The Vitamin He Gave Me

Chapter 2 Awakening the Senses

Jessica arrived precisely at ten. Her heels clicked across the marble foyer, and her floral perfume reached my home office before she did. She wore the narrow smile she used whenever Mark was watching.

“Chloe, Mark says you aren't sleeping.” Artificial sympathy softened every word. She set a narrow, elegant glass bottle between my keyboard and the trust documents. “I picked this up for you.”

Gold oil moved inside it when she pushed it toward me. “A special aromatherapy blend from a little boutique I know. Put some on before bed. It should help you relax properly.”

She paused on the last word. My hand stayed beside the keyboard.

“Thoughtful of you.”

“Anything for Mark.” Jessica's gaze moved from my wedding ring to the bedroom wing beyond the office. “He's been patient for a very long time. He deserves to be happy.”

I left the bottle on the desk while I finished the guest list. The stopper must have leaked when Jessica opened it, because by afternoon its heavy floral scent had settled into my blouse and hair.

Julian was waiting when I reached the clinic. A strip of black silk lay folded beside his notes. He showed me the blindfold, let me check the fabric, and waited for me to sit first.

“You see your husband and brace before he touches you,” he said. “Your body reacts to the expectation before it can register the contact. Today we separate what you expect from what you actually feel.”

“With a blindfold?”

“Only if you consent.”

I sat in the leather chair and kept both feet flat on the floor. He tied the black silk behind my head without catching my hair, then asked whether it was too tight before moving away.

The room went dark. Without his face to watch, every small sound separated itself: the air vent above me, his shoes on the floor, and the faint scrape of his cuff against the chair.

“My hand is going on your shoulder. Say stop and I stop.”

My stomach tightened before he touched me. I gripped the chair arms and waited for the familiar nausea to rise into my throat, already preparing to apologize when I failed again.

His palm settled over my blouse.

The cramp eased.

I kept waiting. His hand had weight and warmth; that was all. My stomach stayed quiet. The muscles across my shoulders loosened against the chair before I noticed they had moved.

I took a full breath. Then another.

“Tell me what you feel,” Julian said.

“Nothing bad.” The answer sounded absurd after five years of fear. I laughed once, then tears slipped under the blindfold and ran along my cheeks. “I don't feel sick at all.”

After warning me, he moved two fingers along my collarbone with measured, clinical pressure. My body accepted the contact. He stopped after a few seconds and removed his hand before asking another question.

When the blindfold came off, Julian gave me a tissue rather than touching my face.

“It didn't happen,” I said. “The nausea.”

“Your pulse settled within seconds. Your breathing stayed even, and your muscles released. Those are healthy responses, Chloe. Your body responded normally.”

Normally. I pressed the tissue beneath my eyes and read the word again in my head. For five years, it had belonged to other women, the kind who did not need treatment to be wives.

I started to thank him. Julian leaned closer, then stopped. His attention had shifted to the collar of my blouse.

He asked permission, lifted one strand of my hair, and smelled it near the collar. The professional distance in his face tightened into alarm. He checked the cuff of my blouse as well.

“What oil are you wearing?”

“Oil?”

“The floral scent. Where did it come from?”

“My husband's secretary gave it to me this morning. She said it was for sleep.”

Julian stepped back and pulled off the gloves. “Go home and seal the bottle in a bag. Don't put it on your skin, don't let anyone clean the blouse, and don't throw the bottle away.”

“Why?”

“Because I recognize one ingredient, and it has no business in aromatherapy. Bring me the bottle tomorrow.”