Mister Perfume

CHAPTER 3: The Perfumer

Mathieu Lewis 's Pov

I woke up with a migraine. Not tension — a blade behind my left eye, pulsing like a broken metronome.

Light pierced the curtain. Too white. Too sharp. It hit before thought could form.

I groaned. Pulled the pillow over my face. Not to sleep — to vanish.

The fabric slipped. I lay there, naked, wrapped in a beige sheet — too thin, too loose — covering only what it had to.

My body was heavy. My mind, blurred. But everything around me was sharp.

The room. The stillness. The smell on the sheets. Not mine.

I opened my eyes. Slowly. Like cracking a door you’re not sure if you want to walk through.

And I remembered her.

Her mouth. Her voice. Her words: “I want you to consume me.”

I closed my eyes again. Too late. She was everywhere.

And me… I was Mathieu. Not the name she knew. Not the one I gave.

I sat up. The sheet slipped. I caught it. Just enough to stay undefined.

The migraine faded, but something else took its place.

I scanned the room. Crumpled sheets. Her imprint on the pillow. My reflection in the mirror — hollowed, marked, alive.

She was gone. I knew it before I checked.

But she lingered. On my skin. In my mouth. In the air.

I stood. Barefoot on marble. Cold. Too clean. Too real.

I didn’t know her name. But I knew her sighs. The curve of her hips. The way she said burn me like a vow.

And maybe that was enough.

A dry vibration broke the quiet. My phone.

I flinched. Looked around. Nothing on the nightstand. Nothing on the floor.

I groaned. One hand on the sheet, the other searching under chairs, behind cushions.

The vibration stopped. Then resumed. More insistent.

I found it wedged between two cushions. The screen lit up: Antoine R.

I answered. Automatically.

“Yes.”

His voice was too sharp for this hour.

“Mathieu, where are you? We’ve got a problem. The Italian cedar batch is off. The Japanese house expects samples tomorrow.”

I closed my eyes. Just a second. Just enough to remember who I was supposed to be.

The lab. The formulas. The deadlines. Mathieu Lewis. Not the man from last night.

The perfumer.

“The Italian cedar’s dead,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Tell Yuki we’re reformulating. I want Sumbawa wood. Drier. Sharper.”

A pause. Then Antoine, more cautious.

“You want us to restart production? The bottles are already prepped.”

I looked at the sheets. The air was still thick with her.

“No. Not yet. Keep it experimental.”

He understood. Experimental meant personal. Untouchable. Off-market.

“Should we block deliveries?”

“Yes. And tell Sofia I won’t be at the eleven.”

“You want me to reschedule?”

“No. I don’t want to see anyone today.”

I hung up.

Silence returned. But it wasn’t the same.

I stood there, phone in hand, eyes on the bed. Her trace still clung to the room

.

Burnt wood. Black musk. A hint of vanilla — not sweet. Salty. Like skin after a storm.

I’d never named that formula. It slept in a notebook, between two scribbled pages. Too unstable. Too intimate.

But last night, it had come alive.

And now, it haunts me.

I set the phone down. Walked to the window. Sunlight carved lines on the floor. I followed them with my eyes. Then closed them.

Accords returned. Notes. Absences. Fractures.

Her voice. Her skin. That sentence again: “I want you to consume me.”

That perfume wasn’t a prototype anymore.

It was a story. And it had just begun.

I shook my head. Once. Twice. As if to erase her.

“No, no…” I whispered. “Mathieu, forget that girl.”

I walked to the mirror. My reflection stared back. Unforgiving.

“I don’t want anything serious.”

My voice was low. But each word rang like a warning.

The scars of my marriage were still there. Invisible. Deep. Etched into my silences.

I didn’t want to rebuild. Not to watch it collapse again.

But I could still burn. Without promising.

And she… she hadn’t asked for anything.

Just one night. Just fire.

I glanced at my watch.

8:42.

Too early to be Mathieu Lewis again — the perfumer, the strategist, the name behind the bottles.

I wasn’t ready.

Not with her still on my skin. Not with her words still echoing.

I sighed. Let myself fall back onto the bed, the sheet knotted around my waist.

The mattress was warm. The air, heavy.

I closed my eyes. Not to sleep. To dissolve. To forget. Just a little. Before the world came knocking

Priscilla’s POV

I left the house without a sound. No words. No glance. Not even a breath left behind.

I walked barefoot to the gate, heels in hand, heart beating too slowly for a girl who had just burned.

The city was still asleep. I wasn’t.

I came home like someone returning from a dream too dense. Closed the door. Dropped the keys. Went straight to the bathroom.

Hot water streamed over me. I didn’t feel it. Forehead against the tiles, I let the night flood back.

His mouth. His hands. His voice when he asked if I knew what I was doing.

And me, whispering yes. Saying "I want you to consume me."

I meant it. I wanted it. And he did.

It wasn’t s*x. It wasn’t love. It was something else. A rupture. A fall. A night without a net.

I didn’t know his name.

But I remembered his voice. The way he carried me. As if I were an answer.

Under the shower, I wondered what I’d left behind. And what I’d brought back.

I stepped out, still wrapped in warmth. Water slid down my legs, my arms, my stomach — as if he were still there.

I wrapped myself in a towel. Grabbed my clothes. Then my phone vibrated.

I picked it up, still damp. Brenda.

I smiled. Instinctively. Answered with a breath of joy.

"Brenda?"

"Priscilla! Finally! I called you three times last night. You vanished!"

I laughed softly. My voice still veiled by the night.

"Come over. I’ll tell you everything."

A pause. Then her voice, bright.

"I’ll swing by before work. Make coffee. I want every scandalous detail."

"Deal."

The call ended. I set the phone down. Sat on the edge of the bed.

I poured lotion into my palm. Applied it to my shoulders, my arms, my stomach.

Then, without warning, I saw his hands again.

His gestures. His precision. That burning slowness.

I closed my eyes. Just for a second. And my body remembered.

I went downstairs humming. Light. Almost joyful. Still floating in the remnants of the night. Craving coffee. Silence. Sunlight.

But in the dining room, I saw her.

Meredith.

Seated. Rigid. Beige suit. Cup of tea. Gaze already shut.

I approached. Leaned in to kiss her. She recoiled. Sharp. As if I carried a disease.

"You reek of s*x," she spat, without looking.

I froze. Then straightened.

"Excuse me?"

She looked up. Cold. Disgusted.

"You think I don’t see what you do with your nights? You think you shame me? No, Priscilla. You exhaust me. That’s worse."

Something cracked inside me. But this time, I didn’t stay silent.

"You want to know why I go out? Why I lose myself in strangers?"

She didn’t answer. Just stared at me like misplaced furniture.

"Because of you, Meredith. Because you don’t love me. Because you never look at me. Because you’d rather party with people my age than spend an hour with your daughter."

She opened her mouth. I raised my hand.

"No. You’re going to listen. I work. I killed myself to pay for this house so you wouldn’t have to lift a finger. And you? You judge me. You avoid me. You despise me."

Silence. Dense. Sharp.

She stood. Slowly. Passed me without a word. Left the room.

I stayed there. Alone. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might split.

But I didn’t regret a thing.