Jasmine Trauma and Divorce

Three days had passed since the dinner incident. Three days of Drew barely coming home, offering flimsy excuses about work emergencies and late meetings. I'd stopped asking for details. The hurt had settled into a dull ache in my chest, a constant companion as I threw myself into my next project.

"The Renaissance panel arrived this morning," Mei announced as I entered the studio. "It's in worse shape than the photos suggested."

I pulled on my gloves, grateful for the distraction. The altarpiece panel had suffered centuries of neglect—cracked varnish, faded pigments, and a nasty tear through the Madonna's face.

"It's perfect," I murmured, running my fingers lightly over the damaged surface. "Sometimes what's broken can become more beautiful when restored."

My phone rang just as I was documenting the initial damage. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar number.

"Cassandra Howard speaking."

"Ms. Howard, this is Eleanor Winters from the Hartman Gallery." The voice was crisp, professional. "We were thoroughly impressed by your restoration of 'The Merchant's Wife.' We're curating a special exhibition on restoration art and would like to feature your work."

My heart skipped. The Hartman was one of the most prestigious galleries in the city.

"That's... I'm honored, Ms. Winters."

"We'd like to showcase your process—before and after images, your techniques, perhaps even a live demonstration."

I thanked her, ending the call with trembling fingers. This could change everything—my own exhibition, recognition in my field, financial independence.

I couldn't wait to tell Drew.

---

"Another exhibition?" Drew frowned at his phone, barely looking up as I set the dinner on the table. "That sounds time-consuming."

"It's a huge opportunity," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "The Hartman doesn't usually feature restoration work."

He sighed, finally putting his phone down. "I'm sure it is. But you've been so busy lately, and Nevaeh's really struggling with her art career right now."

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. "Nevaeh's career is not my responsibility."

"She needs support, Cassandra." His tone hardened. "She's going through a really hard time."

"Harder than me finding success?" The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Drew's jaw tightened. "That's not fair. You're already established."

"Because I've worked for it," I said quietly.

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. "I need to go. Nevaeh's waiting."

"Drew—"

"I'll be back later." He was already at the door, keys in hand.

I watched him leave, the jasmine scent lingering in the hallway like a ghost.

---

My birthday dawned gray and cold. I woke alone, reaching instinctively for Drew's side of the bed. Empty.

My phone lit up with a message: *Sorry, Cass. Something urgent came up with a client. Raincheck?*

No mention of my birthday. No apology for forgetting.

I swallowed hard and got up. At least I had the Renaissance panel waiting at the museum.

"Cassandra." Lincoln's voice was warm as I entered the conservation lab. "How are you today?"

"Fine," I lied, setting down my tools.

He adjusted his glasses, studying me with those perceptive eyes. "Your birthday, isn't it?"

I blinked in surprise. "How did you—"

"You mentioned it once, last year. Said your mother always made pancakes on your birthday."

The memory stung. "That's right."

Lincoln hesitated. "Everything alright at home?"

"Perfect," I said automatically. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." He turned to the panel. "Just thought you might want to talk about this section here..."

---

The house was dark when I returned that evening. No birthday dinner, no Drew.

At eleven, the doorbell rang. A courier stood there with a large wrapped package.

"Delivery for Cassandra Howard," he said cheerfully.

I carried it inside, heart pounding despite everything. Maybe Drew had arranged something special after all.

I unwrapped it carefully.

Inside was a framed reproduction of "Beyond"—my award-winning restoration piece from two years ago. Except someone had digitally altered it, adding sprays of jasmine flowers throughout the composition.

A small card was tucked into the corner: *To help you move beyond your limitations. - D.*

My legs gave way as I sank to the floor, tears blurring the defaced image of my work.

This wasn't forgetfulness or ignorance. This was deliberate cruelty.

---

At two in the morning, sleep eluded me. I needed my laptop for tomorrow's presentation. I remembered leaving it in Drew's car.

The garage was silent as I slipped inside, the concrete cold beneath my bare feet.

I pulled open the car door—and froze.

Jasmine. Overwhelming, suffocating jasmine.

A jasmine-scented air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, still new enough to be dripping with artificial fragrance.

My fingers trembled as I reached for the glove compartment, searching for my laptop.

Instead, I found photos.

Dozens of them.

Drew and Nevaeh at restaurants, their heads close together.

Nevaeh leaning against Drew's chest on a beach, her arms around his neck.

Their hands intertwined, showing matching bracelets woven with dried jasmine flowers.

Beneath them, a jewelry receipt: "Two custom jasmine blossom bracelets. Date: two months ago."

I sat in the dark garage, photos scattered across my lap, the jasmine scent burning my lungs.

There was no more denying it.

Drew wasn't just forgetting our boundaries.

He was deliberately crossing them.