Updated Oct 30, 2025 • ~9 min read
Riley arrived with champagne, orange juice, and the kind of determination that meant she had something to say and wouldn’t leave until she’d said it.
“Okay, mimosas first, then disaster date story, then we discuss whatever’s making you look like you haven’t slept in a week.” Riley kicked off her shoes and headed straight for Samantha’s kitchen, pulling champagne flutes from the cabinet with the confidence of someone who’d been doing this for fifteen years.
Samantha managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Riley popped the champagne cork with practiced ease. “You texted me at 2 AM last night. Just a period. One single period. That’s your cry for help.”
Had she? Samantha vaguely remembered lying awake, scrolling through her phone, her mind spinning with images of Dr. Leigh’s hand on Jared’s arm, that intimate smile, the way he’d lit up under her attention.
“Bad night,” Samantha admitted.
“Jared?” Riley poured generous amounts of champagne, light on the orange juice.
“When isn’t it?” Samantha took the glass Riley offered and sank onto the couch. Sunday morning light streamed through the windows, making everything look deceptively cheerful. “We had our second therapy session Thursday.”
“And?” Riley settled beside her, tucking her legs underneath her. She wore leggings and an oversized sweater, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. No makeup, no pretense. This was Riley in her natural state—comfortable, direct, and fiercely protective of the people she loved.
“And I think our therapist wants to sleep with my husband.”
The words hung in the air between them. Saying it out loud made it real in a way that keeping it in her head hadn’t.
Riley’s eyes widened. “What?”
“I know how it sounds.” Samantha took a long drink of her mimosa. “I know I sound paranoid and jealous and—”
“Tell me everything.”
So Samantha did. She told Riley about Dr. Leigh’s beauty, the way she focused all her attention on Jared, the arm touches, the too-long eye contact. She told her about the individual sessions Dr. Leigh had suggested, about how invisible Samantha felt in that office, about Jared’s new cologne and the way he smiled at his phone.
Riley listened without interrupting, her expression growing darker with each detail.
“And there were these reviews,” Samantha finished. “I found them online. Other women saying she had unprofessional conduct with their husbands during couples therapy. They were removed, but I found cached versions.”
“What was her name again?” Riley already had her phone out.
“Dr. Leigh Westmore. But Riley, I already looked her up. She’s got a perfect online presence, professional credentials, the whole thing—”
“Yeah, that’s what good predators do.” Riley’s fingers flew across her screen. “They curate their image. But there’s always something if you know where to look.”
Samantha watched her friend work, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. Relief that someone believed her. Guilt that she was investigating the woman who was supposed to be helping save her marriage.
“Okay, so her website is basically a shrine to herself,” Riley muttered, scrolling. “Let me check the licensing board… okay, she’s licensed, no public disciplinary actions. But that doesn’t mean there haven’t been complaints. Those can stay private unless they result in sanctions.”
“Riley, maybe I’m just—”
“Here.” Riley turned her phone around, showing Samantha a screenshot. “This is from a therapist review site. The review’s been deleted, but someone quoted it in a forum discussion about unethical therapists.”
Samantha read the text on the screen:
“Dr. Westmore seemed professional at first, but by our third session, she was spending all her time focused on my husband. She’d touch him, laugh at everything he said, and barely acknowledge me. When I confronted her, she gaslight me, saying I was being controlling and jealous. Two months later, I found texts between them. They’d been sleeping together for weeks. I reported her to the ethics board, but she has connections. Nothing happened except she stopped taking my insurance.”
The date was from eight months ago.
“That could be anyone,” Samantha said weakly. “It could be someone with an axe to grind, making things up—”
“Sam.” Riley set down her phone and took Samantha’s hands. “Listen to me. I know you want to believe the best in people. I know you want to think this woman is a professional who’s just trying to help. But everything you’re describing? The attention on Jared, the physical touching, the way she makes you feel invisible, the individual sessions? That’s textbook predatory behavior.”
“But Jared thinks she’s great. He’s actually excited about therapy for once.”
“Of course he is. She’s making him feel special. She’s giving him validation and attention and probably stroking his ego in ways you haven’t been able to because you’ve been too busy trying to hold your marriage together while he checked out.”
The words hurt because they were true. Samantha had been the one doing all the emotional labor for months—planning date nights he’d cancel, initiating conversations he’d cut short, trying to keep them afloat while Jared drifted further away.
“What if I’m wrong?” Samantha pulled her hands back, wrapping them around her mimosa glass. “What if I’m just jealous because she’s beautiful and successful and Jared responds to her in ways he doesn’t respond to me anymore?”
“Then you’re wrong and you apologize and you find a new therapist because you should never have to sit in a room feeling like shit while trying to save your marriage.” Riley’s voice was firm. “But Sam? You’re not wrong. Your gut is telling you something. Trust it.”
Samantha thought about Thursday’s session. The way Dr. Leigh’s hand had lingered on Jared’s arm. The way she’d smiled at him—that intimate, knowing smile that made Samantha feel like an intruder in her own marriage counseling.
“He has an individual session with her Tuesday,” Samantha said quietly. “He’s excited about it.”
“Of course he is.” Riley drained her mimosa and immediately poured another. “Look, I’m not saying your marriage problems are all Dr. Leigh’s fault. I’m not saying Jared’s some innocent victim. But I am saying that a therapist who actively makes one partner feel excluded and focuses inappropriate attention on the other? That’s not therapy. That’s grooming.”
The word made Samantha’s stomach turn. “That’s dramatic.”
“Is it? She’s in a position of power and trust. She’s using that position to gain access to your husband in his most vulnerable state. She’s isolating him by suggesting individual sessions. She’s validating his perspective while subtly undermining yours.” Riley counted each point on her fingers. “That’s grooming, Sam. That’s what emotional predators do.”
Samantha stood up, too agitated to sit still. She walked to the window, looking out at her street, her neighborhood, her life that looked perfect from the outside. Two-story house with good bones. Married to a man with a stable career. No kids yet, but they’d always said they had time.
When had it all started falling apart?
“I found reviews,” Samantha said, her back still to Riley. “Multiple reviews from women saying the same thing. But they’re all deleted. Scrubbed from the internet. How does someone do that?”
“Money. Lawyers. Threats of defamation suits.” Riley came to stand beside her. “Or just reporting the reviews as fake until the platforms take them down. It’s not hard if you know what you’re doing.”
“But if she’s done this before—if there’s a pattern—why is she still practicing?”
“Because it’s hard to prove. Because most women don’t report it. Because even when they do, licensing boards move slowly and require extensive evidence. And because women like Dr. Leigh are smart. They don’t leave obvious trails. It’s all plausibly deniable. A touch on the arm? That’s just being supportive. Extra attention to one partner? That’s addressing the real issues in the relationship. Individual sessions? Standard practice.”
Samantha turned to face her friend. “You really think she’s doing this on purpose? That she looked at Jared and me and decided to target him?”
Riley’s expression was gentle but firm. “I think she’s a professional who knows exactly what she’s doing. And I think you need to be very, very careful.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling between them.
“Tell me about your disaster date,” Samantha said finally, desperate to talk about anything else.
Riley snorted. “Are you kidding? After all that, you want to hear about the guy who spent our entire dinner explaining cryptocurrency?”
“Desperately.”
So Riley launched into a story about a first date gone wrong, complete with dramatic reenactments and spot-on impressions, and for an hour, Samantha let herself laugh and forget about Dr. Leigh’s perfect smile and Jared’s new cologne and the way her marriage was crumbling like a sand castle at high tide.
But when Riley left, hugging her tight and making her promise to text if anything else happened, Samantha stood in her empty house and felt the anxiety creep back in.
She picked up her phone and scrolled to Jared’s contact. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
Tell him you’re uncomfortable with the individual sessions. Tell him about the reviews. Tell him you need to find a new therapist.
But what if Riley was wrong? What if Samantha brought this up and Jared accused her of sabotaging their therapy, of being paranoid and jealous and controlling? What if this drove him further away instead of bringing him closer?
She set down her phone without calling.
Tuesday, Jared would have his individual session with Dr. Leigh. And Samantha would be home, alone, wondering what they were talking about. Wondering if Dr. Leigh’s hand would touch his arm again. Wondering if that smile would cross her perfect face.
Wondering when her husband had stopped being hers and started belonging to someone else.
She cleaned up the mimosa glasses, threw away the empty champagne bottle, and tried not to calculate how many hours until Tuesday at 5 PM.
Seventy-two hours. Three days.
Three days to decide whether to trust her gut or trust her husband.
Three days to figure out if she was paranoid or perceptive.
Three days until everything changed, though she didn’t know it yet.
She was still operating under the assumption that there was something left to save.
By Tuesday evening, she’d learn exactly how wrong that assumption was.
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