The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Twenty-Eight – Coffee Without Rules

The café smelled of cinnamon and espresso, warm and cloying, as if trying to disguise itself as something safer than it was. The light was dim, filtered through heavy curtains, so even midday felt like twilight. A long hiss from the espresso machine punctuated the murmur of conversation, while plates clinked against saucers in a rhythm that was almost soothing.

At a corner table sat four members of Elena’s group. Four instead of six. Four without their therapist. Their yoga mats were piled in the corner like a careless afterthought, as if they weren’t here to stretch or breathe but to uncoil something else entirely.

The fourth chair—Elena’s chair—stood empty. And its emptiness seemed louder than any words.

Chloe sat with her latte cupped in both hands, though the drink had long gone lukewarm. She stared at the swirls of caramel on the foam, watching them fade like thoughts dissolving too quickly to hold. Her legs were crossed tightly beneath the table, body language wound into itself.

Beside her, Jessica scrolled through her phone, her nails clicking against the glass screen. Across the table, Holly stirred her tea until it sloshed, while Peter attacked a croissant with restless bites.

Finally, Holly broke the silence. “This feels weird. Meeting like this without her.”

Jessica snorted, still staring at her phone. “She’s not our mother. We don’t need her permission to talk.”

Chloe smirked faintly, though her stomach twisted. “Maybe not permission. But rules.”

“Rules are boring,” Jessica shot back. She set her phone down and leaned her elbows on the table. “Sometimes I think we’d be better off without someone telling us what not to say. What not to feel.”

Peter looked up, his brow furrowed. “And sometimes those rules are the only reason we’re not tearing each other apart.” He pushed his plate away, half-eaten croissant abandoned. “But let’s not pretend why we’re really here.”

Chloe’s pulse quickened. She knew what was coming.

“Let’s be honest,” Peter said, lowering his voice. “What do you all think about Vincent?”

The name landed in the air like a spark.

Holly flushed immediately. “What about him?”

“I mean,” Peter said, glancing around as if afraid the other patrons might overhear, “he’s not like us. We sit there talking about guilt, shame, weakness. He listens, smirks, and looks like he’s above it all. He treats the group like entertainment. Like a stage.”

Jessica tilted her head, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “And yet you’re the one who keeps watching him. Don’t tell me you don’t notice.”

Peter scowled. “That’s not the point.”

Chloe shifted in her chair, finally lifting the cup to her lips. The latte was cloyingly sweet, heavy, but it gave her an excuse to pause before speaking. “He’s… different,” she admitted, her voice almost reluctant. “Confident. Like he knows something we don’t.”

The others waited. She hesitated, then let the words fall. “He invited me to see him dance.”

Silence dropped like a curtain.

Jessica barked a laugh. “You’re joking.”

“No.” Chloe shook her head. “He said it would help me. That if I saw him without filters, maybe I’d stop being afraid of my own appetite.” Her cheeks burned as she repeated it.

Peter cursed under his breath. “That’s insane. That’s not therapy. That’s…”

“Temptation?” Chloe offered, her voice barely above the music. “Maybe that’s what I need. To stop pretending I’m not wired this way.” She traced the rim of her cup with one finger, not meeting their eyes. “I can’t go a day without craving it. Two, three times, or I can’t sleep. I thought this group would help me stop. But sometimes I think he’s the only one who actually understands.”

Holly reached across the table, squeezing Chloe’s wrist gently. “You don’t have to follow him. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

But Chloe almost laughed, though it came out brittle. “That’s easy for you to say. You still have a choice.”

Jessica leaned closer, lowering her voice like a conspirator. “You’re not the only one he’s got his hooks in. I saw the way Elena looked at him.” She smirked. “Don’t think she’s immune.”

Chloe stiffened. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Why not?” Jessica pressed, eyes glinting. “She tells us about boundaries, control, discipline. But she’s just like us. Maybe worse. At least we admit what we want.”

The words sliced through Chloe like a knife. For a moment she wanted to protest, to defend Elena as untouchable, pure professional. But then she remembered the way Elena’s gaze had flickered the last session—tightened, shifted—just for a second when Vincent had smiled.

A chill ran down her spine.

Peter broke the tension, his voice sharp. “You know what I think? He’s not even like us. He doesn’t need help. He never did. He’s just playing us, every damn one of us. Including her.”

The table froze.

Holly’s eyes widened, and she pulled her hand back from Chloe’s wrist. “You really think so?”

“Yes.” Peter’s jaw was tight. “Look at him. Does he act like a man who’s desperate to change? No. He acts like someone who enjoys watching us bleed. He doesn’t want to be fixed—he wants to see how much he can break before anyone stops him.”

Jessica smirked, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And yet here we are, still talking about him. He must be doing something right.”

Peter shoved back his chair. “This is a mistake. We shouldn’t meet without her. We’re feeding exactly what he wants.” He threw a couple of bills on the table and stalked out, the bell above the café door chiming like punctuation.

The three women sat in uneasy silence.

Holly fidgeted with her teacup, staring at the steam curling upward. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe Vincent isn’t here for help.”

Chloe’s throat felt tight. She whispered, almost to herself, “Then why does it feel like he’s the only one who sees me?”

Jessica leaned back, crossing her arms, a secret smile tugging at her mouth. “Maybe because he’s the only one not pretending.”

No one answered.

The music shifted to something softer. Around them, other patrons laughed, ordered sandwiches, moved on with lives unshadowed by temptation. But at the corner table, the silence was louder than the café noise.

Chloe stared at the empty chair where Elena should have been, her pulse echoing in her ears. For the first time, she wondered if her therapist’s absence was protection—or a crack in the wall that Vincent had already slipped through.