Friday afternoon, my landlord served me with formal eviction papers.
I stood in my apartment doorway, staring at the document in my hands, and felt something inside me crack.
Sixty days to vacate. Court date scheduled. Legal fees I couldn't afford.
I was going to lose my home.
I called my mom from the floor of my kitchen, because standing felt like too much effort.
"Mom? It's me."
"Nina, sweetheart. I was just thinking about you. How's work?"
I almost told her. Almost confessed that I was about to be homeless, that I'd taken on a psychopath as a client because I was desperate, that every choice I'd made in the past decade had led me here, sitting on cheap linoleum while my life fell apart.
Instead, I said, "It's fine. How's Dad?"
"Not great." Her voice wobbled. "The doctors are pushing for the surgery sooner. They're saying if we wait much longer, the damage might be permanent."
"How much time do we have?"
"Two weeks. Maybe three."
Twelve thousand dollars. Two weeks.
I had four hundred fifty coming from Zachary's first session. Another four thousand five hundred when the court paid me for the first ten sessions.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
"I'm working on it, Mom. I promise."
"I know, baby. I know you are." She paused. "Nina, are you okay? You sound... off."
"Just tired. Long week."
"You work too hard. You always have. Ever since you were little, trying to prove you were different from your father."
My chest tightened. "I am different from Dad."
"I know. You're stronger. Smarter. But sweetheart, sometimes being strong means knowing when to ask for help."
"I'll be fine. I always am."
We hung up, and I stayed on the kitchen floor, staring at the eviction notice.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Of course.
I'm sorry to bother you on a Friday evening, but I have a business proposition that's separate from our therapeutic relationship. Would you be willing to hear it? —Z
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Every instinct screamed that engaging with Zachary outside of sessions was dangerous. That I should ignore this, block his number, maintain boundaries.
But I was sitting on the floor of an apartment I was about to lose, and my father was dying, and I was so tired of being strong.
What kind of proposition?
My company is developing predictive algorithms for behavioral analysis. We need a consultant who understands criminal psychology. The work is completely legitimate. Ten hours, ten thousand dollars. Interested?
Ten thousand dollars.
I could almost hear Sarah's voice: Don't do it. This is how he traps you.
But ten thousand dollars would buy me time. Would get me closer to saving my dad.
I can't. You're my patient. That's a conflict of interest.
Not if we keep them separate. Therapy is Tuesdays. Consulting is weekends. Different relationships, different contexts. Completely ethical.
I don't think my licensing board would agree.
They wouldn't have to know.
I stared at those five words.
They wouldn't have to know.
The first step toward compromising everything I'd built my identity on.
I need to think about it.
Of course. Take the weekend. But Nina? I'm not trying to manipulate you. I genuinely need your expertise. And I genuinely want to help you. I saw the eviction notice on your desk during our session. You're drowning. Let me throw you a rope.
I looked at the notice in my hand, and something inside me broke.
How did you see that? It was in my drawer.
I'm very observant. It's not creepy. It's practical.
It was absolutely creepy. But I was too tired to care.
I'll think about it.
That's all I ask. Have a good weekend, Nina.
I set my phone down and pulled my knees to my chest.
I was going to say yes. I knew it already.
Because I was desperate.
And Zachary Hale knew exactly how to exploit that.
Saturday, I tried to distract myself with errands. Laundry at the depressing laundromat three blocks away. Groceries I couldn't afford at the discount store. A walk through the park because fresh air was free.
None of it worked.
I kept thinking about ten thousand dollars. About my dad's surgery. About the fact that Zachary was right—I was drowning, and he was offering to help.
That it came with strings was obvious.
The question was whether I cared.
My phone rang around noon. Sarah.
"Please tell me you're not working on a Saturday," she said by way of greeting.
"I'm at the park. Very not working."
"Good. Want to grab lunch? My treat."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. I'm worried about you."
Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in a cheap Thai place near her apartment, and Sarah was studying me with her therapist face.
"Spill," she said.
"There's nothing to spill."
"Nina. I've known you for eight years. You have a tell when you're about to do something stupid. Your left eye twitches. It's twitching right now."
I touched my eye. "It is not."
"Metaphorically. What's going on?"
I picked at my pad thai. "Zachary offered me consulting work. Ten thousand for ten hours. Behavioral analysis for his company."
Sarah set down her fork. "No."
"It's legitimate work, Sarah. Nothing illegal."
"It's a trap. He's blurring boundaries, making you dependent on him financially, setting you up for bigger compromises later. This is textbook manipulation."
"Or he genuinely needs my expertise."
"Nina, listen to yourself. A week ago, you'd never met this man. Now you're defending him. That's exactly what he wants."
"What he wants is a consultant who understands criminal psychology. That's me. And I need the money."
"You always need money. That doesn't mean you sell your ethics for it."
I felt anger flash through me, hot and unexpected. "Easy for you to say. You have a stable job. Benefits. You're not facing eviction. Your father isn't dying because you can't afford his surgery."
Sarah's expression softened. "I didn't know it was that bad."
"It's worse." I pushed my food away. "I'm drowning, Sarah. And I know Zachary is dangerous. I know this is a bad idea. But I don't have the luxury of making good choices right now. I have to survive."
"At what cost?"
"I don't know. But I'll deal with the consequences later."
Sarah reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "I'm not judging you. I'm scared for you. This man is a psychopath. He beat someone half to death. And now he's worming his way into your life, into your finances, into your head. That's not coincidence. That's strategy."
"I know."
"And you're going to do it anyway?"
I pulled my hand back. "I have to."
Sarah sat back, and I saw the moment she gave up trying to save me.
"Okay," she said quietly. "But when this goes sideways—and it will—promise me you'll call. Promise me you won't try to handle it alone."
"I promise."
We finished lunch in tense silence.
Afterward, walking back to my apartment, I texted Zachary.
I'll do the consulting work. But we need clear boundaries. Therapy stays separate. No mixing the relationships.
His response was immediate.
Agreed. I'll send a contract Monday. Thank you, Nina. You won't regret this.
I stared at the message and wondered if that was true.
Or if I already regretted it and just couldn't afford to admit it.