His Only Obsession

Two

Adrian:

The nightmare is always the same.

Small hands reaching for me through darkness. A woman's voice, syrupy sweet and poisonous. The locked room. Her perfume, something floral and cloying. Choking me while she whispers that this is what good boys do, that I should be grateful for her attention, that if I tell anyone, no one will believe me anyway.

I wake at 5:47 AM, three minutes before my alarm, drenched in sweat. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape my chest. The silk sheets are twisted around my legs, trapping me, and I kick them off violently.

I head to the bathroom.

The shower goes to scalding immediately. I stand under the water until my skin turns red, until the memories fade back into the locked box where I keep them, until I can breathe normally again.

I can’t touch women without wanting to crawl out of my skin.

At 6:15, I button my shirt with mechanical precision. The silver cufflinks on my dresser are my grandfather's. I inherited them when I was sixteen. I never wear anything from my father.

My phone buzzes. A text from my father.

Your engagement party with the Harringtons is set for next month. Don't embarrass me.

I delete it immediately without responding.

Anastasia Harrington has been my fiancée since we were twelve years old, though I've never actually proposed. Our fathers arranged it over scotch and cigars. Merging empires, securing legacies, ensuring the Lockwood and Harrington fortunes would compound for another generation.

She's beautiful. Accomplished and perfect on paper.

I've never touched her.

Not once in the eleven years we've been "engaged."

She thinks it's because I'm traditional. Waiting for marriage. She has no idea that the thought of her hands on me makes my skin crawl. That every woman's touch feels like sandpaper on an open wound.

That I'm fundamentally broken.

******

The driver is waiting when I reach the lobby. Jimmy, he’s been with my family since I was a child.

"Good morning, Mr. Lockwood."

"Jimmy."

I slide into the back of the Mercedes, grateful for the partition between us.

At 6:47 AM, I walk into Lockwood Enterprises. Seventy stories of my family's legacy pressing down on my shoulders. The elevator is empty, I made sure of that years ago by having a private one installed that goes straight to the executive floor.

Rachel from HR is waiting by my office door.

"Your new secretary starts today," she says, falling into step beside me. "Raven Stone. She's already here. Arrived fifteen minutes early."

Early means eager. They're all eager at first.

"Her desk is set up?"

"Yes, sir. Her personnel file is on your desk. Impeccable credentials."

They all have impressive credentials.

Then they last three months before they realize I'm impossible to work for and quit.

I push open the door to my office and stop.

A woman stands by the windows, silhouetted against the Seattle skyline. Dark hair pulled into a sleek bun. Charcoal skirt, cream blouse, minimal jewelry.

She turns around.

And something in my chest shifts.

She's beautiful. Objectively and undeniably beautiful. High cheekbones, full lips, dark eyes that seem to assess me in the span of a heartbeat.

But that's not what makes me freeze.

It's the absence of the usual crawling sensation under my skin.

"Good morning, Mr. Lockwood." Her voice is smooth, steady. "I'm Raven Stone, your new executive secretary. I hope you don't mind. I arrived early to familiarize myself with the systems."

She extends her hand.

My heart stops.

I haven't shaken a woman's hand in over a decade. Haven't allowed any woman to touch me voluntarily since I was fourteen years old.

I should make an excuse. Say I'm germophobic. Tell her I don't shake hands.

Instead, I watch my own hand reach out like it belongs to someone else.

Her fingers wrap around mine.

I wait for the nausea. The panic. The visceral need to scrub my skin raw.

But It doesn't come.

Her handshake is brief, then she releases me and steps back.

I stare at my hand like it's betrayed me.

"I've prepared your morning briefing," she says. "You have a board meeting at nine, lunch with the Bergman investors at twelve-thirty, and a conference call with the Milan office at three. I've also reorganized your filing system. the previous method had some inefficiencies."

I drag my eyes from my hand to her face. She's watching me with calm, measured interest.

She has no idea what just happened.

I have no idea what just happened.

"The filing system is fine," I hear myself say. "The briefing?"

She hands me a tablet. Our fingers don't touch this time, but she's close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. Something subtle. Jasmine , maybe.

The briefing is thorough. More thorough than anything my last three assistants produced combined. She's anticipated questions I haven't asked yet, flagged conflicts, caught a discrepancy in the Bergman projections.

"This is excellent work."

"Thank you, sir." That slight smile again. "Is there anything else you need?"

Yes. Why don't you make my skin crawl? Why can I breathe normally with you in the room?

"No. That's all."

She walks past me toward the door, close enough that her sleeve almost brushes my arm.

I don't flinch.

The door closes softly behind her.

I stand in the middle of my office, staring at the hand that touched hers.

For the first time in twenty years, a woman touched me and I didn't feel revulsion.

This is dangerous.

******

The morning passes in meetings and conference calls. The board meeting runs smoothly, my assistant had everything ready, anticipating questions I hadn't thought to prepare for.

At 11:30, there's a knock on my door.

"Come in."

Raven enters carrying a folder. "The Bergman file. The accounting department verified those numbers I flagged. There was a small error, but it would have been noticeable."

She sets the folder on my desk.

Our fingers brush.

Just for a second.

I freeze, waiting for the familiar revulsion.

It doesn't come.

She pulls back immediately. "The corrected numbers are highlighted. Anything else before your lunch meeting?"

"No," I manage. "Thank you."

She nods and leaves.

I sit there for a long moment, staring at my hand.

This shouldn't be possible.

******£

Later at noon, Rachel appears at my door with the Milan contract revisions.

"These just came through. They need your signature before end of day."

She holds out the folder.

I reach for it. Our fingers brush as I take it from her.

My reaction begins instantly.

My skin crawls, my stomach turns. The familiar suffocation closes around my throat.

"Thank you, Rachel." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears.

She nods and leaves.

The moment the door closes, I lock it.

I stand at the window, breathing through the panic attack, counting backwards from one hundred like Dr. Page taught me.

Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.

My hands are shaking.

The crawling sensation under my skin won't stop.

It takes twenty minutes before I can function again.

Twenty minutes to prove what I already knew.

That it’s not healing.

I pull out my phone with my hands that still tremble slightly and dial Dr. Page.

"Adrian. This is unexpected. Is everything alright?"

"I need to move up my appointment."

"Your next session isn't until Friday. Has something happened?"

I touched a woman today , twice. And I didn't feel trapped or sick. But I touched someone else and nearly had a breakdown in my office.

"I need to talk through something. Can you fit me in today?"

There's a pause. "Alright , I have an opening at seven tonight."

"I'll take it."

"Adrian," she says carefully, "are you in crisis?"

"No. The opposite, maybe. I don't know."

"Seven o'clock. We'll talk then."

******

Dr.Page’s office is in a discreet building downtown, tucked away where privacy is guaranteed.

I've been seeing her for six years. She's the fourth therapist I've tried, and the only one who didn't insist I could be "fixed" if I just tried hard enough.

"Adrian." She gestures to the familiar leather chair. "Sit. Tell me what's going on."

"I touched someone today," I say. "A woman. And I didn't... react."

I see the interest spark in her eyes. "Tell me about it."

"My new assistant. She shook my hand this morning. And I didn't feel anything. No panic or revulsion."

"And that frightens you."

"Yes." I lean forward. "It happened twice and both times I felt nothing."

"Adrian, this is significant progress…"

"Is it?" I cut her off. "What if it's not progress? What if it's just her?"

Dr. Page’s expression shifts slightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what if I can only touch her? Specifically her and no one else."

She's quiet for a moment. "Have you tested that theory?"

"Yes. This afternoon. My other female staff handed me a file today and our fingers touched." I swallow hard, remembering. "I had to lock myself in my office for twenty minutes."

The panic attack had been brutal. Exactly like always.

"But with Raven Stone, nothing."

Dr. Page leans back in her chair, studying me carefully. "That is... unusual."

"It's not healing, is it?" I stand, pacing to the window. "It's not progress. It's transference. Dependency. I'm trading one problem for another."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps she represents safety in a way no one else has." She pauses. "What are you afraid of, Adrian?"

"That I'll need her." The admission comes out raw, stripped of the control I usually maintain. "That she'll become the only person I can tolerate touching me, and when she realizes the power she has, when she leaves or uses it against me, I'll be worse off than before."

"Those are valid fears," Dr. Page says quietly. "But let me ask you something. What do you want to do about this?"

I think about firing her. About going back to my carefully controlled isolation. About twenty more years of walls and distance and the suffocating loneliness I've convinced myself is safety.

"I don't know," I admit.

Dr. Page stands, moving to her desk. "Then take the weekend. Don't make any decisions yet. Just... observe. See what you're feeling. And we'll talk Monday."