Jasmine Trauma and Divorce

Six months of meticulous work had finally paid off. I stepped back from the easel, my eyes tired but filled with satisfaction as I examined "The Merchant's Wife." The 18th-century painting had been severely damaged by water, the colors bleeding across the canvas like tears. Now, after countless hours of careful restoration, the merchant's wife gazed out at me with the same serene expression she'd worn centuries ago.

"It's perfect, Cassandra," said Mei, my studio partner, peering over my shoulder. "The National Museum is going to be thrilled."

I smiled, running my fingers lightly over the frame. "It feels like bringing someone back to life."

My phone buzzed with a reminder: the celebration dinner was tonight. Victoria Sterling, the museum director, had insisted on hosting an exclusive event to mark the restoration's completion. My work would be featured in their winter exhibition—a career milestone I'd dreamed of since graduate school.

I gathered my things quickly, eager to share the news with Drew. He'd been distant lately, but surely this achievement would make him proud.

"Drew?" I called as I pushed open our front door. "The restoration is finished! The museum wants to feature it in their winter exhibition!"

He was sprawled on the couch, his attention fixed on his phone. He glanced up briefly, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"That's great, honey." He returned to his screen immediately, thumbs tapping rapidly.

I set my bag down, noticing the slight tightening in my chest. "I thought we could celebrate. There's a dinner tonight at the Westwood Gallery."

Drew's fingers paused over the keyboard. "Tonight?"

"Yes, I mentioned it last week." I kept my voice light, though disappointment was already settling in my stomach. "Victoria Sterling is hosting. Several collectors will be there."

He sighed, finally setting his phone down. "I'll be there. I just... hope everyone can be civil."

Something in his tone made me pause. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing." He stood, kissing my cheek distractedly. "We should get ready soon."

---

The private dining room at Westwood Gallery gleamed with candlelight. I smoothed my navy dress—a splurge I'd allowed myself for tonight—and chatted with colleagues while waiting for Drew.

"He's here," whispered Mei, nodding toward the entrance.

My smile faltered as I saw Drew enter with Nevaeh clinging to his arm. Her jasmine perfume arrived before she did, making my throat tighten instinctively.

"I invited myself," Nevaeh announced loudly as they approached our table. "Family should stick together at important events, shouldn't they?"

Drew's hand rested on her waist as he helped her into a chair. "Nevaeh insisted on coming to support you."

I nodded stiffly, trying to focus on the conversation around me rather than the cloying scent of jasmine.

Victoria raised her glass for a toast. "To Cassandra Howard, whose remarkable skill has brought 'The Merchant's Wife' back to life."

Glasses clinked as Drew slipped away, returning moments later with a special cocktail.

"I ordered this for you," he said, placing it before me. "Something to make tonight extra special."

The drink was a pale green, topped with delicate white flowers floating on the surface. The familiar, sickly-sweet scent hit me immediately.

Jasmine.

My lungs constricted as if I'd been underwater. The room tilted slightly as memories flooded back—my mother's empty closet, my father's dismissive tone, the woman with jasmine perfume lingering on her skin.

"Cassandra?" Someone touched my arm.

I looked up to see Nevaeh watching me, her lips curved in a satisfied smile.

"Oh my," she said loudly. "Is our little artist having another episode? Everyone, Cassandra has these ridiculous issues with flowers. We really should be more understanding of her... childhood drama."

Laughter rippled around the table. My hands trembled as I pushed the glass away.

"Drew," I whispered, "you know I can't—"

"You're overreacting," he cut in, his voice low but firm. "It's just a drink."

He placed his hand on Nevaeh's shoulder, squeezing gently. "Don't worry about it."

Across the table, Lincoln Shaw's gaze met mine briefly, his expression concerned as he noticed the untouched cocktail and Nevaeh's smirk.

---

"You forgot." My voice was hollow as I stood in our bedroom that night. "After three years of marriage, you forgot about jasmine."

Drew ran his hands through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "It was an honest mistake. The bartender probably just—"

"You specifically ordered it," I interrupted. "You told me you arranged something special."

"You're being too sensitive." He paced the room, his reflection distorted in the dresser mirror. "Nevaeh was just joking. You embarrassed everyone by making such a scene."

"A scene?" The word felt foreign on my tongue. "You deliberately triggered my trauma and then defended her mockery."

"I need some air." Drew grabbed his jacket from the closet. "We can talk when you're thinking clearly."

The front door slammed behind him, leaving me alone in our bedroom. My fingers found the silver locket around my neck—my mother's last gift before she left.

As I touched it, a terrible realization washed over me: this betrayal felt horrifyingly familiar. Just like my father's dismissal of my pain years ago, Drew had chosen someone else's comfort over mine.

And just like then, I was left alone with the scent of jasmine lingering in the air.