Saturday arrived too quickly.
I stood outside HaleTech Industries headquarters, staring up at the gleaming glass building, and wondered what I was doing here.
The address Zachary sent was in Midtown, the kind of neighborhood where suits cost more than my monthly rent and everyone walked like they owned the sidewalk. The building was forty stories of steel and glass, reflecting the morning sun like a mirror.
I took a breath and walked inside.
The lobby was all marble and minimalist furniture. A security guard looked up from his desk.
"Name?"
"Nina Reeves. I have an appointment with Zachary Hale."
He checked his tablet. "Fortieth floor. Elevators are to your right. You'll need this." He handed me a visitor badge.
The elevator was glass-walled, offering views of the city as it climbed. My stomach dropped with each floor.
Fortieth floor. The doors opened to reveal an assistant's desk and a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a fashion magazine.
"Dr. Reeves. Mr. Hale is expecting you. Right this way."
She led me down a hallway lined with modern art I didn't understand, then opened a door to an office that was bigger than my entire apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Sleek furniture. Technology I couldn't name.
And Zachary, standing by the windows, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt instead of his usual suit.
He looked... different. More human somehow.
"Nina. Thank you for coming." He crossed the room, hand extended.
I shook it. "You said you had profiles for me to review?"
"Direct. I like that." He gestured to a conference table where several manila folders waited. "These are candidates for executive positions. VP of Operations, Chief Technology Officer, Head of Security. I need you to review their psychological assessments and tell me if you see red flags."
I sat down and opened the first folder.
The candidate was impressive on paper. MIT graduate, fifteen years of experience, glowing recommendations.
But his psychological assessment showed narcissistic tendencies, difficulty accepting criticism, and a pattern of blaming others for his failures.
I wrote notes, aware that Zachary was watching me.
"This one," I said, tapping the folder. "He's brilliant, but he'll be a nightmare to manage. He won't take feedback well, and he'll create a toxic work environment if he doesn't get his way."
Zachary leaned over to read my notes, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Expensive. Subtle.
"Interesting. My instinct was the same, but I wanted confirmation. What about the others?"
I worked through the remaining files, providing analysis on each candidate. It took two hours, and by the end, I'd recommended three out of seven.
Zachary sat across from me, taking notes on his laptop.
"This is exactly what I needed," he said. "Your insight is invaluable."
"It's just basic psychological assessment."
"It's more than that. You see patterns I miss. Emotional patterns, interpersonal dynamics. That's not my strength."
"Because you don't feel emotions?"
"Correct. I can identify them intellectually, but I can't predict how they'll affect behavior. You can. That's why I need you."
The way he said I need you sent a shiver down my spine.
"Is there more work for today?" I asked.
"Actually, I was hoping we could take a break. Have you eaten?"
"I'm fine."
"Nina. It's one PM. You've been working for two hours. Let me buy you lunch. There's a café downstairs. My treat."
I should have said no. Should have maintained boundaries.
But I was hungry, and his office was starting to feel too small.
"Okay. But just lunch. Then I need to go."
"Of course."
The café was elegant and quiet, the kind of place where a sandwich cost twenty dollars.
Zachary ordered for both of us—some sort of artisan panini and soup I couldn't pronounce.
"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I come here often. The chef knows what I like."
"You decided for me."
"A bad habit. I'm used to making decisions quickly. Should I have asked?"
"Yes."
"Noted. I'll do better next time."
Next time. Like this would become routine.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Then Zachary said, "Tell me about your father."
I looked up sharply. "What?"
"Your father. You mentioned he needs surgery. What's his condition?"
"That's personal."
"We're having lunch. Doesn't that qualify as personal?"
"No. This is still work."
"Is it? Or are we two people sharing a meal?" He leaned forward slightly. "I'm trying to be a normal human, Nina. Help me out here. What do normal people talk about over lunch?"
Despite myself, I almost smiled. "Not their dying parents."
"Fair point. What, then?"
"I don't know. Work? Hobbies? The weather?"
"The weather is boring. I don't have hobbies. And we've been discussing work all morning. So let's try this: tell me one thing about yourself that's not related to psychology or therapy."
I hesitated. "Why do you want to know?"
"Because you're interesting. And I don't find many people interesting."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I have." He paused. "Please?"
The please surprised me. Zachary didn't seem like someone who asked for things. He demanded or manipulated or took.
"I wanted to be a painter," I said finally. "When I was younger. Before I decided on psychology."
"What changed?"
"Reality. Artists don't make money. I needed a practical career."
"Do you still paint?"
"No. I sold my supplies when I needed rent money two years ago."
Something flickered across his face. Not quite emotion, but close. "That's a shame."
"It's practical."
"Practical isn't the same as good."
We finished lunch, and Zachary insisted on walking me to my bus stop.
"You don't have a car," he observed.
"Very observant."
"Let me arrange a car service for you. For the consulting work. It's safer than public transit."
"I'm fine with the bus."
"Nina. Let me help."
"You're already helping. You're paying me ten thousand dollars."
"Which you'll spend on your father's surgery and back rent. Let me do this too. Please."
There was that please again.
I should have said no.
But I was tired of saying no, tired of buses, tired of being too proud to accept help.
"Fine. But just for work days."
"Agreed."
He walked me to the corner, and before I got on the bus, he said, "You did excellent work today. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"Nina? One more thing." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small wrapped package. "A gift. Don't open it until you get home."
"Zachary, I can't accept—"
"It's not expensive. Just something I thought you'd like. Please."
I took the package, light and rectangular, and got on the bus.
Once I was seated, I opened it.
Inside was a small watercolor set. Professional quality. Expensive despite what he'd said.
And a note in perfect handwriting:
Just because something isn't practical doesn't mean it's not important. —Z
I stared at the paints and felt something crack in my chest.
He was destroying my boundaries one small gesture at a time.
And I was letting him.