The Savior’s Trap

Chapter Ten – The Conversation

The clinic always seemed too still just before a group meeting. The corridors stretched long and pale, with beige walls that had absorbed decades of whispered fears and careful confessions. The buzzing of fluorescent lights pressed into Elena’s temples, a mechanical heartbeat too steady to ignore.

She walked slowly, clipboard hugged to her chest, heels soft against the linoleum. Each step rehearsed the words she planned to say. Firm, professional, clear. He needed to understand that last session had crossed a line. That she would not allow him to dismantle her authority in front of the group.

When she rounded the corner, she saw him first.

Vincent leaned against the wall outside the therapy room, one boot planted, the other crossed casually at the ankle. His hands rested deep in his pockets, shoulders loose, as though the hallway belonged to him. The overhead light cut across his jaw, throwing half his face into shadow. He looked up at her arrival, and for a second it felt less like she had caught him waiting, and more like he had been waiting for her.

“Doctor Chase,” he said smoothly. “Early tonight.”

Her throat tightened, but she kept her posture straight. “Vincent. I wanted to speak with you before the others arrive.”

He dipped his head slightly, mock-courteous, as though inviting her to lecture him. “Of course. You have my full attention.”

Elena clutched the clipboard tighter, willing her voice to stay firm. “Last session, your behavior disrupted the balance I try to keep. The way you phrased things, the way you carried yourself—it undermined me. If you can’t respect the rules, I may have to recommend that you work with another therapist.”

The air between them seemed to thin. She expected argument, irritation, a defense. Instead his lips curved faintly, not in amusement but in something closer to inevitability.

“I’m not surprised,” he murmured. “They always give up. Everyone does.”

The calmness of his tone unsettled her more than anger would have. “What do you mean by that?” she asked, softer than intended.

He straightened slowly, pushing off the wall. His movements were deliberate, measured. “I’ve been passed around like a burden since I was a teenager. Every counselor, every mentor—they all thought they could fix me. They lasted a few months. Some lasted weeks. And when they realized I didn’t fit into their textbooks, they sent me to someone else.”

His gaze sharpened. “My parents started the pattern. They were both therapists, did you know?”

Elena shook her head.

“They were healers to everyone else. The perfect picture of compassion. People came to them for hope, and they gave it out like candy.” His laugh was humorless. “But at home? Breakfast wasn’t food—it was a session. Dinner was an evaluation. Family meetings turned into diagnoses. If I laughed too loud, I was manic. If I went quiet, I was depressive. And when they got tired of each other’s theories, they shipped me off to colleagues. Like an experiment they’d failed but still wanted to publish.”

His words carried no visible pain, and that frightened her most. He spoke with the detachment of a man who had already buried his past under a stone and only lifted it now to show the rot beneath.

Elena’s chest clenched. She thought of Kevin, of the way he sometimes hesitated before saying I love you, as if fearing it might not come back. She thought of Richard, who had walked away from their marriage with a shrug, leaving her in the house like a relic of another life.

“I didn’t mean to sound like I was giving up on you,” she said softly. “That isn’t what I want.”

Vincent studied her face, his expression unreadable. “That’s what they all said. At first. And then one day they decided I wasn’t worth the effort. It’s predictable.”

“Patterns can be broken,” Elena insisted, though even to her own ears it sounded desperate.

He tilted his head. “Can they? Or do we just tell ourselves that so the cycle feels kinder?”

Her fingers itched, guilt swirling. Was she already failing him? Had she let irritation trump empathy? Without fully thinking, she reached out, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. His shirt was warm, the muscle beneath solid, alive.

“You won’t be handed off again,” she promised, her voice quieter now, stripped of the professional mask. “Not if you stay here, not if you respect the rules. You won’t need to start over with anyone else.”

His eyes caught hers, holding them in a steady grip. For a heartbeat she swore the hallway itself stilled. Then his lips curved into a smaller, more intimate smile.

“I like rules,” he murmured. “I like them very much.”

The words slid into her like smoke—ambiguous, unsettling, almost teasing. Heat touched her cheeks, and she snatched her hand back, hiding the gesture by straightening her clipboard.

“Well then,” she said briskly, struggling to regain her footing. “Let’s begin. The others will arrive soon.”

Vincent stepped aside, opening the door for her with mock gallantry. “After you.”

Elena walked past him, her heels clicking against the floor, her shoulders held tight with practiced control. Inside, the circle of chairs waited, ordinary and innocent. She told herself she had reminded him of her authority, reinforced the boundaries.

But as she laid the clipboard on her chair, her heart still beat too fast, and she knew that somewhere between his words and her touch, she had crossed an invisible line.

He hadn’t needed to touch her. He already had.