Chapter Twenty-Three: Shades of Beige and Betrayal

                                        

                                              
I loved studying perfumery. I'd been reading about scent composition for years, testing oils and accords late at night when the house was asleep as a hobby. But now... it was official. Structured. I had modules, assignments, feedback. Chemistry mixed with poetry.
It felt good to know something. To build something that wasn't tied to anyone else—not my parents, not Thomas, not even the kids. Just mine.
Most days I took the online courses from the kitchen table, books spread around me like a tiny empire—notes on aldehydes, jasmine absolutes, fixatives, volatile top notes. The instructor had a sharp Parisian accent and a dry sense of humor. I liked her immediately.
But it wasn't just the theory I loved—it was the lab days. The course partnered with a local workshop downtown, one of those tucked-away places with tile floors, wooden shelves stacked with amber bottles, and the constant, soft hum of low jazz playing from someone's ancient speaker. It smelled like citrus peel and orris root, like someone had bottled an old bookstore and left it to ripen in the sun.
The first time I stepped inside, I nearly cried. It was like walking into something I'd been building in my head for years—but real. Tangible. Mine.
I'd lost track of how many trial scents I'd mixed. I had one that reminded me of Lola's hair when she's just out of the bath. Another that smelled like late summer after rain. Another still, sharp and resinous, that made me think of the moment before a kiss.
And now... I was thinking of turning it into more than a dream. I had savings of my own and of course, there was the house. And the money in the bank Thomas made sure was fully in my name after everything exploded. Legally, financially—I wasn't going to drown.
But I didn't want comfort just for the sake of comfort.
I wanted work. I wanted independence.
And the idea of a shop—a real one, with warm light, soft chairs for customers, shelves filled with scents I'd created myself—felt less like fantasy and more like something waiting for me to catch up.
Thomas had mentioned the other night that the company's valuation had dropped since his father's scandal. "Market confidence is shot," he said, resting his head in his hands. "We're solvent, but brand equity's taken a hit. There are analysts working on repositioning, but it's going to take time."
I didn't flinch when he said it. The old me might have panicked at the words valuation, solvent, repositioning, like money was this fragile thing that could snap under our feet. But now—I didn't feel like I was hanging by his rope anymore. I had my own. And I was going to follow it all the way to something beautiful. 
As usual, I called August to meet at the gym. The moment I stepped inside, her head snapped up, and she burst out laughing. "Only you," she said, shaking her head, "would walk into a gym smelling like a perfume ad. Like—who does that? Who comes here smelling expensive?"
She was already there, sitting on one of the mats with her knees hugged to her chest, scrolling through her phone like she owned the place.
I grinned, dropping my bag next to hers. "What can I say? I have a brand to maintain."
"Oh, I know. 'Tragic but smells divine.' Very niche. Very high fashion."
I nudged her foot with mine. "Rude. Hey."
"Hey yourself."
I sat down beside her, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Honestly, I feel like I'm here more for emotional damage control than fitness these days."