The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Two – The Corridor

The glass doors of the clinic slid open with their familiar hiss, releasing a burst of cold air that smelled faintly of antiseptic and overbrewed coffee. Elena Chase stepped inside, clutching a stack of files against her chest. The place always smelled the same: sterile, efficient, and a little suffocating. She paused briefly, breathing it in. It was her second home now, more consistent than the house she lived in.

Her heels clicked on the linoleum as she made her way through the corridor, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly. She told herself the rhythm was comforting, like a metronome guiding her steps. But underneath the calm exterior, the same thought always pressed against her: If I keep this pace, if I survive a few more months, the promotion is practically mine.

Head of Department. Bigger office. Greater authority. Her name in bold letters on the door. She tried to picture it and, as always, the image fell flat. A title would not fill the silence of her evenings. It wouldn’t warm the bed where her husband had once slept, nor would it bring her son back from the independence of college life.

Her husband’s absence still gnawed at her in quiet, unexpected ways. He hadn’t left quietly; there had been fights, accusations, the unbearable humiliation of hearing about “her”—the younger woman—before he even confessed. Elena remembered the slammed doors, the weeks of icy silence before he finally walked out for good. She remembered how their son had avoided looking her in the eye during those final days, pretending to be neutral, though she knew he wasn’t blind to the tension. Divorce had left Elena with the house, but it felt more like a shell than a home.

“Elena,” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

Dr. Katherine White stood near her office door, leaning casually against the wall. Her arms were folded across her chest, her lab coat hanging open, her dark hair pulled back loosely. Katherine had the kind of natural confidence that made her seem approachable and unshakable at the same time.

“How was the group last night? Your… special one.” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity and a hint of mischief.

Elena sighed and adjusted the weight of the files. “Exhausting. They drain me differently than the others. It’s not like alcoholics or gamblers. With s*x addicts, the stories… stick. They stay with you long after the meeting ends.”

Katherine raised an eyebrow. “Because they’re revolting, or because they’re tempting?”

The bluntness made Elena pause. Her lips curved into a thin smile. “Both. That’s the danger. Listening isn’t hard. Imagining is. The moment you let yourself wonder how it would feel to test one of their stories—that’s when the line begins to blur.”

Katherine let out a sharp laugh, her voice echoing faintly down the corridor. “So the secret is what—make sure you’re getting enough s*x of your own, and you won’t get curious?”

For a second, Elena almost laughed too, but her smile never reached her eyes. “It’s easier to stay immune when you’re not… lonely.”

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Katherine’s laughter cut off abruptly. She shifted, her face softening with regret. “I’m sorry, Elena. I didn’t mean—after the divorce, I know it hasn’t been easy for you.”

Elena shook her head quickly, brushing the apology aside. “It’s fine. Really. But you’re right. Curiosity and emptiness are a dangerous mix. People underestimate how quickly one can feed the other.”

Katherine exhaled and gave her a rueful smile. “Well, I don’t have that problem. Between my husband and the kids, I collapse into bed at night too tired to even think. Domestic life might be messy, but it keeps me out of trouble.”

Elena looked at her colleague for a moment. Katherine was no prodigy, no pioneer of difficult therapy groups, no rising star. She was simply steady. She was a therapist who went home to a husband who cooked dinner twice a week, kids who left their toys scattered on the living room rug, and laundry that never seemed to end. Ordinary, unremarkable—and whole.

Meanwhile, Elena Chase—professional, respected, on the cusp of promotion—went home to silence. To a bed too big, a house too empty, and memories that cut too sharply.

“You’ll get that promotion soon,” Katherine said brightly, almost as though she could read Elena’s thoughts. “Head of Department—I can already see your name on the door.”

“Maybe,” Elena answered, her tone flat. “But a title doesn’t change who you go home to.”

For a moment Katherine looked as though she might argue, but instead she offered a small, apologetic smile. “Still, you’re the better professional. I wouldn’t last a week with your group. I’d lose my patience, or worse—laugh in their faces.”

Elena’s reply was automatic: a smile, perfectly professional, smooth as glass. Inside, though, her chest ached with the truth she couldn’t say. Professionalism is easy. Happiness is the hard part.

Katherine excused herself with a wave and disappeared into her office. Elena stood for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of the clinic: the ringing of a phone at the reception desk, the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of voices behind closed doors. All of it routine. All of it predictable.

Her heels echoed too loudly as she walked to her own office. She pushed the door open and set the stack of files on the desk with a dull thud. The blinds were half drawn, allowing stripes of pale light to cut across the room. She lowered herself into the chair, the leather groaning as if it too were tired.

The office was neat, almost sterile. Shelves lined with textbooks and binders, a clock ticking too loudly, a framed diploma that had once made her proud but now felt like an ornament. On the far corner of her desk sat a photograph of her son—taken years ago, when he was still in high school. His smile was careless, his arm thrown around a baseball bat resting across his shoulder. The bat was still at home, leaning by the living room wall like an abandoned relic. She touched the photo frame lightly, her throat tightening. Children grew too quickly. They outgrew their homes, their mothers, their need for anything but independence.

She pulled her hand back and looked at the new stack of folders waiting for her. Fresh patients. Fresh stories. Another group to build, another round of confessions that would weigh on her like invisible stones. She stared at the top folder, her fingers hovering over it but not opening.

Not another group. Not today.

Her phone buzzed. A notification flashed: Yoga at 7 PM. And beneath it, a message from her friend Liza: Don’t forget, promise you’ll come this time.

Elena typed back quickly: Of course. Same as always. Routine was her shield. Yoga on Mondays, book club on Wednesdays, groceries on Fridays. Every hour accounted for, every day an echo of the last. Without the rhythm, she might unravel.

She set the phone aside and finally opened the top folder. A new name. A new face. A stranger waiting to hand her their darkness.

Elena inhaled deeply, bracing herself. This was her work. And her work was all she had left.

The day had only begun.