CHAPTER ONE
Lily
Song- The Search, NF.
They think I’m insane here. And honestly, I understand why.
“We tweaked the bergamot versus nutmeg ratio for this particular sample.” Chloe, the head perfumer, tells me.
Pulling my sleeves over my wrists, I close my eyes as she sprays it in front of me. I inhale slowly, waiting for that feeling to wash over me. Safety. But after a few seconds, and a good whiff, disappointment fills me again. For the thirtieth time. An entire year of searching, and Christ knows how much money I’ve spent. Which is probably why they’re looking at me like I need some sort of evaluation.
“Nope. Still not it.” I sigh.
Opening my eyes, I see the assistant give me a curt nod and a hollow smile. I rummage in my purse, pull out the tiny spray bottle I always carry, and hand it to her.
“This is the closest we’ve gotten in a year. What else can we change? Maybe it’s a whole new ingredient we need?” I try not to sound desperate, but since this idea lodged itself in my mind, I haven’t been able to shake it. And it might stop me from randomly sniffing men in this search for my savior. The man who stopped my mom’s husband from raping me five years ago. The man I know nothing about, and didn’t even catch a glimpse of. All I have is a scent.
“Lily, are you sure you want to keep wasting money on this? I’m sure he will love the version you’ve created for him.”
My cheeks heat as she reminds me of my lie. I swallow hard.
“Yeah, I suppose. I just wanted it to be exactly as I remembered.”
Shit.
“Remembered?” she questions with one eyebrow raised.
Think. Shit.
“It was a scent back in Russia. It reminds me of home, and he is my home, you see.” I tell her.
And part of that is true. It does remind me of my home back in Russia, not here in Pennsylvania. That scent reminds me of being with my father back when I was a kid. The last time I truly felt safe. The last time I felt anyone was ever looking out for me.
So, I’m not lying entirely. I need this scent so I can finally feel safe in my own skin again.
She nods, pretending to listen, but her eyes say she’d rather be anywhere else.
“Can we just give it a few more goes? Maybe more vanilla in one, citrus in another?”
She scoffs, pushing her dark hair over her shoulder. I look down at all the purple bottles on the table. “You’re really not giving up on this, are you?”
I shake my head. I need this to work. At this point, it’s the only thing I can think of to stop the panic attacks from takingover. When my mind slips back to that night, when I feel that creep’s breath on my skin, the aftershave reminds me that I was saved.
“I can’t. I don’t give up on anything.” I say, making my point known.
It’s how my father raised me—never give up on anything. Some may say his techniques weren’t age-appropriate, like the time he gave me a gun when I was seven and taught me how to shoot. I remember crying and saying I didn’t want to learn, but he taught me survival anyway.
It was a time when, really, what I needed was love. Now I can see some of the benefits; it’s what has stopped the anxiety from completely taking over my life. I remember how fierce he taught me to be—even on days when it’s really hard. I can’t give up on myself.
Chloe takes a slow breath and glances at her colleague. “Give us a couple more weeks. Let me see what we can come up with. I’ll give you a call when we have more options available.”
“Thank you.”
My heart pounds as she places my cologne down. “Oh, can I have that back?”
“Sorry! Yes!”
She picks it up, and I snatch it out of her fingers, holding it tight like a lifeline.
