Without Me You Are Nothing

The year I turned seven, my father's mistress arrived on our doorstep, a gardenia pinned to her dress.

That day, in the gardenia garden she'd planted with her own hands, my mother took her own life.

From then on, that cloying fragrance became my nightmare.

So on my wedding day, I told my husband, Graham Sterling, "If you ever want a divorce, just send me a bouquet of gardenias."

Graham said nothing, only pulled me into a fierce hug.

From that day forward, gardenias became a taboo he never touched.

In the fifth year of our marriage, Graham's assistant, Chloe Porter, went out of her way to order a lavish bouquet of gardenias and have them delivered to our office.

That very day, Graham threw the flowers away in front of everyone and gave her a stern warning.

That day, I truly believed he was the man I could spend the rest of my life with.

Six months later, at the celebration for landing the Aethelgard Tower project, Graham led me into my office.

It was filled with countless gardenias.

The same woman he’d once warned—his so-called assistant—stood smiling behind me. "It's a romantic surprise Graham planned for you," she said.

I stared at Graham in disbelief, but his expression was a mask of strained gentleness.

"Don't be angry. Chloe suggested this. She told me you were scared of a certain flower's scent and that it was a phobia you needed to get over. See? Isn't it beautiful?"

My smile vanished. Through the nauseating fragrance, I stared at his forced, hypocritical concern.

Some things can never be a joke.

I would never joke about gardenias, and I would never joke about divorce.

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1

"Ms. Serrano, it seems your panic disorder has relapsed, likely from a significant trigger," the doctor informed me, his tone grave.

"This kind of PTSD response is dangerous. You must avoid the trigger. Otherwise, next time it could be worse than just difficulty breathing, and we may have to consider more aggressive treatment."

"You need to stay in the hospital for a day of observation. Please contact your family as soon as possible."

Hearing the doctor's words, I fell completely silent.

I had worked tirelessly for 39 consecutive days on the Aethelgard Tower project, pulling all-nighters to finish the drawings and finalize every design detail. I never imagined that a "surprise" from Graham at the celebration party would land me in a hospital bed.

My fingers moved on autopilot, opening our pinned chat to type a message when I noticed something was wrong.

I looked closer and saw it was definitely Graham Sterling.

He had just changed his Instagram profile picture. It was a close-up of his wrist.

A tattoo artist was covering the "J.S" I had designed for him with a new butterfly tattoo.

Just as I was staring blankly at the screen, Graham's call cut through the silence, his tone cold.

"I'm home. Where are you?"

I didn't speak.

Normally, I would've been the one to make up first. But tonight, I had nothing left to say.

Graham's voice grew impatient. "Juliana, how long are you going to drag this out?"

"I'm in the hospital."

Graham fell silent. He'd never cared much about my health anyway.

He never would have guessed that the gardenia "surprise" he'd planned would land me in the emergency room.

"Just stay there. I'm on my way."

I couldn't be bothered to deal with him, but my body felt too weak to move an inch.

Time ticked by. The nurse came in to check on me three times, but Graham still hadn't shown up.

Just as I was about to drift off, I glanced at my phone one last time and saw Chloe Porter's new Instagram story.

[A fresh start]

In the video, Graham was showing off the new butterfly tattoo on his wrist, smiling as he kissed her cheek.

Chloe's profile picture was a tacky butterfly.

The vibrant colors turned my stomach.