Chapter 1: The Hypnotist's Final Command
The champagne tasted like pennies and regret. Greg forced a smile, nodding at something the venture capitalist’s wife was saying, but his attention was locked across the ballroom. Jessica stood near a towering ice sculpture of a unicorn, its melting horn dripping into a silver catchment basin. She looked stunning, a fact that burned in his gut. The emerald silk of her gown clung to curves she spent most of her life hiding beneath cardigans and high necklines. Now, under the chandelier’s relentless sparkle, she was a display piece. For everyone but him.
“She’s radiant tonight, Greg,” murmured Mrs. Aldridge, following his gaze.
“She is,” he agreed, the words ash in his mouth. Radiant and miles away. The space between them, even across this crowded room, felt permanent, insulated by her constant, quiet unhappiness. He could chart the history of their marriage in the gradual tightening of her mouth, the critical light in her eyes that found fault with everything from his tie knot to the volume of his voice. The bedroom had been a frozen tundra for years.
A sharp crackle from the PA system saved him from further polite fiction. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a smooth voice announced. “Please direct your attention to the stage for our featured entertainment: the master of suggestion, Armand Valois!”
A smattering of applause. Greg used the diversion to slip away, weaving through the crowd toward Jessica. She was studying the program, her brow slightly furrowed.
“Hypnosis,” she said, not looking up as he arrived at her shoulder. “A bit tacky for a children’s hospital benefit, don’t you think?”
“Probably gets people to open their wallets wider,” Greg said. “The illusion of control is a powerful aphrodisiac for this crowd.”
She finally glanced at him, a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe—in her eyes. “Cynical.”
“Realistic.”
On stage, Armand Valois, a man with a goatee and eyes that seemed to absorb the light, was inviting volunteers. “I need minds open to possibility,” he crooned into the microphone. “Willing to embark on a delightful journey of the subconscious.”
To Greg’s utter astonishment, Jessica’s hand floated upward, tentative at first, then more definite.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Being open to possibility,” she said, her tone challenging. She handed him her clutch. “Hold this.”
He watched, numb, as she navigated the steps to the stage, joining four other volunteers. Valois guided them into chairs. The stage lights softened, a single, brighter spot pinning the hypnotist down. He spoke in a rhythmic, soothing caduceus, about relaxation, about heavy limbs, about sinking into the plush velvet of the chair. Greg saw Jessica’s shoulders drop. Her hands, which had been clenched in her lap, went slack.
The silliness began. One man was told his nose was unbearably itchy. Another woman was convinced her chair was freezing cold. The audience tittered. Then Valois approached Jessica. He leaned close, whispering something in her ear Greg couldn’t catch. He straightened, snapped his fingers.
Jessica’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused.
“My dear,” Valois said, his voice projecting to the rapt ballroom. “Do you hear that? The barnyard is calling. Can you not hear the roosters at dawn?”
A beat. Then Jessica brought her hands to her armpits, flapping her elbows. A clear, confident “Bawk-bawk-buh-COOK!” erupted from her lips. The audience roared. Greg felt his face heat. There she was, his elegant, critical wife, clucking like a chicken with utter, unselfconscious abandon. Valois had them all on their feet, a synchronized poultry chorus. Jessica was the loudest.
The act concluded with a gentle wake-up command. The volunteers blinked, looking around in dazed confusion to thunderous applause. Jessica descended the stairs, a bemused smile on her face. Greg met her at the bottom.
“Well,” she said, taking her clutch back. “That was… a thing.”
“You were a star,” Greg said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.
She giggled. Actually giggled. It was a sound he hadn’t heard in years. “It was such a silly feeling! Like floating. And then I just really, really wanted to cluck.” She laughed again, linking her arm through his. “Let’s go home. I’m suddenly exhausted.”
The crisp night air outside the hotel was a shock after the ballroom’s canned heat. Valet attendants whisked cars away under the porte-cochère’s brilliant lights. They walked in silence toward the parking garage, the click of Jessica’s heels echoing in the concrete cavern. The good humor she’d shown on stage seemed to evaporate with every step, leaving her drawn and quiet again.
Greg felt the familiar frustration rising, a hot tide in his chest. The sight of her on stage, so free, so uninhibited, contrasted violently with the wall she presented to him. It was a mockery. He fumbled for his keys, the sound unnaturally loud.
“Jessica,” he said, the word coming out sharper than intended.
She turned, her expression already closing off. “What?”
He didn’t know what to say. Why not for me? Why is that version of you only for strangers on a stage? The helpless anger twisted in him, and into that mental storm floated a stupid, impulsive thought. Valois’s voice in his head. The whisper before the clucking started. What had he said?
It was worth a shot. Anything was.
He took a breath, making his voice soft, low, mimicking the hypnotist’s cadence. “Good girl.”
Jessica stopped. Her whole body went still. The defensiveness in her posture melted away. Her eyes, which had been sharp and wary, softened, losing their focus. She looked at him, but not really at him. Through him.
A jolt of pure, electric power shot through Greg. It worked. The trigger worked.
“Come here,” he said, quietly.
She stepped forward, obedient, her movements smooth and placid. He reached out, his hand cupping her cheek. She leaned into the touch, a small sigh escaping her lips. He traced his thumb over her cheekbone, down to her mouth. Her lips parted slightly.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
She did. It wasn’t the perfunctory, closed-mouth peck of their usual goodnights. This was deep, hungry, full of a wanton warmth that she had never, ever offered him willingly. Her hands came up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. When they finally broke apart, she was breathing heavily, her eyes still glazed.
The power was intoxicating. It was an answer. It was a solution.
“Let’s get in the car,” he said, guiding her toward the passenger door. She went willingly, sliding in without a word. He closed her door and stood for a moment in the cool, dim garage, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked at his hands. They were just hands. But they held the strings now.
He walked around to the driver’s side, a new lightness in his step. He could fix this. He could have everything he wanted. All it took was two words.
As he started the engine and guided the car out of the garage, Jessica stirred beside him. She blinked, shook her head minutely, and looked out the window at the passing streetlights. “I have such a headache,” she murmured, rubbing her temple. “And I’m so tired. That was more draining than I thought.”
“Just relax,” Greg said, his voice gentle. “We’ll be home soon.”
She nodded, leaning back against the headrest. A few blocks later, she spoke again, her voice small in the dark cabin. “Greg? Did you… say something to me back in the garage? Before we got in the car?”
He kept his eyes on the road, the ghost of her kiss still on his lips. “No, honey,” he said smoothly. “I didn’t say a thing.”