From Discarded Wife To Scent Queen

Jenna Jarvis POV

The hospital ceiling was a grid of white tiles, a sterile abacus counting down minutes of a life I felt slipping through my fingers.

I tried to swallow, but my throat seized; it felt as though I had swallowed a handful of razor blades.

I had driven myself to the ER-or rather, I had stumbled into a cab, rasped the address, and collapsed in the backseat before the driver could even ask if I was okay.

I woke up alone.

There were no flowers. No husband pacing the floor. Just the rhythmic, indifferent beep of the cardiac monitor.

I reached for the phone on the bedside table, my movements sluggish. My fingers were bruised from where the IV had been inserted previously.

I dialed Corbett.

It rang four times.

"Hello?"

It wasn't Corbett.

"Ivana," I croaked. My voice was a wreck, a jagged ruin of sound.

"Oh, Jenna," she purred. "Corbett is in the shower. He's so stressed. You really shouldn't have caused such a scene over a cookie. It was very dramatic."

"Put him on," I whispered, gripping the plastic receiver until my knuckles turned white.

"He's busy," she said, dismissively. "We have a meeting with the florist. For the gala. You know how important appearances are."

She hung up.

I stared at the phone, listening to the dial tone hum like a flatline.

Rage is usually described as hot, like fire. But this rage was cold. It was absolute zero, freezing the tears in my ducts before they could fall.

I ripped the IV out of my arm. A sharp sting was followed by a warm trickle as blood dripped onto the pristine white sheets, blooming like a stark red poppy.

I didn't care.

I dressed in my ruined clothes and walked out of the room, using the wall for support.

"Ma'am, you can't leave! You're Against Medical Advice!" a nurse called out from the station, half-rising from her chair.

"I'm saving my own life," I rasped, and kept walking without looking back.

I took a cab back to the penthouse.

When I entered, the air smelled overwhelmingly of lilies-the scent of funerals.

Corbett was in the living room, arranging a massive bouquet of white lilies in a crystal vase. He looked the picture of the grieving husband, minus the grief.

He looked up, startled. "Jenna? The hospital said you left."

"I did."

He rushed over, trying to hug me. I stepped back, putting a clear three feet of distance between us.

"Don't," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking pained, though whether it was guilt or inconvenience, I couldn't tell. "I didn't know it was almond. The box said pistachio. It was a mistake."

"Leaving me on the floor wasn't a mistake, Corbett. It was a choice."

He flinched. "Ivana was hysterical. I thought you had your pen. I knew you could handle it. You're strong, Jenna. She's... she's not."

"I'm strong because I have to be," I said, my voice gaining a steely edge. "Because my husband is weak."

His face hardened. "Watch your mouth."

"I want a divorce."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Corbett laughed. It was a dry, incredulous sound. "You can't divorce me. We are married. You are a Ewing. Nobody leaves."

"Watch me."

"Jenna, stop this," he said, his voice lowering into that reasonable tone he used to manipulate board members. "I'm trying to make it up to you. Look at the flowers. And... I have a solution for the studio issue."

My stomach dropped. "What solution?"

"Ivana needs a space," he said. "For her art therapy. Her therapist suggested it."

"And?"

"And your studio has the best light."

"No," I said, panic fluttering in my chest. "That is my work. My equipment. My father's organ."

"You packed it all up anyway," he said, gesturing to the empty shelves. "I saw the boxes were gone. You don't need the furniture."

"The perfume organ is an antique. It's built into the wall. You can't move it."

"I hired specialists," he said.

A loud thud came from down the hall.

I ran.

I ran past him, down the corridor, to my sanctuary.

Two men in blue jumpsuits were wrestling the massive oak workbench-the organ where my father had taught me how to blend jasmine and cedar-through the doorframe.

Wood splintered.

A deep gouge appeared on the side of the desk, exposing the raw, pale wood beneath the varnish.

"Stop!" I screamed, grabbing the arm of one of the movers. "Put it down!"

"Mrs. Ewing, please," the man said, looking nervous. "Mr. Ewing gave the order."

I turned to Corbett, who had followed me at a leisurely pace.

"Tell them to stop," I begged. My pride was gone. This was my soul they were dragging across the floor. "Corbett, please. It's all I have left of him."

Corbett looked at the desk, then at the empty room that would soon be filled with Ivana's chaotic, amateurish paints.

"It's just furniture, Jenna," he said softly. "Ivana needs this. Let it go."

He signaled the men.

They heaved. The leg of the desk caught on the doorframe and snapped with a sickening crack.

It sounded like a bone breaking.

I didn't scream.

I just stood there, watching my heritage being hauled away to the trash, while my husband supervised the demolition of my heart.