Chapter 5

The bench in the waiting area outside the operating room was cold and unforgiving. Adora sat beside me, her voice urgent, threaded with worry.

“Phoenix, think again… this is too impulsive. The baby is innocent. At least—at least you two should talk again properly.” She squeezed my hand. Her palm was warm, but it couldn't melt the cold running through my blood. “Jared, he might—”

“No.” I cut her off. My voice was so calm it didn't sound like me.

Adora didn't know about the wedding. She thought this was just a vicious fight. She might have even told Jared, hoping he could salvage something.

Sure enough—footsteps hit the far end of the hallway. Fast. Messy. Heavy with pressure.

Several tall men in black suits appeared, moving with trained speed. They silently split the waiting area from the rest of the corridor. The few patients and family members nearby scrambled away, frightened by the display.

The air snapped tight.

Then Jared came into view.

He strode toward me, hair slightly disheveled, breathing hard. His eyes were laced with bloodshot red, like he'd been dragged through hell.

He came straight at me, gaze locked, and seized my wrist.

“Phoenix!” His voice was a low, restrained roar—rage and terror tangled together. “You're pregnant. Why didn't you tell me!”

“You're not allowed to get rid of this baby! This is our child!”

Pain shot up my wrist, but I only looked at him coldly.

“This is my body,” I said, forcing each word out as I fought to pull free. “I have the right to decide whether it stays or goes.”

“Right?” The word seemed to stab him. He yanked hard and dragged me into his arms.

My cheek hit his chest—solid, unyielding. A familiar scent hit me, and this time it turned my stomach.

Smoke.

He smoked when he was a mess. Looks like Sophia's condition really had him torn up.

But stronger than the smoke—sweeter, heavier, more suffocating—was rose perfume.

Not the clean scent of fresh petals. Something expensive and lush and aged, a thick rose note so sweet it almost cloyed.

That smell—

A floodgate in my memory blew open.

Our fourth year together.

The old godfather died, and the family turned unstable. Jared had just forced everything back into order with iron-handed methods. That stretch of time, the pressure crushed him. Night after night he couldn't sleep.

I cooked in different ways every day, tried to keep him talking, prepared calming scents and hot towels—until one day I couldn't reach him at all.

I was so worried I nearly broke apart. Every answer I got was the same: “Don… he didn't tell us where he was going.”

But their eyes were puzzled. They didn't understand why the godfather's wife didn't know where the godfather was.

I almost ordered them to turn the entire city upside down. Only after three hundred-plus messages did he finally reply:

*Need some time alone. Don't bother me.*

Don't bother me.

My panic turned into a joke.

I told myself he was just in a bad mood, that he didn't want to deal with anyone.

But days later, when he came back, he carried that faint rose perfume on him.

He never liked sweet scents.

Before suspicion could even take shape, he handed me a beautiful perfume bottle, his tone casual. “A gift. The salesperson recommended it. I thought you'd like it.”

In that moment, I'd even felt warmed by the thought that he'd remembered me. I shoved the doubt aside.

That perfume became my go-to for a long, long time—until he told me he liked my original scent better…

So.

It wasn't a salesperson's recommendation.

It wasn't a gift meant for me.

He had gone to see Sophia.

It was the scent he'd picked up from another woman—the longing he could never say out loud.

He treated me like a cheap stand-in.

He bought me that perfume so I would smell like her too—so he could sink deeper into his own self-deceit.

A violent nausea surged up, worse than before.

I shoved him away and lurched for the nearest restroom. I didn't even have time to lock the door before I dropped to my knees on the cold tile and started retching, hard, tears spilling reflexively.

Jared followed me in, panic and confusion on his face. “Phoenix? What's wrong?”

I lifted my head through watery blur and saw his anxious expression. Every grievance, every fury, every humiliation of being lied to detonated all at once.

I surged to my feet and slapped him.

Hard.

The crack rang through the empty restroom.

His head snapped to the side. A clear handprint rose on his cheek. He covered it, staring at me like he couldn't believe it.

“Jared Moretti…”

My voice shook from vomiting and rage, but the cold in it was blade-deep. “You gave me the perfume she wears as a gift. You made me smell like her. What am I to you?”

I stared him down, each word forced out through my teeth. “Are you not disgusted with yourself?”

At the word *perfume*, his face drained white. His lips moved, but no sound came.

It was the look of someone whose mask had been ripped clean off.

Seeing him like that, the last shred of my ridiculous hope died.

I tugged my mouth into a bitter, hopeless smile.

“Divorce,” I said.