From Discarded Wife To Scent Queen

Jenna Jarvis POV

The movers left a trail of sawdust and scratches on the hardwood floor, jagged scars that mirrored the ones inside me.

I stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister as I watched the heavy oak desk disappear into the freight elevator.

Ivana stood at the bottom, wearing a smirk that could cut glass.

She caught my eye and winked.

It wasn't about the room. It wasn't about the light.

It was about taking.

She wanted to hollow me out until I was nothing but a shell, a husk, just so she could step inside and wear my life like a coat.

Corbett wouldn't look at me. He turned his back, feigning intense interest in a painting on the wall, his shoulders slumped in that familiar posture of cowardice.

That night, he came into our bed.

He lay on the edge, his back to me. The distance between us was only inches, but it felt like an ocean of ice.

"She's happy now," he whispered into the dark, his voice strained. "This is the last thing, Jenna. I promise. Once she settles in, things will go back to normal."

I didn't answer.

Normal was a myth. Normal was dead.

The next morning, I found them in the dining room.

Ivana was spreading sketches across the table, deliberately covering my breakfast setting.

"I'm thinking of painting the walls black," she said, biting into a piece of toast that had been on my plate. "To reflect my inner turmoil."

She saw me and smiled, though the expression didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, Jenna. Good morning. I have something to tell you."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"I was moving some of those old boxes you left in the closet," she said breezily. "To make room for my easels."

"I moved all my boxes," I said.

"Not the small one," she said. "The one with the little crystal bottle. It was wrapped in velvet."

My heart stopped.

The 1928 Guerlain Djedi. My father's most prized possession. The last sealed bottle in existence. He had saved it for my wedding day, but I had never opened it because marrying Corbett felt like a funeral.

"Where is it?" I asked, my voice trembling.

"Oops," she said.

I didn't wait.

I sprinted to the guest room-my old studio.

The smell hit me before I even crossed the threshold.

Dry, animalic, somber. The scent of ancient grief.

The bottle lay shattered on the floor near the window. The dark amber liquid was soaking into the pristine white carpet, a stain that looked like dried blood.

"No," I whimpered.

I fell to my knees.

I reached for the shards, desperate to scoop up the liquid, to save even a drop of my father's memory.

The glass sliced into my palms.

I didn't feel the pain. I only felt the loss.

"It slipped," Ivana said from the doorway. Her voice was flat, bored.

I turned on her, my hands dripping with blood and perfume.

"You threw it!" I screamed. "You did this on purpose! You monster!"

Corbett stepped in front of her, shielding her from me.

"Jenna! Look at yourself!" he shouted. "You're bleeding all over the carpet!"

"She broke it!" I sobbed, holding up my lacerated hands. "It was my father's! She knew!"

"It was an accident!" Corbett yelled back. "Why do you always have to villainize her? She was trying to clean up!"

He looked at my bleeding hands with disgust, not concern.

"You're hysterical," he said. "Go clean yourself up. You're scaring her."

I looked at him.

He was standing over the wreckage of my father's legacy, protecting the woman who destroyed it.

He wasn't just weak. He was complicit.

I stood up.

I wiped my bloody hands on my jeans, leaving dark, crimson streaks against the denim.

The scent of Djedi was overwhelming, a funeral shroud wrapping around us.

"You're right," I said, my voice suddenly calm, terrifyingly steady. "I am scaring her. But not nearly enough."