Chapter 2 Buried Truths
Jonas
I don’t remember the drive home. That’s the part that scares me most.
I lock the door behind me and toss my keys onto the counter, but they miss and clatter to the floor. Fuck it, it doesn't matter. The apartment’s too clean anyway. I haven’t had the energy to mess anything up lately. No dishes in the sink. No laundry on the floor.
Just silence and her.
Not really, but the scent’s still here. Not as strong as the office, but it’s here in my hoodie. On the throw blanket, I haven’t washed in weeks. The way it clings makes me feel like I never really left her office. It feels like I’ve been sleepwalking since the last session.
I pull off the hoodie and bury my face in the sleeve. I know it’s not healthy. But I just want to feel something, FUCK anything again. That electric tingle I used to get when she stepped into the room. That heat in my chest when she said my name like it belonged to her.
Adrienne. Her name tastes expensive in my mouth. Like a seven-course dinner at the French Laundry in Napa Valley, I can’t afford it.
I didn’t fall in love with her. Not exactly. It was before that. Before my brain could even name what it was. I felt seen. Like I wasn’t just another number on a clipboard, I’d never felt like that before. Not from a woman.
The first time I met her wasn’t even supposed to be memorable.-
But it was.-
It was a Wednesday. I remember that because I picked up my only suit at the dry cleaners that morning.
The building looked like any other clinical research center, with frosted windows, brushed steel door handles, and generic fake plants lining the hallway like polite lies. I kept telling myself this was for science, not therapy. Just scent-response testing. Ten sessions, one bottle, small stipend. I needed the money. That was all.
I signed the release form and waited alone.
Then she walked in.
The first thing I saw was her legs. Long. Precise. She moved like her body was trained in geometry, every angle sharp, deliberate, and composed. Her skirt hugged her hips like it had been tailored to make men stupid, and it worked. Her blouse was crisp and white, buttoned just high enough to keep things clinical, but tight enough to make your mouth forget what you were saying. Her hair was swept up and pinned so cleanly it didn’t seem real. Like a sculptor, not a mirror. And her face… Holy Shit. That face wasn’t soft. It was built, cheekbones made to cut, lips painted to punish. Eyes like high-grade weaponry: cold, locked, and dangerous if you stared too long.
She wasn’t dressed to seduce. She didn’t have to be.
She was dressed to own the room. And she did.
And then she looked at me.
Only for a second. But something inside me made me forget where I was. What was I here for? Just that one look, like she was measuring me, like I’d either be useful or forgotten.
“Jonas Calver?” she asked, like she already knew.
“Yeah.” I stood up too quickly and knocked my knee against the chair. “Yes. Sorry.”
She gave a small nod. “You’re in Group Two. Please follow me.”
Her voice was low, composed, with no softness, but not hard either. Just the kind of voice people obey without knowing why. I followed her down the hallway, eyes half on her back, half on the scent that trailed behind her. It was like I could see it wafting off her. It was faint, but clean, cool, and static-sharp, like the sky before a thunderstorm. Not seductive. Not sweet. Just present in a way I couldn’t explain.
She led me into a white, windowless room. No desk. No mirror. Just two chairs, face to face. The kind of setup that makes you forget where to put your hands.
She sat across from me, legs crossed, hands folded. “ I am Dr. Adrienne Volke. Thank you for volunteering. Your profile stood out.”
I shifted in my seat. “Oh. Uh, I just filled out the survey.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “Your chemical markers indicate high olfactory sensitivity. That’s uncommon. Very responsive.”
I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a warning.
She reached into a small drawer beside her chair and pulled out a matte black bottle—no label, no logo. Just sleek and clinical.
“We’ll start with a baseline compound. Wear it daily. Log your emotional responses, memory clarity, focus duration, increased sensations, and sexual desires.
Questions?”
So many. But I shook my head.
She passed me the bottle. Our fingers didn’t touch, but it felt like they had.
I left the building with something more than a bottle. There was pressure in my chest I couldn’t name yet. Just the weight of being noticed by someone who didn’t have to look at me, but did.
I didn’t love her. Not then.
But I wanted her to look at me like that again.
And I think she knew it.
I wake up lying on my couch, still grasping the hoodie like it’s proof of something. My knuckles are white around the fabric. My chest is tight. Whenever I woke up after a dream about her, my breathing felt like work. It always did.
I drop the hoodie and lean back, forcing my hands open. Realizing how much my hands hurt.
I keep replaying it, that first meeting. Her voice, the way she moved, how she looked right at me like I wasn’t just a participant but a puzzle she already knew how to solve. I told myself it was the formula; it's a matter of science. That’s what they said. That’s what the research was for.
But even now, sitting here, weeks later, I’m still not sure what this was. What was I reacting to? The compound? Or her?
She didn’t flirt. She didn’t touch me. But I still walked out feeling owned, and I wanted her to own me. And it hasn’t faded. Not even a little.
I can’t focus without that scent. I can’t sleep. I don't feel normal in my skin. I try to explain it out loud sometimes, but the words sound pathetic. “I think the therapy worked too well” doesn’t land when people don’t know what she is.
What she did to me wasn’t love. It wasn’t even an attraction.
What the Fuck? Dr. Adrienne Volke, you're living rent-free.