My husband, tech giant Ethan Vance, suffered from chronic insomnia. His only solace was a custom fragrance I blended for him, derived from the rare "Moonlight Orchids" I cultivated myself.

At the charity dinner for our seventh wedding anniversary, his childhood sweetheart, Chloe Bennet, poured a bucket of industrial cleaner into my orchid greenhouse.

I fell to my knees, screaming and crying, desperately trying to save them. She covered her mouth, her eyes wide with feigned innocence as she apologized.

"Oh my God, Ava, I had no idea you made the fragrance from these. I just thought they were pretty decorations!"

Ethan gently held the frightened Chloe. To stop me from "making a scene," he shoved me violently to the ground.

My wrist slammed against a steel frame, and a sickening crack echoed the shattering of bone. The first thing I did was contact a lawyer to file for divorce.

A month later, late one night, my ex-husband, gaunt and tormented by insomnia, gazed at the skeletal remains of the glass greenhouse.

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1

After a seven-day standoff, Ethan Vance finally came home.

The dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced they looked like twin bruises.

"Don't you think it's time to make a new batch of fragrance oil?"

Because of his severe PTSD, the only thing that could lull him to sleep was the unique fragrance I blended from my "Moonlight Orchids."

I scrolled through my phone, answering him without looking up.

"I'm not feeling particularly inspired lately."

I wasn't in the mood. The orchids, the source of the fragrance, were in the greenhouse at our Connecticut estate, and the weekly, hours-long drives to meticulously care for them were draining.

"Chloe didn't do it on purpose. You need to know when to stop. Don't make a big deal out of nothing."

As he spoke, he pulled a bottle of Macallan from the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass.

During our cold war, hard liquor—a remedy Chloe had suggested—had become his new sleep aid.

The man added a sphere of ice to his crystal glass and glanced at me.

"Chloe didn't know how much that greenhouse meant to you. To make it up to you, she found a top-tier perfume laboratory."

"I've already arranged for an investment. The ownership will be transferred to your name. Let's just let this go."

The irony was laughable: using our joint assets to fund an investment as an "apology" to me, on behalf of his mistress.

Truly, Husband of the Year.

"Great. Be sure to thank Mr. Vance's girlfriend for me."

His mask of indifference finally cracked, his eyes flashing with impatience.

"Ava Hayes, can you do anything besides be jealous?"

I met his gaze calmly.

"I can also sign divorce papers."

"If you have time to invest in a lab for your little lover, you should have plenty of time to tell your lawyer to sign the papers."

"Procrastinating isn't very becoming of a top CEO, is it?"

Ethan stared at me for a few seconds before his face went blank again. He gave up, slumping onto the sofa to fiddle with his phone.

He frowned occasionally, as if dealing with an urgent business email.

If I hadn't seen the private messages between him and Chloe, I might have actually believed his charade.

"You look stunning tonight, baby. Did you know I was taking you to Per Se?"

"Don't be so full of yourself. I dressed up tonight to meet a few important investors."

Their flirtatious banter on the screen was a stark contrast to the dead silence filling our living room.

It just confirmed what I already knew: divorce was my only way out.

I lowered my head, wiping the corner of my eye.

Before, my only reaction would have been to break down and cry in front of him.

But our marriage was already brain-dead. There was no point in debasing myself with tears anymore.

"Did you make my mother angry again?"

Chloe's "kind reminder" must have prompted him, because he finally spoke to me again.

"Chloe is taking my mother to Europe in a few days. She'll help calm her down for you."

"When you have half of Chloe's emotional intelligence, maybe you'll finally learn to be reasonable."

I couldn't help but sneer.

"I'm ready to hand over the title of Mrs. Vance. Isn't that reasonable enough?"

Ethan's gloomy gaze held a clear threat.

"Ava, is playing the victim your new hobby?"

I finally stood up, giving up on any last attempt to communicate with this man.

"Maybe."

"Oh, right. I know you don't have time to sign the divorce papers."

"I've already had my lawyer file for divorce."

"And don't worry about the cost. It'll all come out of my personal trust fund."

I found a top-tier divorce lawyer the very night of the charity dinner.

That night at the dinner, Chloe had poured a bucket of industrial cleaner into my greenhouse, a provocative smirk on her face.

"Let's see if Ethan will even touch you without this fragrance."

She was mad with jealousy, knowing the only fragrance on Ethan's nightstand was the one I blended.

I was so desperate to save the orchids that I gave her a push.

I never expected that when Ethan saw us, he would storm over and drag me violently from the greenhouse in front of all the guests.

My screams meant nothing to him. "Don't make a scene," he'd snapped, before turning to leave with Chloe, who was clinging to him and feigning terror.

As I struggled, my wrist slammed hard against the greenhouse's steel beam, and the intense pain nearly made me pass out.

The delicate "Moonlight Orchids," as if sensing my despair, withered rapidly under the corrosive liquid...

I clung to one last shred of hope and called Ethan.

As soon as the call connected, the man's cold voice came through.

"Ava, haven't you learned your lesson? You scared Chloe today. I have to stay with her. Don't use this to get my attention."

Chloe's coquettish voice chirped from the other end, "Ethan, the after-party is about to start."

I hung up, trembling, and collapsed onto the cold ground, tears soaking my evening gown.

Finally, I made the call to my lawyer.

...

In the living room, Ethan still found me unreasonable.

"Ava, what happened at the dinner was your fault. You'll have to live with the consequences!"

My fault?

I laughed. "Yes, it's my fault. It's my own damn fault for ending up like this."

...

Ethan and I met during a harrowing kidnapping case.

He'd been locked in a dark basement. It was my father, a botanist, who helped the police pinpoint his location by identifying rare plants in the background of the kidnappers' photos.

When he was rescued, he was physically and mentally traumatized. My father asked me to help him recover with botanical aromatherapy.

One thing led to another, and inevitably, we developed feelings for each other. We stayed in touch even after he was taken back to the Vance family.

Due to his PTSD, he began to suffer from severe insomnia. Even the top psychologists couldn't help.

He said that as soon as he closed his eyes, he was back in that dark, decaying basement, with no light, no one, and no me.

My heart ached for him, but there was nothing I could do.

Until one day, he smelled the "Moonlight Orchid" fragrance I was testing. The unique, cool scent allowed him to sleep soundly for the first time in ages.

I began to meticulously cultivate this rare orchid for him, blending it into a one-of-a-kind calming fragrance.

He carried it with him every day, and his insomnia gradually improved.

Later, to be close to him, I gave up the opportunity to study at the Grasse Institute of Perfumery in France, choosing to stay by his side.

On my graduation day, he took my hands, covered in tiny cuts from blending fragrances, and looked at the marks with tears of heartache in his eyes.

To help him expand his network, I sacrificed my own career as a perfumer to accompany him to endless business receptions.

Together, we were a seamless team, and we quickly helped him establish a firm foothold in the market.

One day, after a few drinks, he held my hand and murmured.

He said I was the hand that pulled him out of the darkness.

He said he wanted to hold my hand for the rest of his life.

His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes shone as he spoke, as if filled with starlight.

As if bewitched, I nodded.

That night, we promised each other forever.

Now, the very hands that pulled him from the darkness had been shattered by his own.

That night, my lawyer took me to Mount Sinai Hospital.

Dr. Evans informed me that the nerve damage in my wrist was severe. I might never be able to return to the delicate work of a perfumer.

My lawyer suggested I sue Ethan for personal injury.

I declined for the time being, asking him to focus on the divorce. If that didn't work, we could consider adding criminal charges.

The sharp pain of physical therapy jolted me back from my memories.

The doctor looked at my wrist with a regretful sigh.

"If only you had been brought in an hour earlier... such a pity."

I smiled, my face pale.

"It's okay. This is the price of freedom."

No more staying up all night researching the market for his career.

No more getting my hands scratched up while cultivating orchids for his health.

No more trailing behind him, waiting for a backward glance that would never come.

The doctor prescribed some medication to repair the nerves and then smiled.

"By the way, Ms. Hayes, that calming fragrance formula you provided? It passed all the tests. The state is rolling it out to medical facilities everywhere. The hospital is very grateful."

I wasn't surprised.

Countless top experts had been helpless against Ethan's insomnia; he relied solely on my formula.

After years of perfecting it, I knew just how powerful the formula was.

Coming out of the rehabilitation room, I ran into Chloe in the hospital lobby.

She strode toward me on towering red-soled heels, her eyes dripping with contempt as she stopped right in front of me.

"Ava Hayes, you're like a bad penny. Why do we keep running into you?"

We?

Right. Where there was Chloe, Ethan was never far behind.

Ever since Chloe returned, those two had never understood the concept of personal space.

I didn't want to see Ethan, and I certainly didn't want to see them shamelessly attached at the hip, like a pair of rabbits in heat.

Just as I was about to leave, Ethan appeared, his tone laced with annoyance.

"Are you following me?"

I couldn't really blame him for thinking that. From the day we met until our marriage, I had revolved around him for seven years.

If I were in his shoes, I might have the same misconception.

"Ethan, narcissism is a disease. I suggest you get a referral to the psych ward."

As I spoke, I stuffed the report into my bag and started to walk past him.

As I passed, he grabbed my wrist—my injured wrist—and squeezed, his grip like a vise.

The sudden, sharp pain made my face contort.

"Let go!" I gritted out through clenched teeth.

For seven years, I had always been gentle with Ethan. No matter how angry I was, I never raised my voice; I'd only ever let the hurt show in my eyes.

Seeing my pale face, he slowly released his grip, a hint of worry and doubt in his eyes.

"Why are you at the hospital? Are you sick?"

"I'm just asking. No need to be so defensive."

"And stop with the sympathy ploys. Your victim act is getting clumsy."