That night, I was blindfolded. I heard everything that happened to me. I felt every second of it. But that scent. That smell. The man who saved me sticks in my head the most.
He didn’t speak. He moved with lethal precision, untying me without a word, keeping the blindfold on my eyes like he was protecting me from something even worse.
I remember the pounding of his heart against his hard chest, his biceps tightening as he held me. My nose pressed to the baseof his neck as he carried me out of hell and placed me on my own doorstep.
The man without a name. Without a face.
All I have is his smell.
A masculine, woody scent with a soft floral edge. One that vanished the moment he did. I haven’t smelled it once since that night five years ago, except in the bottle I clutched in my hand—the one we managed to recreate, even though it wasn’texactlyright.
Now, every time I feel unsafe, when the world caves in around me, I spray it on my wrist, and it protects me. It soothes me. It calms me.
It reminds me that someone once chose to save me.
I might never find him. But the memory of him keeps me from drowning. I can still feel his strong arms carrying me out. He could have been another one of the bad guys, but I knew the second his hand touched my arm, he wasn’t. He was there to rescue me.
My hand trembles, so I tuck it beneath my cardigan and slip the cologne back into my purse.
“Smoke.” I blurt out. “It needs smoky hints.”
“Okay. We can work on that.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, clinging to the hope that if I find that scent, I might finally be okay again. That I will have a solution to stop the panic attacks before they grip hold of me. I know it sounds ridiculous, but if I feel safe, or trick my brain into believing it’s safe, I might not be so on edge every minute of the day. Like my body is constantly in fight mode.
By the time I climb back into my Mercedes, my phone is already ringing, and I see the ten missed calls. The first place my brain goes is death. That all these missed calls mean my father's life has caught up with him. I can already feel the tightness pulling at my throat, even as I try to rub my skin to make it stop.I unlock my phone, and my heart rate calms once it fully sinks in that they are just calls from my assistant, Roxy. She’s a tad overdramatic at times in her communication.
“Hi,” I say, sheepishly. Even if I own my art gallery, running off to secret appointments to recreate the scent of a stranger probably isn’t the best look.
“Umm. Lily... where the hell are you?” she snaps.
Some people might not let their assistant get away with talking to them like this, but this is exactly how I’ve trained Roxy to be. I need her strong, even with me. Because she is someone else who will drag me out of bed on the hard days. That will keep me distracted.
“Getting coffee. And running some quick errands. I’m on my way back now.” I tell her, tapping my nails on the steering wheel.
“You know that’s my job?” she sasses.
“Personal things. I had an appointment.”
“Are you okay?” She asks with concern.
She knows I struggle sometimes; she actually saw straight through me pretty quickly. She doesn’t need to say a word about it, but it's nice knowing someone is there if I do need them. Who will make sure I can take a minute when the world gets too loud.
“Yeah, all good. I promise. Now what’s the emergency?”
I pop a piece of gum in my mouth and start the engine.
“Claude is asking if we can alter the placement of Grande Psychosis.”
I roll my eyes. Claude is a bit of a diva, but he does have talent. “Again? What’s wrong with the entire left wall? That piece is powerful. It needs its space, a time to shine.”
Maybe it speaks to me because it mirrors the parts of me I don’t show. Dark canvas. Silver lines that reveal their truth only if someone looks close enough.
My gallery is built on sensation. On immersion. Black walls. Art that demands the room. Not the people. Not the noise. The work carries the light.
I know better than anyone how senses can break a person. So I built a place where they can heal instead.
Dancing was once my chosen form of art, but now I offer a stage for others to shine. I lost my own spark, and I’m at peace with that.
