From Discarded Wife To Scent Queen

Jenna Jarvis POV

Silence is usually a luxury in New York, but in the penthouse, it felt like a shroud.

Corbett had rushed Ivana to the emergency room at 3:00 AM because her "panic attack" had escalated into hyperventilation the moment I refused to grovel further.

He didn't ask me to come.

He didn't look back.

Now, sunlight was bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the museum I lived in.

Beige sofas. Beige walls. Abstract art that meant nothing-canvas voids devoid of soul.

It was Ivana's taste. Corbett had let her "redecorate" six months into our marriage because she said the colors soothed her trauma.

I walked into the master bedroom.

The bed was unmade. Ivana's pillow was still on the chaise, indented from her head.

I picked it up. It smelled of her perfume-a cheap, floral scent that failed to mask the underlying odor of decay she seemed to carry in her pores.

I threw it on the floor.

Corbett had told me to "clean up my act."

He told me to get rid of the "clutter" in my studio because the smell of the essential oils was bothering Ivana.

I walked to my studio down the hall.

Rows of amber bottles lined the shelves. My father's legacy.

Sandalwood from Mysore. Rose from Grasse. Oud from a supplier who had been dead for ten years.

These weren't just smells. They were memories. They were currency.

I didn't throw them away.

I began to pack.

I wrapped each bottle in velvet, placing them into nondescript cardboard boxes.

I wasn't cleaning up. I was extracting the only valuable thing left in this marriage: myself.

My phone buzzed. A notification from a gossip site.

Underboss Corbett Ewing Spotted at Le Petit Chou with Mystery Blonde. Comforting the Grieving Family?

I clicked the link.

The photo was timestamped an hour ago.

They weren't at the hospital.

They were at a high-end patisserie on the Upper East Side.

Corbett was feeding Ivana a macaron. His hand was cupping her jaw.

He looked devoted. He looked like a husband. Just not mine.

I felt a crack in my chest, a physical fracture running deep through the bone.

I called the butler, heavy boxes in my arms.

"Take these to the loading dock," I said. "Donation pickup."

It wasn't a donation. My contact from the Solomon family would be there in ten minutes.

By the time Corbett returned, the studio was bare.

He walked in, looking exhausted but self-righteous.

I was in the living room, standing over the incinerator chute in the utility closet.

I held a black trash bag.

"Where is Ivana?" I asked.

"She's resting in the guest wing," he said, loosening his tie. "The doctor said she needs absolute quiet. You were cruel last night, Jenna."

"I saw the photos," I said. "The macarons looked delicious."

He stiffened. "She needed sugar. Her blood pressure dropped."

"Feeding her by hand restores blood pressure? I must have missed that in medical school."

He glared at me. "Stop it. Stop being so jealous of a broken woman."

He noticed the bag in my hand. "What is that?"

"Our honeymoon albums," I said. "And the wedding video."

His eyes widened. "Jenna, don't be dramatic."

"You asked me to clean up the clutter," I said. "I'm removing the things that no longer exist."

I opened the chute. The metal clanged.

"Jenna, stop!"

I dropped the bag.

It vanished into the dark throat of the building.

Corbett stared at the empty space, his jaw working. "We will talk about this later. Right now, I need peace."

He walked to the kitchen counter and picked up a small white box.

"I brought you some," he said, his tone shifting, trying to pivot back to the benevolent provider. "Pistachio. Your favorite."

He held out a green macaron.

It was a peace offering. A bribe.

"Did she apologize?" I asked. "For accusing me of strangling her?"

Corbett sighed, rubbing his temples. "She doesn't remember saying it. She was in a fugue state. You have to be the bigger person, Jenna."

"I'm tired of being the bigger person, Corbett. I'm shrinking."

"Just eat the damn cookie," he said, thrusting it at me. "I'm trying here."

I looked at him. I looked at the cookie.

If I refused, we would fight for hours. If I ate it, maybe he would leave me alone long enough to finalize my exit.

I took the macaron. I took a bite.

The taste hit my tongue instantly.

Sweet. Nutty.

And then, bitter.

My throat seized. It felt like someone had wrapped a barbed wire noose around my windpipe and yanked.

Almond paste.

I was deathly allergic to almonds. Corbett knew this. He used to carry my EpiPen in his suit pocket on our first dates.

I dropped the cookie. I clawed at my throat.

"Jenna?" Corbett frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Al...mond..." I wheezed, falling to my knees. The room began to spin. Black spots danced in my vision.

"It's pistachio," he said, confused. "I ordered pistachio."

Suddenly, a scream ripped from the guest wing.

"Corbett! They're posting hateful comments about me! Help!"

Ivana.

I was gasping for air, my lungs turning to stone. I reached out a hand toward him, grabbing his pant leg.

Help me.

Corbett looked down at me, then toward the hallway where Ivana was screaming about Instagram comments.

He hesitated.

For one second, he looked at his dying wife.

Then he pulled his leg away from my grasp.

"I'll be right back," he said. "Where is your pen? Just... use your pen."

He turned and ran toward the guest wing.

He ran toward the noise.

I lay on the floor, my vision tunneling.

He left me.

He left me dying on the floor to comfort a woman upset about cyberbullying.

I dragged myself across the carpet, my fingernails breaking against the floor.

My purse. The kitchen counter.

I couldn't breathe. My heart was hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.

I reached up, my hand shaking violently, and tipped my bag over.

Lipstick. Keys.

The yellow cap of the EpiPen.

I grabbed it. I didn't have the strength to check the dosage.

I swung my arm and stabbed the needle into my thigh, right through my jeans.

The click was the only sound in the room.

The adrenaline hit my system like a freight train.

I gasped, a horrible, ragged sucking of air.

I lay there, shaking, tears streaming down my face, listening to Corbett in the other room soothing Ivana.

"Shh, don't cry. It's just the internet. I'll have the accounts banned."

He was protecting her feelings while I fought to keep my heart beating.

I closed my eyes, and the last thread of love I had for Corbett Ewing snapped.