Five months ago, I was having a rather ordinary day.
Ordinary, in my case, meant overcharging insecure couples for therapy sessions that did more harm than good, dodging calls from my landlord about the rent I was conveniently "forgetting" to pay, and debating whether I could stretch the same groceries for another week.
See, people assume therapists are financially stable. That we have sprawling offices with leather couches and those little fountains meant to evoke "serenity." In reality, I had a shoebox-sized office, a secondhand chair with a suspicious stain, and a landlord who reminded me bi-weekly that "emotional manipulation doesn't count as currency." Asshole.
I was in the middle of calculating just how much I could make if I started charging clients for "emergency" weekend sessions when she walked in.
Cassandra.
It wasn't one of those cinematic moments where the world slows down and violins swell. No, she just walked in like any other client, clutching a designer purse that was probably worth more than my entire wardrobe, looking effortlessly out of place in my dingy waiting area.
She was beautiful, of course. The kind of woman who looked like she belonged to someone else. And she did.
"Dr. Cross?" she asked, hesitantly. Her voice was soft, uncertain. Vulnerable.
I smiled—my best "trust me, I can fix your life" smile—and gestured to the chair across from mine. "Please, have a seat. What brings you in today?"
She hesitated before sitting, smoothing her dress like she needed to physically compose herself. "I—uh. My husband thought I should come. He thinks I need to talk to someone."
Of course he did. Husbands always do when they realize their perfect wives are slipping away.
"And what do you think?" I asked, leaning forward slightly, like I actually cared about her response.
She looked down, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. "I think… I don't know what I want anymore."
Ah. Music to my ears.
"That's completely normal," I assured her, my voice smooth, steady. "Sometimes, when people feel lost, it's not because they're broken. It's because they've outgrown where they are."
She looked up at me then, eyes searching mine, like I had just handed her the answer she had been too afraid to say out loud.
And just like that, I knew.
Cassandra wasn't just another client. She was the beginning of something beautiful.
Our sessions continued.
At first, she played the part well—the dutiful wife on the verge of an identity crisis, the lost woman searching for herself. But then, the cracks started to show. The real Cassandra. And god, she was something else.
"You know, you're not as boring as most therapists," she said one day, reclining in the chair like she was lounging poolside rather than unpacking her so-called problems.
"I'll take that as a compliment," I replied, watching her carefully. She had a way of making everything feel like a game, like she was testing to see if I could keep up.
She smirked, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger. "Oh, it is. Most of you people just nod and ask, 'How does that make you feel?'" She rolled her eyes. "It's pathetic. But you… you actually say things that make sense."
I knew what she was doing. She was baiting me, waiting to see if I'd take the hook. I did, of course, because I wanted to see more.
"And what exactly do I say that makes sense?" I leaned back, mirroring her relaxed posture.
"That love is bullshit. That people only stay together because they're afraid of being alone. That marriage is just a transaction with good PR."
Ah. There it was. The bitter core beneath the perfect wife act. The woman who wasn't some fragile thing in need of saving but a razor blade wrapped in silk.
I smiled. "Well, I wouldn't put it that harshly."
"Please," she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "We both know you would. You just have to say it in a way that doesn't scare off your paying customers."
I laughed, genuinely amused. "And what about you? Do you consider yourself one of those 'paying customers' who wants to be comforted with lies?"
She tilted her head, pretending to think. "Nah. I like the truth. Even when it's ugly. Especially when it's ugly."
I should have known then. Should have realized that she wasn't the type to be fixed. That, if anything, she was more broken than the people I usually destroyed. But it didn't matter.
Because by then, I was already in too deep.