The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Twenty-One – Masks Slip

The bassline rolled like thunder across the floor, shaking glasses on the bar, making the air itself pulse. Elena had been trying to keep her attention fixed on the stage, on Vincent’s deliberate rhythm and the crowd’s wild responses, but something in the corner of her eye tugged her head around.

That was when she saw her.

Chloe.

For a heartbeat Elena didn’t recognize her. The girl she knew from the circle always sat curled in on herself, with fingers worrying the seam of her jeans, face bright one second and hidden the next. But here—under the heat of lights and the fog of perfume—Chloe had been remade. Her hair was loose, strands sticking damply to her cheeks from the rain machine’s mist. Her lips glistened, parting in a laugh too bold, too practiced. And her posture—hips angled toward the man standing close, her hand grazing the buttons of his shirt—was the posture of a woman who believed herself desired, who believed that desire gave her power.

Elena’s stomach clenched. This isn’t Chloe. This isn’t the girl who admitted she was afraid of silence, who cried when she said she didn’t know who she was without the rush. This is someone else. Someone built by neon and music.

She pressed forward, slipping between clusters of women until she reached them. Her hand found Chloe’s elbow, fingers cool against warm skin.

“Chloe,” Elena said, her voice sharper than she meant.

Chloe turned, eyes wide. Recognition flickered, then disbelief. “Dr. Chase?” she exclaimed, half laughing. “What the hell—what are you doing here?”

The man beside her chuckled. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a shirt unbuttoned one too many buttons, a drink dangling lazily in one hand. His eyes were calm, too calm, studying Elena the way a predator studies the edge of a cage. “Friend of yours?” he asked Chloe, tone smooth, lips curved in amusement.

“Something like that,” Chloe said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She leaned a little closer to him, as if daring Elena to protest.

Elena’s throat tightened. The noise of the crowd, the music, the neon—all of it blurred until there was only Chloe’s face and the careless smirk of the man beside her. “This isn’t you,” Elena said firmly. “This isn’t the person who sat across from me last week. You don’t need this. Not him, not this place.”

Chloe’s smile flickered, but only for a second. “And what if it is me?” she shot back. Her voice was louder now, braver, buoyed by the alcohol and the attention. “What if this is who I really am? You think I’m some broken project you can fix?”

The man chuckled again, sipping from his glass, content to watch. His gaze flicked from Chloe to Elena, curiosity gleaming behind the calm.

Elena leaned closer, lowering her voice, trying to cut beneath the noise. “You came to group because you wanted control. Because you said you couldn’t stop yourself. Does this look like control, Chloe? Or is this just giving yourself away to the first man who smiles at you?”

For a moment Chloe faltered. Her laugh broke into a stutter, her eyes darting to the man as if seeking reassurance.

“Don’t,” Elena pressed. “Don’t pretend you don’t know where this road ends. One night of giving in can undo everything you’ve been fighting for.”

Chloe’s chin lifted, defiance warring with shame. “You don’t get to tell me how to live. You’re not my mother.”

“No,” Elena said quietly, steady. “But I am someone who sees you. And right now, Chloe, you look like you don’t see yourself at all.”

The words landed harder than she expected. Chloe’s face crumpled for a moment, a shadow of the girl from the therapy room flashing through the mask of bravado. She glanced at the man, who only smirked, unbothered. The silence between them stretched until it snapped. Chloe grabbed her purse from the bar, muttered something Elena couldn’t hear, and shoved past them, disappearing into the press of bodies.

The man didn’t move to follow. He just watched her go, then turned his gaze fully on Elena. The smirk widened, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. He raised his glass slightly, a mocking salute, and said nothing. His silence was heavier than words, a verdict delivered without trial.

Elena felt the weight of his eyes even as she turned away. Her heart pounded, adrenaline sparking through her veins. She had done it—she had pulled Chloe back from the edge, at least for tonight. But why didn’t it feel like victory? Why did it feel like she had just stepped deeper into someone else’s game?

She threaded her way toward the exit, desperate for clean air, for silence. Her thoughts churned—Kevin’s voice on the phone, Katherine’s warnings, the raw ache in Chloe’s eyes. You crossed a line tonight. You’re no longer a therapist. You’re something else, something weaker.

She pushed past the last cluster of women, eyes fixed on the door. And then she collided with a body—solid, warm, immovable.

The shock knocked her back a step. She looked up—and froze.

Vincent.

He stood half-dressed, fresh from the stage, his chest bare and gleaming with moisture from the artificial rain. His suspenders hung loose at his sides, his hair damp, clinging to his forehead. The crowd pressed around them, but for a moment it was only the two of them, the rest of the room fading into blur.

His eyes swept over her, slow and deliberate, and his smile unfolded like a secret only he knew. “Well,” he said, voice low, sliding beneath the noise. “Dr. Chase. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her mouth went dry. Heat surged in her chest, shame and fury and something far more dangerous mixing until she couldn’t tell them apart.

She should have answered, should have said something sharp, professional, distancing. But the words stuck. She could only stare, caught in the pull of his presence, the realization that the night was no longer about Chloe at all.

It was about her.