The Vitamin He Gave Me

The trust handover banquet was less than a month away. Embossed invitations covered the desk downstairs, waiting for my approval. I lay awake on silk sheets, counting the days and trying not to move. Mark slid a hand around my waist as if he meant to soothe me. My stomach cramped under his palm. I pulled away so quickly that the sheet twisted around my legs and exposed one bare foot. He let his hand fall and looked at the space between us. His sigh was quiet, practiced, almost apologetic. That small, injured look had worked on me for years because he never accused me aloud. “Easy, love. You don't have to force it.” He propped himself on one elbow. “We'll get through this. I'm here.” For five years, he had waited while I failed at the same simple thing. He remembered appointments, collected prescriptions, and never complained to our friends. That was how I understood our marriage then. I could command a boardroom and negotiate a multi-million-dollar acquisition without losing my place on a page. In our bedroom, shame reduced me to apologies and a face turned into the pillow. “I'm sorry, Mark. I don't know what's wrong with me.” I faced the pillow. “Stop apologizing.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, got out of bed, and crossed to the dresser. He returned with a pill in one palm and a glass of water in the other. The tablet was small, white, and familiar. We had repeated this nightly ritual so often that he no longer needed to remind me to sit up. “Your vitamin. It should help you relax.” I put the pill on my tongue and emptied half the glass. Mark watched my throat move before setting the water down. At the time, I mistook his attention for concern and felt grateful for it. He sat on the edge of the mattress. “I made you an appointment with Dr. Julian Croft. He's discreet, works with high-profile clients, and keeps everything private. Psychogenic disorders are his specialty.” My face went hot at the thought of describing our bedroom to a stranger. Every failed attempt, every apology, every time I had seen disappointment on Mark's face would have to be spoken aloud. He squeezed my ankle through the blanket. “Okay,” I said. Dr. Croft's clinic occupied a quiet floor of a glass tower. Steel, glass, and bare walls made it look closer to a private gallery than a medical office. The clock could be heard from the elevator. And then I saw him. Julian Croft was younger than I expected, tall and severe in a perfectly fitted dark suit. He did not put on the soft expression doctors usually used with me. His gaze moved once to my hands locked around my bag. “Mrs. Archer.” He did not offer his hand. He pointed to the leather chair across from his desk. I sat with the bag in my lap. He let the silence run without rescuing me from it. By the time the clock ticked through a full minute, I had stopped rehearsing what a normal wife should say. “Your husband says you have an aversion to physical intimacy.” “Yes.” “Describe the reaction. Nausea? Muscle tension? Increased heart rate?” “All of it. My stomach turns. My muscles lock, and my heart races. I feel trapped. Sick.” The leather handle of my bag had left a red groove across my palm, but I kept holding it. He leaned forward. “Only with your husband?” “He's the only man I've ever been with.” Julian made a note and asked how long each reaction lasted. He did not pity me or tell me marriage required patience. The absence of reassurance helped more than another kind phrase would have. “Your husband's referral calls this a congenital defect,” he said. “I don't agree. Your reactions look conditioned. Repeated pressure taught your body what to expect, and your body learned to protect itself.” I stared at him, bewildered. “A habit?” “A response,” he corrected. “We can test it through controlled desensitization. The method involves direct, guided physical contact, and I will explain each touch first. You can stop the session at any point.” I stared at his hands resting flat on the desk. A stranger was setting rules around my consent, while my own husband had spent years telling me that enduring discomfort was part of getting well. I almost left. Then I remembered Mark turning away in bed and the pill waiting on the dresser. “I'll do it.” Julian nodded once and wrote my consent in the file. Then he opened a steel cabinet and took out a box of black medical gloves, placing it where I could see the sealed label. He pulled on a pair, then waited until I met his eyes. “One goal, Chloe. We find out whether your body is the problem.”