think we can help each other. In different ways."
"Help each other?"
"I provide financial stability. You provide insight. Symbiotic relationship."
"That's not what therapy is."
"Maybe not. But it's honest." He smiled. "See you Saturday."
He left, and I sat in my office, my hands shaking.
Sarah was right.
This was a trap.
And I'd walked into it willingly, signed a contract, and taken his money.
The question wasn't whether I'd been manipulated.
It was whether I cared enough to walk away.
And looking at my bank account, at my father's medical bills, at my eviction notice, I knew the answer.
I didn't.