I didn't paint that weekend.
The watercolor set sat on my kitchen table, still wrapped, accusatory in its simplicity.
Every time I looked at it, I heard Sarah's voice: This is how he traps you. Small gifts. Thoughtful gestures. Making you feel special.
But I also heard Zachary's voice: Just because something isn't practical doesn't mean it's not important.
Monday morning, I had three back-to-back sessions and no time to think about billionaires who gave me art supplies.
My first client was Marcus, seventeen, court-mandated after a shoplifting arrest. He slouched in my chair, hood up, arms crossed.
"I don't need therapy," he said for the fourth week in a row.
"Your probation officer disagrees."
"My probation officer is a dick."
"Maybe. But you're here for twelve weeks whether you talk or not. Might as well make it useful."
He glared at me, then sighed. "Fine. What do you want to talk about?"
"Why'd you steal the laptop?"
"Because I wanted it."
"You couldn't buy it?"
"With what money? My mom works two jobs and we still can't afford food half the time. I see kids at school with phones and computers and new clothes, and I just..." He trailed off, jaw tight. "I got tired of having nothing."
I understood that feeling more than I wanted to admit.
"So you took it."
"So I took it. And I got caught. And now I'm here, talking to you about my feelings instead of learning to code, which is what I actually want to do with my life."
Something clicked in my brain. "You want to learn coding?"
"Yeah. But you need a computer for that. Which I don't have. So."
I thought about Zachary's office, his company, his wealth. "What if I could get you access to resources? Coding classes, maybe even equipment?"
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. I know someone who runs a tech company. I can ask."
"You'd do that?"
"I'll try."
After Marcus left, I stared at my phone.
This was a bad idea. Asking Zachary for favors meant owing him. Meant deepening our entanglement.
But Marcus was a good kid with no opportunities. And I could help.
I texted: Do you have any educational programs for at-risk youth? Coding classes, equipment donations, that sort of thing?
Zachary's response was immediate: We have a corporate outreach program but it's not well-utilized. Why?
I have a client who wants to learn coding. No resources. I thought maybe your company could help.
Absolutely. Send me his information. I'll arrange something.
Just like that. No questions, no hesitation.
Thank you.
You're welcome. But Nina? This means you owe me a favor now.
My stomach clenched. What kind of favor?
Nothing sinister. Just dinner. Friday night. To discuss the next phase of consulting work.
That sounds like a date.
It's a business dinner. Completely professional.
Then why Friday night instead of during business hours?
Because I work eighteen-hour days and Friday evening is the only time I have free. But if you're uncomfortable, we can skip dinner and just discuss it during our Tuesday session.
I hesitated. Dinner felt dangerous. Personal.
But he was helping Marcus. And he had a point about his schedule.
Fine. Dinner. But somewhere public and professional.
I'll send you details. Thank you, Nina.
I set my phone down and wondered what I'd just agreed to.
Tuesday's therapy session was tense.
Zachary arrived on time, perfectly composed, and sat down like we hadn't just made dinner plans via text.
"How was your week?" I asked.
"Productive. I reviewed your consulting notes and made three executive hires. All excellent choices. How was yours?"
"We're here to discuss you, Mr. Hale."
"Zachary. Please. We're having dinner Friday. First names seem appropriate."
I ignored that. "Let's talk about your relationships. Romantic ones specifically. Your file mentions an ex-girlfriend, Amanda Chen. What was that relationship like?"
Something flickered across his face. "Amanda was an experiment."
"An experiment?"
"I wanted to understand romantic relationships. How they functioned. What people felt. So I pursued one. Amanda was intelligent, attractive, patient. She seemed like a good candidate."
"A candidate," I repeated, my voice flat.
"Poor word choice. A partner. I approached the relationship like I approach everything—methodically. I researched how boyfriends behave. Brought flowers. Planned dates. Said the appropriate things at appropriate times."
"Did you feel anything for her?"
"No. Which is why she left me after six months. She said I was perfect but empty. Like dating a performance."
"How did that make you feel?"
"I understood her perspective. I was performing. I told her that from the beginning—that I couldn't feel love the way she could. But she thought I might change. When I didn't, she left. Logical conclusion."
"Do you miss her?"
"I miss the structure of the relationship. Having someone to take to events, someone who understood my schedule. But miss her specifically? No. I don't have the capacity."
I wrote notes, my pen scratching across paper. "Have you had relationships since?"
"No. They're too much work for too little return. I'm better alone."
"Loneliness doesn't bother you?"
"I can't be lonely. Loneliness requires wanting connection and not having it. I don't want connection. Not in the way you mean."
"Then what do you want?"
He looked at me, really looked at me, and for a moment I saw something in his eyes. Not emotion exactly. But interest. Focus.
"I want to understand," he said quietly. "I want to know what it's like to feel the things other people feel. To care about someone beyond their utility. To experience something real instead of simulated. But I can't. So I watch. I study. I try to comprehend something I'll never actually experience."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. But it's all I have."
We sat in silence for a moment.
Then Zachary said, "Nina, can I ask you something? Off the record?"
"This entire session is on the record."
"Then on the record. Do you think I'm capable of change? Real change, not just better performance?"
I considered lying. Offering therapeutic optimism.
Instead, I said, "I don't know. Your neurology is what it is. But I think you're capable of learning. Of growth, even if it looks different than typical emotional development."
"That's more honest than I expected."
"You said you value honesty."
"I do." He smiled slightly. "That's why I like you, Nina. You don't pretend. You don't offer false hope. You give me the truth, even when it's uncomfortable."
"That's my job."
"Is that all it is? A job?"
The question hung between us, dangerous and loaded.
"Our time is up," I said, even though we had five minutes left.
Zachary stood. "See you Friday. I'll pick you up at seven."
"I can meet you there."
"Nina. Let me pick you up. It's not a power play. It's just dinner."
I wanted to argue. But I was tired, and he was looking at me with something that might have been sincerity in someone else.
"Fine. Seven."
He left, and I sat alone in my office, my hands shaking.
This was getting complicated.
And the terrifying part was that I didn't want to stop.