His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Perfumer

Breanna's hand closed around the pen before her mind could catch up. She hurled it. The Montblanc struck his chest, ink exploding across his white shirt in vicious, jagged streaks. Hartwell didn't even flinch. He glanced down at the stain, then back at her, brushing at the fabric with the same irritation he'd show a speck of dust. "Tell me!" Her voice shattered, then reforged itself in rage. "Look at me and tell me there's no one else." He straightened, pressing his palms flat to the desk and leaning forward. Close enough that she could smell whiskey on his breath, close enough to see the red veins webbing his eyes-marks of sleepless nights she knew nothing about. "Are you quite finished?" "You weren't always this shrill," he said, his tone flat and cold. "Once you had ambition, you had ability. Now all you carry is resentment, cooking grease, and the desperation of a woman who has nothing but her husband. You smell like a cage. Like suffocation." Breanna's ears rang. She heard each word, recognized them individually, but could not piece them into sense. She stepped back, and back again, until the bookshelf halted her retreat. "I gave up everything for you," she whispered. "You didn't give up-you surrendered everything. There's a difference." He circled around the desk, pacing, never touching her, not once, his hands buried deep in his pockets where she couldn't see them. "I never asked for your sacrifice. I never wanted a housewife. I wanted a partner. An equal. What I got was a dependent who uses her own choices as weapons against me. I'm exhausted. It's over." Pain seized her chest-a dull, physical weight that made her wonder if she was having a heart attack at thirty-one. She pressed her palm to her sternum, feeling her heartbeat stutter and falter. The man before her had Hartwell's face, his voice, the familiar set of his shoulders when he was angry. But his eyes were wrong-empty, vacant, looking at her as if she were old furniture he planned to discard. His right hand twitched in his pocket. She saw the fabric tighten, the unmistakable tension of fingers curling into a fist, nails digging into his palm. "I want you out of the study," he said. "Sign the papers by morning, or I'll have security remove you. This isn't a discussion. It's an order." He walked past her. The door opened, then closed. The click of the latch echoed sharply in the sudden silence. Breanna slid down the bookshelf to the floor, legs splayed, the torn divorce settlement scattered around her like fallen leaves. She lifted her arm to her nose and inhaled sharply, searching for the scents he'd named-cooking oil, resentment, despair. But all she smelled was her own faint, floral soap, weak, thin, worthless. Outside, thunder rolled over Manhattan, and the rain began to pour again.