His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Perfumer

They agreed to meet at the café.

Pushing open the door, Breanna saw that Colton had already arrived.

"Mrs. Rogers."

No pleasantries. Breanna asked directly, "Paris. Three months. What did he do?"

Colton's smile was professional. "Mr. Rogers was conducting business."

"Don't lie to me." She leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "What I want to know is what happened in Paris that turned my husband into a stranger."

Colton's mouth opened, then closed. His surprise was genuine, she realized. Hartwell hadn't told him.

"He..." Colton recovered, poorly. "He was working. Intensely. Four hours of sleep, sometimes less. I don't think he-"

"Had time for an affair?" Breanna pressed her advantage, watching him flinch. "Is that what you're trying not to say? That he was too busy to cheat?"

"No! I mean-" Colton's hands rose, defensive. "There was no one. No women. No men. Nothing. He worked, he ate room service, he-" He stopped, caught himself, but too late.

"What?"

"Nothing. I shouldn't-"

"Colton." She made her voice low, dangerous. "I will find out. With your help or without it. But if you make me dig, I'll make sure Hartwell knows you obstructed me. How long do you think you'll keep your job then?"

His throat worked. He reached for his coffee, drank, set it down with a hand that shook slightly.

"He watched videos," Colton said. "Every night. In his suite at the Bristol. I'd bring him files, and he'd be sitting there with his laptop, and-" He met her eyes, miserable. "Security footage. From the old studio. The one on Twenty-Third Street. Before you... before you stopped working."

Breanna's breath stopped. "What footage?"

"You. Working. From three years ago." Colton's voice dropped to a whisper, conscious of the public space, the impossibility of his betrayal. "He'd watch you mixing compounds, testing samples, the way you used to... He'd watch for hours. Sometimes all night. And his face-" Colton shook his head. "I've never seen him like that. Like he was mourning something."

The information didn't fit. It refused to integrate with the man who'd called her boring, who'd threatened her with bankruptcy, who'd-

"Why?"

"I don't know. I swear I don't. He never explained." Colton's phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up.

Hartwell Rogers.

Colton's hand shot out, silencing the device.

She looked at the flashing name, at the assistant who knew too much and understood nothing, at the pieces of a puzzle that refused to form a picture.

"Who else?" she asked. "In Paris. Who did he see?"