For three years he remained her patient, coming to her plush office, lying on her leather couch, and exposing his phobias – fears of acquiring then losing everything he owned. There was much to lose. He had property around the world – estates, vacation homes, villas, even a castle. The numerous companies he presided over made his whereabouts erratic – flying off at unexpected moments to live for weeks in the remote penthouse suite of an exclusive luxurious hotel. Was it any wonder he could not sustain a lasting relationship, he lamented. She consoled him. He became a special case. She worked her psychiatric magic on him until his psyche was restored and she pronounced him cured. He insisted they celebrate over dinner. Since their client-patient relationship had ended, and there was no longer a conflict of interest, she accepted. He wined and dined her for weeks and flew her to a villa in Spain where he proposed his love. She declared hers. They were married in an intimate private wedding. Elated by visions of a bountiful future together, she returned home with her new husband to discover he had nothing – less than nothing. He was in debt to the amount of more than she could fathom. The cataclysmic jolt resulted in a mental breakdown. She lay immobile on his couch (or, in truth, his creditors’), and was unable to rise, pinned down by the crushing weight of her predicament – at risk of losing everything she had worked so hard to achieve. Her husband tried to counsel her, telling her not to worry. She had cured him of these phantasmagorias. They were illusions, the product of mind displaced by matter. Material phenomena lacking spirituality. Deviations disguised as truth. Not real. Not really. Not reality.