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For three years, Breanna gave up her brilliant career as a top-tier perfumer to be the perfect housewife for her billionaire husband, Hartwell. But when he finally returned from a three-month business trip to Paris, he didn't even glance at the dinner she had carefully prepared. Instead, he threw a divorce agreement on the table. He gave her thirty days to move out and offered a ridiculously low settlement. When she cried and asked if there was someone else, he looked at her with absolute disgust. "You used to smell like ambition and possibility. Now you smell like cooking oil and the desperation of a woman who has nothing outside her husband. You're a trap." He threatened to bury her in legal fees if she didn't sign. Heartbroken and confused, Breanna forced his assistant to reveal what really happened in Paris. The truth was humiliating. Hartwell had been spending all his time with a twenty-six-year-old genius perfumer-a girl who was the exact mirror image of who Breanna used to be before she sacrificed everything for him. He didn't just want a new woman. He wanted a younger, untainted replacement of her past self. Wiping away her tears, Breanna's grief instantly hardened into cold, calculated rage. She tore up his insulting settlement and prepared to fight back, completely unaware that her cruel husband was currently hiding in a hotel room, coughing up blood, deliberately playing the villain to force her to survive his impending death.
Contents
His Unwanted Wife: The Genius Perfumer Chapter 1 1
The searing heat seared her palm the instant her fingers curled around the ceramic plate.
Breanna Estrada did not flinch at all. With rigid, mechanical precision, she placed the coq au vin gently onto the marble dining table, watching the glossy golden sauce pool slowly around the tender braised chicken. She averted her gaze and stared steadily at the tall antique grandfather clock on the far wall.
Nine o'clock sharp.
Four hours had passed since Hartwell's flight from Paris landed at JFK Airport. And from that moment on, she had been checking her phone every ninety seconds, as if staring hard enough could force a reply to appear.
She reached for the phone on the dining table. The screen flared to life, casting cold blue light across her face. She swiped open her messages. Her outgoing texts formed a long, silent chain - ninety days of questions, quiet pleas, and fragile hopes, all cast into a digital void, not one marked as *Read*.
A bolt of lightning suddenly tore through the night sky outside.
The floor-to-ceiling windows shuddered violently in their frames, a low hum traveling up her sternum and throbbing faintly in her teeth. Breanna stepped slowly to the glass and pressed her forehead against its cool surface. Fifth Avenue stretched out below, a river of hopelessly congested red taillights caught in the October storm. She scanned the crawling traffic for the black silhouette of his Maybach, yet knew it was useless. He could be anywhere - anywhere but here.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, digging her fingers into her ribs until a dull ache set in. The tall, straight figure of him leaving for Paris three months ago rose vividly before her eyes.
Before she realized it, the wine cabinet stood open. Inside rested Hartwell's favorite Bordeaux - a 2015 Château Margaux, purchased together in Saint-Émilion. Back then they had been inseparable; as they wandered through sun-warmed vineyards, his hand would always rest warm and steady on the small of her back, gentlemanly and gentle.
She twisted the corkscrew, her force spiraling out of control.
Red wine splashed violently across her white silk dress, leaving a glaring crimson streak. The liquid soaked through the fabric at once, dark and sticky, clinging to her abdomen. Breanna grabbed a kitchen towel and dabbed frantically, but the stain only spread wider, blooming like a living, bleeding thing, refusing to fade.
Her breath came short and ragged. She stumbled backward into a dining chair, the hard wooden edge digging sharply into her spine. The coq au vin sat untouched on the table, cooling, a layer of fat beginning to congeal on the sauce. Her eyes burned hotly.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Three years earlier, she had stood in a laboratory in Grasse, identifying perfume base notes blindfolded without a single mistake. Jasmine absolute, vetiver, rare ambergris - each ounce worth more than the monthly maintenance fee for this penthouse. She had been sharp, certain, unshakable. Now she could not even recall the chemical structure of linalool without fumbling frantically for her phone.
A vibration jolted her violently, and her elbow slammed against the table edge.
Breanna lunged for the sofa where her phone lay face-down. She clutched it trembling, her heart surging with near-frantic hope.
But the incoming message drained all expectation from her chest.
It was not Hartwell.
It was a billing statement from AT&T.
She hurled the phone aside. It struck the velvet sofa and slid onto the carpet, its screen glowing upward. Her wallpaper stared back - Paris three years ago, at the Salon du Parfum. She had smiled bright, open, unguarded, her arm linked through Hartwell's as they posed in front of her first award. Looking at that stranger, she felt only bitter, hollow contempt for the woman she had become.
Breanna drifted toward the entryway in a daze. Hartwell's leather slippers still sat by the door, slightly askew since his last departure. With obsessive, trembling precision, she aligned them perfectly: toe to toe, heel to heel. To this day, it was the only thing she could still hold onto.
The smart home panel blinked: Outside temperature 47°F and falling. She turned up the thermostat to 78 degrees. Warm air gusted from the vents, carrying a faint, achingly familiar scent.
Cedarwood. Bergamot. Hartwell's signature base, like a second skin, like impenetrable armor.
Her head snapped toward the hallway. The study door remained closed and silent, yet her heart hammered violently against her ribs, tight with pain. She took three silent, barefoot steps in that direction.
Nothing. No light seeped under the door. No dull thud of his briefcase hitting his desk. No low, familiar voice.
She returned to the dining table. The knife felt alien in her grip as she cut into the chicken. One bite, and cold, thick fat coated her tongue. The slimy, unnatural texture triggered a primal nausea in her throat.
Breanna made it to the guest bathroom before her stomach heaved. She gripped the edge of the porcelain sink tightly, dry-heaving as tears splashed into the basin. She lifted her head slowly.
The mirror reflected a woman with sunken cheeks and colorless lips, one who flinched from her own reflection. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water hard against her face until her skin stung, until the chill wrenched a shred of coherence back into her chaotic thoughts.
A chime cut sharply through the running water.
Breanna froze, her hands still dripping, her gaze locked on the bathroom door. The sound repeated - low, clear, reserved only for this penthouse. It was the arrival bell for the private elevator.
Red numbers glowed on the hallway display: PH.
The lock clicked.
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