Chapter Thirty-Eight – The First Move
1123 Words
Elena sat at her desk with her glasses perched low on her nose, leafing through patient notes she barely saw. The clock on the wall ticked with methodical cruelty, each second stabbing into the silence of her office. A gray drizzle streaked down the window, turning the view of the parking lot into a watercolor blur. The room smelled of paper and stale coffee, a smell she usually found comforting. Today it felt suffocating.
She had been rehearsing the words for days. A clean dismissal. Professional, detached. “You are no longer part of this group, Mr. Marlowe. Please seek treatment elsewhere.” Simple. Clear. Necessary. Her heart still rattled in her chest at the thought of saying them to his face.
The knock came lightly, almost polite. Before she could answer, the door opened and Vincent slipped in as if he owned the hinges. He wore a dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, damp at the shoulders from the rain. He moved with unhurried grace, the predator that never needed to run.
“Dr. Chase,” he said, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I thought we should talk.”
She stood quickly, pushing her chair back. “Mr. Marlowe, I already sent notice to administration. You’ve been removed from the group roster. As of today, you’re no longer my patient.” She forced steel into her voice. “This is final.”
His smile was maddeningly calm. “Finality is such a fragile word.” He stepped closer, eyes sweeping the room, taking in the bookshelves, the framed certificates, the neat stack of files on her desk. “You can cross my name off your list, Dr. Chase, but you can’t erase me quite so easily.”
“Leave,” she said, her throat dry. “Or I’ll call security.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. For a moment she thought he might dial it himself, mock her. Instead, he swiped, tapped, and turned the screen toward her.
Her breath left her body.
On the display was a photo—grainy but clear enough. She recognized the wall of the alley behind the clinic, the dim wash of the streetlight. And herself, pressed against the bricks, Vincent’s shadow curved around her. Her scarf gagging her mouth, her eyes wide, her body caught mid-breath.
The room spun.
She gripped the edge of the desk. “Where did you—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he cut in smoothly. “What matters is what I can do with it.” He slid his thumb, another photo appearing—her face tilted back, his hand near her shoulder, the image screaming intimacy that had never been given. Then another: her body arched just slightly as if responding. Each picture more damning than the last.
Her heart hammered in her ears. “Delete them,” she whispered. “Now.”
He laughed softly, almost kindly. “Delete? Oh no, Elena. These are… insurance. Proof of the connection between us.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket with casual care. “The world loves a scandal. Imagine the headline: Respected Therapist Compromised by Patient. Imagine your son scrolling and finding you like that. Imagine your ex-husband’s smirk when he sees what became of you after he left. Imagine your boss weighing promotion against shame.”
Her knees nearly buckled. “You’re blackmailing me.”
He tilted his head. “No. I’m inviting you to a game. A test, if you will. You like rules, don’t you? Therapy is full of them. Confidentiality. Boundaries. Authority.” He leaned forward, his voice a low murmur. “My game has rules too. Simple ones. You play, you keep your life tidy. You refuse, and…” He tapped his pocket. The threat vibrated between them like a live wire.
Elena forced herself to breathe. Her training screamed at her to regain control, to anchor herself. “What do you want?”
“Nothing impossible,” Vincent said, his smile warm enough to curdle blood. “For now, I want your attention. Your presence. When I tell you to meet me, you’ll come. When I set the stage, you’ll play your part. Nothing more—for now.” He spread his hands. “And in return, the world will never see those pictures.”
She closed her eyes. Kevin’s face flashed before her—his easy grin on the day he left for college, the way he hugged her tighter than he ever had before. If he saw those photos, if he thought she had betrayed herself like that… Her chest constricted until she could barely draw breath.
“You think you can trap me forever,” she said, voice shaking. “But blackmail always collapses. People like you always fall.”
He chuckled. “People like me don’t fall. We dance until others stumble. And right now, Elena, you’re swaying.”
Her hands trembled at her sides. Anger warred with terror, shame with fury. She wanted to scream at him, to throw something, to claw the smugness from his face. Instead she forced herself still. “Get out of my office.”
He leaned close, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath stir her hair. “You’ll hear from me soon.” His tone was intimate, like a promise shared in a lover’s bed. “Don’t disappoint me.”
He stepped back, straightened his jacket, and walked to the door. For a second, with his hand on the knob, he turned. His eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Oh, and Elena?”
She glared, refusing to answer.
His grin widened. “I’m not leaving your group. You can cross names off rosters, send memos, shuffle papers—but I’ll be there. Every session. That’s the first rule of our little game. I stay. Whether you like it or not.”
The door clicked shut.
She sank into her chair, shaking. The photos burned in her mind, seared deeper than any flame. She pressed her palms to her face, muffling the sob that clawed its way out. For the first time in her career, she wished she could disappear, vanish into a space where no one could ever find her.
The clock ticked on, merciless.
On her desk, the patient files waited, orderly and mute. One of them bore his name, now crossed out in black ink. But no line, no ink, no policy could erase the trap he had sprung.
Her office felt suddenly too small, too bright, too exposed.
And for the first time, Elena realized that the walls she had built around her life might not be high enough to keep the darkness out.
- Writer
