Chapter 1 — Mistress, Just Enjoy It
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The rain had been falling for three days straight when my wife finally agreed to see him.
David Park had come highly recommended—word of mouth among those who knew such things. A specialist, my husband called him, though the word felt clinical for what we were discussing. Michael had spent weeks preparing me, slowly introducing the idea like a doctor delivering a difficult diagnosis.
"He's a professional," he said, sitting beside me on our bed that night. "Someone who understands the complexities of what we're dealing with."
I didn't ask what complexities he meant. I think we both knew.
The room smelled faintly of citrus cleaning solution—the kind hotels use to mask other scents. David Park sat in the corner armchair, watching us with an appraising eye. He was younger than I'd expected, perhaps thirty-five, with the calm demeanor of someone who'd seen every possible variation of human distress.
"Mrs. Kim," he said, nodding respectfully. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
I said nothing. My husband squeezed my hand—an old gesture, one that used to mean comfort but now felt more like encouragement.
"Let's begin," David said, standing. "The bloodline hasn't fully awakened yet. This hesitation—this shame you're feeling—it's natural. Don't worry. Just open yourself to the sensation."
His voice was steady, almost hypnotic. I wanted to protest, to walk out, but something held me in place—some combination of exhaustion, curiosity, and the weight of years spent trying to be the wife my husband needed.
"Your husband is right here beside you," David continued. "If you don't cooperate, we'll all look ridiculous."
And just like that, the situation shifted.
Later, I would struggle to remember the precise sequence of events. It felt like waking from a dream, aware of my body but unable to control its responses. I knew something was happening—I could feel it, strange and foreign—but I couldn't bring myself to fully acknowledge it.
My husband's voice, distant: "She seems to be responding."
David's voice, close: "Good. Let it happen."
I wanted to scream, to cry out, but the sounds that escaped were something else entirely—soft, involuntary, nothing like the protests I'd imagined myself making.
A... haa... a...
Quiet. Still quiet. My pride hadn't yet surrendered its final stronghold.
When I finally opened my eyes—how long had they been closed?—the light seemed too bright, the room too real. David Park stood at the foot of the bed, studying me with clinical detachment.
"We're making progress," he said, turning to my husband. "But there's something I need you to understand."
My husband leaned forward, attentive.
"The mind protects itself," David explained. "When faced with overwhelming situations, it creates distance. That's what she's been doing—retreating into herself. It's a defense mechanism."
"And that's... bad?" my husband asked.
"For our purposes, yes. She needs to stay present. To feel everything. Otherwise, we're just going in circles."
He moved closer to the bed. I watched him approach, this stranger who had been touching me, and felt nothing—no shame, no anger, just a strange, hollow numbness.
"I need to try something different," he said. "It may be uncomfortable."
The towel was cool against my skin—damp, deliberate. David wiped something away, and I watched his movements with detached curiosity.
"Just relax," he said, his voice soft. "Be comfortable."
But his words, his actions—they weren't about my comfort. They were about breaking something down. Stripping away the final layer of pretense.
I understood, distantly, what he was doing. He was forcing reality onto me.
Yes. I am lying here. This is real. My husband is watching. This is really happening.
The realization should have brought panic, shame, something. Instead, there was only that hollow numbness, spreading through me like cold water.
Time moved strangely. I don't know how long we stayed like that—the three of us, suspended in some liminal space that felt neither real nor dreamlike. David spoke occasionally, his voice a constant low murmur, but I couldn't parse his words. They washed over me like background noise.
My husband sat in the corner now, watching. I could feel his gaze like a physical weight, but I couldn't bring myself to look at him.
"She seems different," he said at some point.
"She's surrendering," David replied. "That's what we needed."
Surrendering. The word echoed in my mind, absurd and final.
When David finally stood to leave, the light through the window had shifted to afternoon gold.
"We'll continue tomorrow," he said, packing his bag with practiced efficiency. "The treatment was effective—thanks to your cooperation."
My husband nodded, his face unreadable.
"One request," David added, pausing at the door. "Talk to your wife thoroughly tonight. Otherwise, I'll be in a tough spot. If tomorrow starts awkwardly again, I'll have to reassess whether I'm the right fit for this case."
And then he was gone, leaving me alone with my husband in that strange-smelling room.
I don't remember the walk back to our bed. One moment I was lying on that fold-out mattress, and then I was here, under our own blankets, the familiar weight of the duvet somehow feeling foreign against my skin.
My husband stood at the window, his back to me.
"We should talk about what happened," he said, not turning around.
I said nothing. The numbness was still there, protective and thick.
"He says you're making progress," he continued. "That you're responding well."
"I don't remember most of it," I admitted. The words came out flat, disconnected.
He finally turned. His face was strange—not satisfied exactly, but something close to it. "That's probably for the best," he said. "Sometimes not knowing is easier."
I woke before dawn, the clock reading 5 a.m. My husband slept beside me, his breathing slow and even. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the sky was that gray-purple color that comes just before true morning.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how I'd gotten home. The night was a blur—a series of impressions without sequence, sensations without context.
Finally, I got up. The kitchen seemed like the safest place, somewhere normal, somewhere real. I started making French toast, the recipe my mother had taught me, the movements automatic and soothing.
"When did you wake?"
I hadn't heard my husband come in. His voice, behind me, made me tense.
"A little while ago," I said, not turning around.
I felt his arms wrap around my waist, familiar and foreign all at once. "You could have slept more. How do you feel?"
"Hmm. Strangely refreshed. My head feels clear."
Anyone would feel refreshed after that much sleep. But my meaning was different, though I couldn't have explained how.
"He's really good," my husband said. "Lucky we found the right therapist."
I didn't answer. Agreeing wouldn't be like me—and besides, I wasn't sure what I was agreeing to.
We ate breakfast in silence, the French toast growing cold on our plates. My husband watched me with an expression I couldn't read.
"Honey," he said finally.
"Yeah?"
I knew what was coming. I'd seen this conversation approaching for weeks, like a storm front rolling in.
"I want to continue the treatments."
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"David thinks we're making progress. He says you're almost there—almost past whatever's been blocking you."
"I..." I set the fork down. "I don't know if I can do this."
"Why not?"
The question was simple, but the answer was complicated—more complicated than I could explain over cold French toast on a rainy Tuesday morning.
"I just don't know," I said finally. "It doesn't feel right."
"That's not an answer. You need to give me a real reason."
"It's awkward," I whispered. "All of it. It's just... embarrassing."
"What's embarrassing about therapy? It's treatment. Medical."
And then, quieter, something I'd been carrying for years: "And... because of you. I feel... sorry for you."
The words came out broken, my voice trembling. I didn't look up. I couldn't.
My husband was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different—harder.
"Look at me," he said. "Straight in the eyes."
I obeyed, though it hurt.
"One thing," he said. "Just answer this honestly. Truly. Exactly as you feel. Was it good yesterday?"