Chapter 3 The Folder System

Adrienne

They all stand when I walk in. Good. At least they still know how to act when they’re waiting for something important.

I don’t speak right away. I drop my leather portfolio onto the head of the table, flip it open, and glance at the printed copy of the email I’ve already read five times. The FDA’s latest “concern.” Blow me

“Walk me through it,” I say, voice even. Controlled. Everyone sits. I don’t. I slowly pace around the table, purposely not looking at anyone. I know how to work this room.

Derek clears his throat first. He’s always the one to buckle under pressure, which makes me hate that I have to hear his voice.

“There’s been… some pushback on the way the new campaign frames the Obsession line. The scent itself is still within guidelines, nothing biologically reactive, technically, but some of the marketing phrases are raising flags.” He winces

“Flags? Which phrases?” I ask.

He hesitates. He's stammering, nervous, as he should be. “One of the focus group testimonials said, uh, ‘he was obsessed with me after two days.’ Another claimed the scent made her ‘feel like a goddess, like men couldn’t say no.’”

"And... What's the issue, sounds like success," I say flatly.

“Legally speaking,” Marla chimes in, “phrases like ‘couldn’t say no’ edge into dangerous territory. The regulators are worried we’re implying some kind of coercion, even if it is subconsciously.”

I finally look up. “It’s a pheromone-based cologne. The entire industry operates on subconscious implications. None of our competitors are testing anywhere near our numbers.”

“Yes,” she says carefully, “but they’re asking for revisions. We’re advised to change the language before launch. Otherwise, the approval gets delayed.”

“How long?” I ask, holding my composer like I always have.

“Two to four weeks.”

I tap my pen against the folder. “For semantics.”

Silence.

They all think I’m angry. I’m not. Not really. Anger would mean I didn’t see this coming. What I feel is simpler. Sharper. I feel insulted.

Four weeks because some bureaucrat was squeamish about a woman claiming she made a man obsessed. The formula itself? No issues or objections. They don’t even understand what it actually does or its capabilities. They’re trying to weaken it based on a tagline. I take a breath and smile slightly — the kind that might look approving if you don’t know me. “Fine,” I say. “Rewrite the copy. Keep the testimonials, but soften the verbs. Change ‘can’t stop thinking about me’ to ‘irresistible presence.’ Remove ‘addicted’ altogether. Use ‘lingering effect’ instead.” Derek begins typing again, relieved. What an idiot. I close the folder with a soft snap. “That will be all.”

They leave. Quiet. Respectful. Afraid.

Good.

I stand and move over to my desk.

I wait until the door clicks shut behind them before I let myself exhale.

The silence is better than applause. In here, alone, I don’t have to pretend to be the reasonable one. I don’t have to be a performer. There are no safety phrases in this room. Only results.

The lights above my desk warm slightly as I sit, motion-sensitive, soft, and flattering. I designed them that way—intimate, but not romantic. Just enough glow to make sure everyone knows I am the most important thing in the room.

I unlock the drawer beneath the far panel of the desk. Not the central one. This drawer is mine, secured by a biometric thumbprint and a rotating six-hour code sent only to my private line. My security technician was very helpful in installing it. He was also… surprisingly talented in other areas.

Pity things didn’t end well for him.

Inside: four slim files, color-coded.

Green. Blue. Orange. Red.

Charming. Needy. Controlling. Defiant.

My fingers brush over the green folder before I slide it out and flip it open across the desk.

Subject 004G.

Male. Twenty-eight. Confident. Flirtatious. Believes he’s in control.

He’s perfect.

The most recent field report is clipped to the inside cover, containing standard observations, printed photos, and voice memo transcripts from my last session.

He’s begun showing up at restaurants she never mentioned, texting her at odd hours with just the words “thinking of you.” The scent was applied to her wrist only once, during their third encounter.

That was two days ago.

I smile, flipping through the images. His pupils are dilated in every photo. His voice is different in the transcript, slurred, unguarded, especially when he says her name.

“Additional testing required,” I murmur, opening the center drawer.

I remove a fresh vial from the sample tray, labeled only by batch ID. This one contains the newest formula. A deeper base note, more volatile, harder to detect.

I hold it to the light. It catches like oil.

It doesn’t need to shine. It just needs to take hold. I don’t care how it looks. I care that they obey.

They want me to dilute it. To make it safe. They don’t understand the point. I’m not making perfume. I’m making a trigger.

I wait for the vial to settle between my fingers before I speak.

“Subject 004G,” I say aloud, voice low, casual.

“Day ten. An unconscious behavioral shift has begun. Voluntary proximity increased. Messaging frequency elevated. Emotional recall appears chemically linked. Preliminary attachment symptoms: successful.”

I lean back in my chair, letting the recorder blink at me from the corner of the desk. I’m not sending this file anywhere. No one hears these logs but me.

He asked if we could meet again. Dinner this time. Casual. No lab coat. No clipboard.

Good. He’s already forgetting what this was supposed to be.

I pause the recording.

Press resume.

“He smiled at me today like I was magic,” I murmur. “He doesn’t realize it yet, but that’s how it starts. They always think it’s desire. That it’s natural. But I designed this.” I look down at the folder in my lap. His photo stares back, bright-eyed, just starting to lose focus.

“I didn’t just want them to obsess,” I whisper.

“I wanted them to obsess over me.”

I end the log. Save the file. Encrypt it. Close the hidden drawer.

And smile to myself.