The hidden perfume house sat behind an unassuming black door in the old quarter of the city. At exactly 11 PM, I stepped inside, my portfolio clutched tightly in my hands. The air hit me first — a complex symphony of rare woods, blooming night flowers, and something darker, almost animalistic.Damien Blackthorn waited for me in the central blending room, surrounded by hundreds of crystal vials and antique brass scales. At thirty-six, he was tall and commanding, with sharp features, midnight hair, and eyes the color of aged bourbon. He wore a tailored black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms marked with faint chemical stains.“Miss Evelyn Rose,” he said, his voice smooth and deep. “The perfumer with the extraordinary nose. I’ve read your papers on pheromone detection. Impressive.”I swallowed, trying to stay professional. “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Blackthorn. Your house creates scents no one else can replicate.”He smiled faintly and gestured to a v
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