The Pampering She Deserves

Nicole dragged herself through the door at some ungodly hour, eyes heavy, shoulders carrying the weight of her new title. Candles flickered. Wine breathed on the table. A trail of rose petals led from the kitchen to the living room, where Olive had left a framed note: "Proud of you, baby." The bedroom door was cracked. Nicole pushed it open and the air hit her like warm lavender and eucalyptus. The massage table stood dressed in crisp white linen, oil bottles lined up like soldiers, and right beside it—Olive sprawled across their bed, mouth open, snoring softly in her silk slip.