Jasmine Trauma and Divorce

Morning light filtered through the blinds as I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the business card in my hand. Margaret Chen, Attorney at Law. Mei had slipped it to me yesterday, her eyes full of concern.

"You need someone who can help you," she'd said quietly. "Someone who understands what you're going through."

I traced my finger over the embossed letters, then picked up my phone.

---

Margaret Chen's office occupied the thirty-second floor of a downtown high-rise. The receptionist led me to a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.

"Ms. Howard." Margaret rose from behind her desk, extending her hand. She was shorter than I expected, with sharp eyes that missed nothing. "Please, have a seat."

I sat down, clutching my portfolio case like a shield.

"I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice," I said.

"Time is often of the essence in these matters." She folded her hands on the desk. "Tell me why you're here."

I opened the case with trembling fingers. "I want a divorce."

The words hung in the air between us, strangely liberating.

I laid out the evidence one by one: the photos of Drew and Nevaeh, the defaced print of my artwork, the jasmine-scented air freshener.

"He's been deliberately triggering my trauma," I explained, my voice growing stronger. "The scent of jasmine... it's connected to my mother leaving when I was ten. He knew that when we married."

Margaret examined each item methodically. "And these photos?"

"I found them in his car three days ago." I swallowed hard. "Along with receipts for matching jasmine bracelets."

She nodded, making notes in a leather-bound notebook. "What about assets? Property?"

"We own our house together. He has a commercial real estate development company." I hesitated. "I don't know much about the business side of things."

"That's perfectly normal." She looked up, her gaze direct. "Document everything, Ms. Howard. Text messages, emails, instances where he's violated your boundaries. When we serve him papers, he's likely to become difficult."

I nodded, a strange calm settling over me.

---

Three days later, I was working on the Renaissance panel when the room began to spin. The colors blurred together, the studio lights suddenly too bright.

"Cassandra?" Mei's voice sounded distant.

I tried to respond, but my lungs refused to fill. The panel slipped from my hands as darkness closed in.

---

Beeping machines greeted me when I opened my eyes. White ceiling. Antiseptic smell. Hospital.

"Hey, you're awake." Mei squeezed my hand. "You scared us half to death."

"What happened?" My voice was a rasp.

"Your heart rate spiked. They thought you were having a cardiac event." She brushed hair from my forehead. "But it was a panic attack. Severe one, apparently."

Hours passed. Nurses came and went. Doctors explained what had happened—accumulated stress, lack of sleep, emotional trauma.

Where was Drew?

Three hours after I regained consciousness, the door to my room burst open.

Drew rushed in, but he wasn't alone.

Nevaeh was in his arms, her face a mask of distress as he carried her toward a chair.

"I came as soon as I could," he said, not looking at me as he set Nevaeh down. "Nevaeh twisted her ankle rushing to get here."

She leaned dramatically against him, her jasmine perfume wafting across the room.

"The doctor said it's just a sprain," she said, her voice breathy with concern. "But it hurts so much."

Drew fussed over her ankle, his attention completely absorbed.

A nurse cleared her throat pointedly. "Excuse me, but the patient's husband should be with the patient right now."

Drew glanced up, as if just remembering I was there.

He approached my bed reluctantly, phone in hand.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, already glancing back at Nevaeh.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," I murmured.

His phone buzzed. He checked it immediately.

The doctor entered, explaining that my panic attack was stress-induced.

"Maybe she's working too hard," Drew suggested, not looking up from his phone. "She should take a break from these demanding restoration projects."

I watched him through the haze of sedatives, seeing clearly for the first time.

He had chosen.

---

Elena's guest room became my sanctuary for the next few days. I couldn't face returning to the house I shared with Drew.

The doorbell rang on the third afternoon.

"I'll get it!" Elena called from the kitchen.

I heard a familiar voice in the hallway.

"Cassandra? It's Lincoln Shaw. I heard you were unwell."

Elena showed him to the garden where I sat wrapped in a blanket, despite the spring warmth.

"I brought you something." He set down a small bag. "Your favorite jasmine-free tea. And this."

He handed me a leather-bound book. "A rare text on Renaissance restoration techniques. I thought it might take your mind off things."

We sat in comfortable silence until he finally spoke.

"Would you like to talk about what happened?"

And for the first time, I told someone everything—about my mother, the jasmine, Drew's betrayal.

Lincoln listened without judgment, his eyes thoughtful behind his glasses.

When I finished, he removed his glasses, wiping them slowly.

"I lost my wife three years ago," he said quietly. "Sudden illness. One day she was there, the next..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

"The healing takes time," he continued. "But there's always beauty waiting to be restored."

He hesitated, then added, "The National Museum is expanding our restoration department. We need a lead restorer."

My breath caught.

"No pressure," he said quickly. "But if you're interested, I'd be honored to recommend you."

As he left, I watched his figure disappear down Elena's garden path, feeling something unfamiliar stir within me.

Hope.