The Discarded Ex-Wife's Glorious Fragrance Comeback

Seraphina pushed through the heavy glass doors of the airport. A sharp blast of cold autumn wind hit her face. She shivered and pulled her trench coat tighter around herself.

She looked down at the two kids holding her hands. They were completely silent. It was unnerving.

A loud, aggressive screech of tires ripped through the air. A bright red Porsche 911 slammed on its brakes, stopping inches from the curb right in front of them. Pedestrians jumped back, glaring at the car.

The tinted window rolled down. Zara leaned out. She wore massive, oversized sunglasses and a bright red leather jacket.

"Sera!" Zara screamed over the noise of the traffic, waving frantically.

Seraphina felt a genuine smile break across her face. She walked to the car, leaned into the window, and gave her best friend a tight hug.

Zara pulled down her sunglasses. Her eyes dropped to the two kids. Her smile faltered. Her eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

She stared at the boy. Usually, Gideon would be climbing the car door by now, asking about the engine specs. Today, he stood perfectly straight, his hands clasped neatly in front of him, looking like a tiny corporate executive.

She looked at the girl. Silas was usually demanding hugs and candy. Today, she was practically glued to Seraphina's leg, her eyes darting around like a frightened rabbit.

"Did aliens abduct my godkids on the plane?" Zara joked, pointing a manicured finger at them. "Why are they acting like robots?"

Peregrine's stomach dropped. Panic flared in his chest. He realized he was acting completely wrong for whoever this woman expected him to be. He forced his spine to relax. He tried to mimic what he thought a normal kid sounded like.

He cleared his throat. "Hello, Aunt Zara," Peregrine said. His voice was stiff, formal, and completely devoid of emotion.

Zara burst out laughing. She reached out the window to ruffle his hair. "Wow, someone swallowed a dictionary."

Peregrine saw the hand coming. His body reacted on pure instinct. He flinched hard and jerked his head away to avoid the touch.

Seraphina saw the flinch. A spike of worry hit her. Her finely-tuned medical instincts flared instantly. Gideon never shied away from physical contact like that; he was usually the first to demand a hug. She reached her hand out, intending to check his pulse and gauge his body temperature, but the boy took another sharp, defensive step back. His eyes were wide, guarded, and completely unfamiliar. The extreme physical reaction made her freeze. Were they severely traumatized by the sudden turbulence on the flight? Pushing them into a medical examination right now might trigger a full-blown panic attack. She quickly stepped between them and Zara, creating a physical barrier to protect the children. "They're just exhausted, Zara. The jet lag is hitting them hard. Pop the doors. I need to get them settled at the hotel and figure out what is really going on in their heads."

Peregrine stepped back. He opened the heavy car door and stood aside, waiting for Isolde to climb in first. It was a deeply ingrained gentleman's habit.

Zara watched him from the rearview mirror, her mouth slightly open. "Since when does he hold doors?"

The Porsche merged aggressively onto the highway. Zara cranked up the stereo. Heavy, pounding rock music blasted through the small cabin. Zara yelled over the music, updating Seraphina on the hospital situation.

In the backseat, the noise hit Isolde like a physical blow.

Her face drained of all color. She pressed herself deep into the corner of the leather seat. She clamped both hands over her ears, her chest heaving as panic set in.

Peregrine saw his sister breaking down. He unbuckled his seatbelt immediately. He leaned across the seat and clamped his own hands over Isolde's ears, shielding her. He glared at the back of Zara's head, his eyes burning with silent fury.

Seraphina glanced at the rearview mirror. Her heart squeezed painfully.

"Zara, kill the music. Now," Seraphina snapped.

Zara hit the button. The car plunged into sudden silence.

Seraphina twisted around in her seat. She looked at Isolde's pale, terrified face. "Silas, baby, what's wrong? Does your head hurt?"

Isolde kept her mouth clamped shut. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks. She shook her head violently.

Seraphina's medical instincts flared. The real Silas would be complaining loudly. This silence was wrong. She reached her hand back to touch Isolde's cheek.

Isolde shrank away from the hand, burying her face into Peregrine's shoulder. She looked at Seraphina with pure, defensive terror.

Peregrine's heart hammered against his ribs. He had to protect his sister's secret. He couldn't let this woman find out Isolde was mute.

"Her throat hurts," Peregrine lied smoothly, blocking Seraphina's hand with his own arm. "She can't talk. It hurts too much."

Seraphina stared at her son's defensive posture. The unease in her gut grew heavier, her mind rapidly racing through the diagnostic criteria for pediatric psychological trauma. This profound level of withdrawal, combined with the sudden, unnatural mutism in Silas, was deeply alarming. But seeing the dark circles under their eyes and the visible, erratic trembling in the little girl's shoulders, she backed off. Forcing a clinical examination in the back of a moving sports car would only escalate their severe stress response. She had to bide her time. She turned around and stared out the windshield, her mind racing.

Meanwhile, inside the ultra-exclusive VIP lounge at JFK.

Gideon and Silas sat rigidly on a massive, tufted leather sofa. The room was dead silent.

Blackwood walked over and placed a silver tray on the glass table. Two glasses of warm milk and a plate of artisan pastries sat untouched.

Gideon stared at the food with absolute disgust. He crossed his arms over his chest. This guy has terrible taste, he thought.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the lounge were shoved open.

The air pressure in the room seemed to drop instantly. A suffocating, freezing aura flooded the space.

Julian Astor-Vance walked in. His long legs ate up the distance across the carpet. His face was a mask of cold fury. He stopped right in front of the sofa and stared down at the two children.