Friday arrived wrapped in anxiety.
I changed outfits four times before settling on a simple black dress that was professional enough for business but nice enough for dinner. Not that this was a date. It was a business dinner. Zachary had been clear about that.
So why was my stomach in knots?
Sarah called at six-thirty, her timing impeccable as always.
"Tell me you're not actually having dinner with him," she said without preamble.
"It's a business dinner. We're discussing consulting work."
"At seven PM on a Friday night. That's a date, Nina."
"It's not a date. He works eighteen-hour days. Evening is when he's free."
"Or it's when he can get you alone, in a setting that feels romantic but has plausible deniability. This is Manipulation 101."
I sat on my bed, phone pressed to my ear, and felt my resolve crumbling. "Sarah, I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I'm scared I'm in over my head."
"Then cancel. Text him right now and say you can't make it."
I looked at my bank account, at the deposit from the consulting work. At the email from Marcus's probation officer saying Zachary's company had offered him a full scholarship to their youth coding program.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. You just don't want to."
"He's helping people, Sarah. He got my client into a program that could change his life. He paid for my dad's surgery—"
"Wait, what? He paid for your dad's surgery?"
I hadn't meant to say that. "The consulting money. I used it for the surgery."
"Nina, listen to yourself. He's making you financially dependent on him. That's not kindness. That's control."
"Maybe. But my dad is alive because of him. How do I walk away from that?"
Sarah was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Just be careful. Please. Keep your guard up. Don't let him into your head any more than he already is."
"I won't."
Another lie to add to the collection.
Zachary arrived exactly at seven in a black car that probably cost more than my annual salary.
He got out when he saw me, opening the door himself instead of letting the driver do it.
"Nina. You look beautiful."
I felt my cheeks heat. "It's just a dress."
"It's a very nice dress." He gestured to the car. "Shall we?"
The restaurant was in SoHo, elegant and understated. The kind of place where they don't list prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
The host greeted Zachary by name. "Mr. Hale. Your usual table?"
"Please."
We were led to a corner booth with privacy and a view of the city lights.
Zachary ordered wine without asking if I wanted any. Expensive wine, based on the server's reaction.
"I should have asked first," he said after the server left. "About the wine. I'm working on that. The assuming thing."
"You're very self-aware for someone who supposedly lacks emotional intelligence."
"I lack emotions, not intelligence. I'm very good at observing behavior and identifying patterns. I just can't feel what others feel."
The wine arrived. We toasted to nothing in particular.
"So," I said. "You wanted to discuss the next phase of consulting work?"
"I did. But first, I need to apologize."
That surprised me. "For what?"
"For blurring boundaries. For making you uncomfortable. For pushing when I should have backed off. I'm not good at normal human interaction, but I'm trying. And I realize I've been... intense."
"That's one word for it."
"What word would you use?"
I considered. "Overwhelming. Calculating. Strategic."
"All fair. And accurate." He paused. "But here's the truth, Nina. I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm trying to understand you. You're the first person in a very long time who's treated me like a person instead of a diagnosis or a threat or a business opportunity. And I find that... compelling."
"Compelling."
"I don't have a better word. Interesting. Valuable. Important." He set down his wine glass. "I'm bad at this. At explaining what I mean. But you matter to me. In whatever limited way I can experience mattering."
My chest tightened. "Zachary, you're my patient. This can't—"
"I know. I'm not suggesting it should. I'm just being honest. You asked me to be honest, didn't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"Then let me be honest. I wake up thinking about our sessions. I plan what I'll say, how I'll say it. I read psychology papers to better understand your perspective. I'm fascinated by you in a way I've never been fascinated by anyone. And I know that's probably inappropriate. But I don't know how to stop."
I stared at him across the table, this man who couldn't feel emotions but was describing something that sounded dangerously close to obsession.
"You're my patient," I said again, but my voice was weaker.
"I'm your patient on Tuesdays. Tonight, I'm just Zachary. And you're just Nina. Can we be that? Just for a few hours?"
I should have said no. Should have maintained boundaries. Should have walked out.
Instead, I said, "Okay. Just for tonight."
His smile was small but genuine. "Thank you."
We talked for three hours.
About everything except therapy. He asked about my childhood, my education, my decision to become a psychologist. I asked about his companies, his work, his eighteen-hour days.
He was fascinating when he wasn't being terrifying. Brilliant and articulate and surprisingly funny in a dry, analytical way.
And somewhere between the appetizers and dessert, I forgot he was a psychopath.
I forgot he'd beaten someone nearly to death.
I forgot all the warnings and red flags and danger signs.
I just saw Zachary. A man who was lonely in a way he couldn't even name. Who was trying to connect in the only way he knew how.
When dinner ended, he drove me home himself.
"Thank you for tonight," he said at my door. "I enjoyed it. More than I expected to."
"Me too."
We stood there, too close, the space between us electric with possibility.
"Nina, I—" He stopped. "I want to kiss you. I know I shouldn't. But I want to."
My heart hammered. "Zachary—"
"I won't. Not without your permission. But I needed you to know."
I should have stepped back. Should have said no. Should have protected myself.
Instead, I said, "Why do you want to?"
"I don't know. That's what's strange. I don't feel attraction the way others do. But I want to know what it's like. To kiss someone and mean it. To feel something real, even if it's just for a moment."
"And you think kissing me would make you feel something?"
"I think if anyone could make me feel something, it would be you."
The honesty in his voice broke something in me.
"One kiss," I whispered. "Just to see."
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to change my mind. When his lips touched mine, it was soft, tentative, questioning.
And then it wasn't.
His hand came up to cup my face, and the kiss deepened, becoming something hungry and desperate.
I kissed him back, my hands fisting in his shirt, my common sense screaming at me to stop.
When we finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Zachary looked at me with something like wonder.
"I felt that," he said quietly. "I actually felt that."
"Felt what?"
"I don't know. Something. More than nothing. That's..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Thank you."
He left before I could respond, and I stood in my doorway, my lips still tingling, my whole world tilting.
I'd just kissed my patient.
My psychopath patient who might be developing real feelings for me.
Or might be playing the most sophisticated game I'd ever encountered.
And I had no idea which terrified me more.