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."