The Scent of Her Revenge

Chapter 1

Harper.

The silk of the wedding dress felt like a cage, tight and unforgiving against her skin. It was supposed to be the happiest night of her life, but a cold dread had been coiling in her stomach for hours.

Caleb walked into the lavish suite, his tuxedo jacket already off, his tie loosened. He didn't smile at her.

“You’re still in that thing?” he asked, his voice flat.

“It’s our wedding night, Caleb,” she said, her voice small.

He laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Right. The wedding night.”

He circled her slowly, like a predator inspecting its catch. His eyes, the same eyes that had promised her forever, were now filled with something that looked like disgust.

“Did you really think this dress would work?” he asked.

“Work?”

“To hide it all. The bulk. The pathetic little scars on your neck from the accident.”

Harper flinched, her hand instinctively flying to her throat. “Don’t.”

“I’m tired of pretending, Harper,” he said, stopping in front of her. “So incredibly tired of having to look at you and act like I’m the luckiest man alive.”

Her heart felt like it had stopped. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this,” he said, waving a hand at her, at the room, at their entire marriage. “This whole charade. It’s finally over.”

The bedroom door clicked open. Her stepsister, Lara, sauntered in wearing a silk robe that barely covered her perfect body.

“Is she still breathing?” Lara asked, pouting at Caleb.

Harper stared, her mind struggling to connect the pieces. “Lara? What are you doing here? Get out.”

Lara smirked, walking over to Caleb and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I think you mean, what are *you* doing here, sister? This is my room now.”

She leaned in and kissed him, a deep, passionate kiss right in front of Harper. Caleb’s hands settled on Lara’s waist, pulling her closer.

“No,” Harper whispered. The word was a puff of air, useless.

Caleb broke the kiss, his eyes still locked on Harper’s. “Did you really think I wanted you? You were a means to an end. A fat, scarred stepping stone to a fortune.”

“He wanted your money,” Lara purred, running a manicured nail down Caleb’s chest. “And your formulas. Your sad little inheritance was the only attractive thing about you.”

Harper stumbled back, hitting the edge of the bed. “You planned this. All of it.”

“From the day I met you,” Caleb confirmed without a shred of remorse. “Every compliment was a lie. Every touch was a transaction. Do you know how many times I had to force myself not to recoil when you reached for me?”

“He used to say your skin felt greasy,” Lara added, her voice dripping with poison. “He would wash his hands raw after you touched him.”

The cruelty was a physical blow, knocking the air from her lungs. Tears streamed down her face, hot and shameful.

“You’re monsters,” she choked out.

“We’re survivors,” Caleb corrected. “And you’re just in the way.” He walked over to the champagne bucket by the window. He poured a single glass.

“Let’s have a final toast,” he said, his voice sickeningly cheerful. He held the glass out to her.

“I’m not drinking anything from you,” she spat.

Caleb sighed. “Don’t make this difficult, Harper.” He grabbed her jaw, his fingers digging into her flesh, forcing her mouth open. Lara took the glass and tilted it, the cold liquid flooding Harper’s throat.

She gagged and swallowed, sputtering as they let her go.

She collapsed to the floor, coughing.

“What was that?” she gasped.

“A wedding gift,” Lara said, smiling down at her. “Something to help you sleep. Permanently.”

A sharp, searing pain started in her stomach, spreading like fire through her veins. Her limbs grew heavy, her vision blurring at the edges. She could feel her own heartbeat slowing, a struggling drum beat fading to silence.

“It’s a shame,” Caleb said, crouching down to look her in the eyes. “All that brilliance in your head. Such a genius with scents. All of it wasted in such a pathetic package. But don’t worry, your formulas are safe with me.”

“I’ll look so much better on his arm at the product launch, don’t you think?” Lara asked, kicking lightly at Harper’s expensive dress.

Harper tried to speak, to scream, to curse them, but only a faint gurgle escaped her lips. Her body was failing, but her mind was sharp, burning with a hatred so pure it was an agony all its own.

*This isn’t the end,* she thought, the words a silent vow screamed into the encroaching darkness. *I will find you. I will ruin you. I will get my revenge.*

Caleb’s face was the last thing she saw, his smug smile twisting as her world faded to black.

Cold.

Silence.

Nothing.

Then, a gasp.

A desperate, tearing breath that filled her lungs with the sterile, antiseptic scent of a hospital.

Sound rushed in next. The rhythmic, electronic beep of a heart monitor.

Her eyes fluttered open. The ceiling was white. Unfamiliar.

Confusion warred with a primal fear. She was supposed to be dead. She felt the coldness, the finality. How could she be here?

Slowly, shakily, she lifted a hand, intending to touch her face, her scarred neck. A hand entered her field of vision.

It was not her hand.

This hand was slender, elegant, with long, graceful fingers and perfectly shaped nails. The skin was pale and smooth, without a single blemish, a single scar.

She stared, mesmerized and horrified.

She lifted the other one.

It was a perfect match.

Slender. Unscarred. The hands of a stranger.

Chapter 2

Harper.

My hands. They weren't my hands.

The thought repeated, a frantic, broken record in the silent chaos of my mind. I tried to sit up, a groan catching in my throat. But no sound came out. Nothing. Not a whisper.

Panic clawed at me, cold and sharp. I tried again, pushing air from my lungs, willing my vocal cords to work. Silence.

The door opened with a soft whoosh.

A woman in light blue scrubs bustled in, her smile kind and professional. “Ah, Ms. Steel. You’re awake. You gave us quite a scare.”

Ms. Steel? My name was Harper. Harper Trent. No, it was supposed to be Harper Thorne now. I was married.

I was dead.

The nurse checked the monitors beside my bed. The rhythmic beeping was a steady counterpoint to the frantic screaming in my head.

“Don’t try to talk, honey,” she said gently, noticing the strain on my face. “Your vocal cords are still recovering. There was a lot of damage from the water.”

Water? I didn’t die in water. I died on a silk rug, poisoned champagne burning its way through my veins.

I shook my head, my eyes wide with a plea she couldn't possibly understand. Who are you? Where am I? What year is it?

The nurse misinterpreted my panic as simple confusion. “You’re at St. Jude’s Hospital. You’ve been unconscious for a little over a week. Some fishermen found you by the pier.”

She adjusted my pillow. “You’re very lucky, Ms. Steel. It’s a miracle you’re alive.”

I wasn't Ms. Steel. I wasn't. I lifted my hand, the stranger's hand, and pointed a shaky finger at my own chest.

She nodded. “Yes, you. Fiona Steel. It was on the ID in your wallet.”

Fiona Steel. The name felt like a foreign language on a tongue I no longer possessed.

I needed a mirror. Now. My eyes darted around the room, searching. They landed on the dark, reflective screen of the wall mounted television.

I threw the thin blanket off my legs. They were long, toned, and as unfamiliar as my hands. I swung them over the side of the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold linoleum floor.

“Whoa there, take it easy,” the nurse said, rushing to my side. “You’re not strong enough to be walking yet.”

I ignored her. I was fueled by a terrifying, desperate need. I pushed away from the bed, my legs trembling but holding. I stumbled toward the blank TV screen.

“Ms. Steel, please get back in bed,” the nurse urged, her voice tight with concern.

I reached the television and braced myself with one hand against the wall. I leaned in close, my breath fogging the dark glass. I stared.

And a stranger stared back.

The woman in the reflection was breathtaking. Not pretty. Not beautiful. She was a work of art forged in fire. High cheekbones slashed across a heart shaped face. Her eyes were enormous, a stormy grey fringed by thick, black lashes. Her lips were full, sculpted into a natural pout. A cascade of dark, wavy hair fell around her shoulders.

There were no scars on her neck. Her skin was flawless, perfect. She was everything I had never been. Everything Lara was. Everything Caleb had wanted.

The image was so alien, so utterly impossible, that a strangled, silent laugh escaped my throat.

This had to be a nightmare. A very, very cruel joke.

“Please, Fiona,” the nurse said, her tone softening. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

I allowed her to guide me, my body moving on autopilot. My mind was reeling, trying to make sense of the impossible.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, my gaze distant. The nurse brought over a small tray table with a pitcher of water and a tablet.

“The doctor will be in to see you soon,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to read a little? Catch up on the news? It might help you feel more grounded.” She gave me another kind smile and left the room, pulling the door quietly shut.

Catch up on the news.

The words echoed in my head. I picked up the tablet, my slender fingers clumsy on the device. I opened the web browser. The date at the top of the screen made my blood run cold.

October 12th, 2024.

No. It couldn't be. My wedding was in June of 2022. Two years. Two whole years had vanished.

My fingers shook as I typed my own name into the search bar: Harper Trent.

The results loaded instantly. An avalanche of headlines that stole the breath from my borrowed lungs.

*PERFUME HEIRESS Harper Trent DEAD AT 28*

*Trent FORTUNE HEIR RULED A SUICIDE*

*TRAGIC END FOR A TROUBLED GENIUS*

Suicide. They called it a suicide. They bought the lie. Caleb and Lara had gotten away with it. They murdered me and told the world I killed myself.

The rage was a physical thing, a hot wave that washed through me, so potent it made me dizzy.

I clicked on an article from a well known business journal, dated just last week.

The headline was a punch to the gut: *CALEB THORNE, CEO OF AURA FRAGRANCES, NAMED INNOVATOR OF THE YEAR.*

There was a photo of him, smiling, handsome, and utterly repulsive. He stood on a stage, holding an award. And on his arm, draped in a glittering emerald gown, was Lara. My stepsister. His wife.

“Aura Fragrances,” I whispered, the sound completely silent, a ghost of a word.

My company. My inheritance. My name.

I kept reading, my heart turning to a block of ice in my chest.

The article praised him for his revolutionary new scent, ‘Elysian’. It was hailed as a masterpiece, a fragrance that had shattered sales records and redefined the industry.

They described the complex notes. The top notes of saffron and jasmine, the heart of amberwood, the base of fir resin and cedar.

It was my formula. My signature creation. The one I had been perfecting for years, the one I had told only Caleb about.

He hadn't just taken my money. He hadn't just taken my life.

He had stolen my soul. My legacy.

I looked down at my hands, at these elegant, perfect hands. I thought of the face in the reflection, the fierce, stunning woman named Fiona Steel.

They had left Harper Trent to die. They had buried her, erased her, and built an empire on her bones.

But I wasn't Harper Trent anymore.

I was a stranger. A ghost. And I was back from the dead.

A slow, cold smile stretched across lips that were not my own. It didn't reach my stormy grey eyes.

They thought they were safe. They thought the game was over.

They had no idea it was just beginning.

Chapter 3

Harper.

The doctor signed the discharge papers with a flourish. He had a kind, tired face.

“Physically, you’ve made a full recovery, Ms. Steel. It’s remarkable.”

He handed me a small bag with the clothes I was found in, now cleaned and folded, and a pamphlet for a downtown shelter.

“The hospital’s social worker can help you with resources,” he added, seeing the look in my eyes.

I just nodded. Resources. I had nothing. No money, no home, no voice. I was a ghost in a stolen body.

I changed into the clothes. A simple black dress, thin and worn. It clung to a figure I didn't recognize. Stepping out of the hospital’s air conditioned sterility and into the city’s humid embrace was a shock. The noise was a physical assault. Horns blared, people shouted, sirens wailed in the distance.

I had nowhere to go. I started walking, my steps aimless, my mind a vortex of rage and disbelief. Two years. Caleb and Lara had two years to solidify their empire built on my murder.

I barely made it two blocks before a voice cut through the noise.

“Well, well. Look what the tide washed in.”

I turned. Two men blocked my path. One was built like a refrigerator, with a shaved head and a tattoo of a snake crawling up his thick neck. The other was smaller, wiry, with greasy hair and a cheap suit.

“Fiona Steel,” the greasy one said with a grin that didn't reach his cold eyes. “We heard you took a little swim.”

I said nothing, my face a blank mask. My silence wasn't a choice, but I would use it as a weapon.

The big one took a step closer, crowding me against the brick wall of a building. “The boss was very upset when you disappeared. He doesn't like it when people don't pay their debts.”

“One hundred thousand dollars, Fiona,” the greasy one said, clicking his tongue. “That’s a lot of money. You ran up quite the tab.”

I met his gaze, my stormy grey eyes holding his. I didn’t flinch. I let him see the cold fury simmering there. For a second, he looked taken aback.

“What’s the matter?” he sneered, recovering. “Cat got your tongue? Heard you swallowed half the harbor.”

The big one chuckled. “It don't matter if she can talk. She’s got other assets.” His eyes roamed over my body, and a wave of revulsion washed over me. This was what it felt like. This was the vulnerability that came with this kind of beauty.

“You’re coming with us,” the greasy one said, reaching for my arm.

Before his fingers could touch me, a voice, smooth and cold as polished steel, cut through the air.

“I don’t think so.”

A long, black car had pulled up to the curb, so silent I hadn’t even heard it arrive. A man was leaning against the passenger door. He was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his dark hair styled with effortless precision. Everything about him screamed power and danger.

The two goons froze. Their confidence evaporated instantly.

“Mr. Cross,” the greasy one stammered, his face paling. “We, uh, we didn't know she was with you.”

“She isn’t,” the man, Mr. Cross, said without looking at me. His focus was entirely on them. “But she is my business. Not yours. You are poaching on my territory.”

“Our boss, he just wants what he's owed…”

“Your boss is a cockroach,” Mr. Cross said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone. “And I am the exterminator. You have three seconds to get in your car and disappear before I decide to make this a more permanent lesson.”

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The threat was absolute.

The two men practically tripped over each other backing away. They scrambled into a beat up sedan parked down the street and sped off, the squeal of their tires a testament to their fear.

Silence descended. The man finally turned his attention to me. His eyes were the color of dark coffee, and they scanned me with a chilling, analytical intensity. He took in my face, my dress, my bare feet in worn sandals.

“Fiona Steel,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You look… different.”

I held his gaze, my chin held high. I wouldn't show weakness. Not to him. Not to anyone.

He pushed off the car and walked toward me, his movements fluid, like a panther. He stopped a few feet away, his presence a palpable force.

“My sources told me you were a mess,” he continued, his eyes narrowing slightly. “A pathetic addict who lost her nerve. But I don’t see that. I see fire.”

He tilted his head. “But no voice to go with it. Is that right? You can’t speak.”

I gave a single, sharp nod.

“A pity,” he mused, though he didn't look sorry at all. “It makes this conversation terribly one sided.”

He took another step, closing the distance between us. I could smell his cologne, a subtle, expensive scent of leather and spice.

“Those men were amateurs. They were collecting on a gambling debt. The debt you owe me is far more significant.”

My mind raced. What had this woman done? Who was I now?

“You stole from me, Ms. Steel,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “A data chip. You sold it to a rival. It was a foolish, desperate move, and it cost me a great deal of money.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “I was the one who sent you on that job. I was the one who trusted you. And you betrayed me.”

So that was it. The real Fiona was a corporate thief. A pawn in a game far above her skill level.

“Normally, this would be the part where my associates take you for a long drive and you are never seen again,” he said calmly. “I do not tolerate betrayal.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, but my expression remained unchanged.

He seemed intrigued by my lack of fear. A flicker of something, maybe respect, maybe curiosity, crossed his face.

“But I am a businessman above all else. And I dislike losing an asset. Even a damaged one.”

He reached out, his fingers gently touching my chin, tilting my face up to the light. His touch was cold, a stark contrast to the fire his presence ignited.

“So I’m going to give you a choice. One you do not deserve.”

His dark eyes bored into mine, holding me captive.

“You can work off your debt to me. Every last cent. You will do exactly as I say, when I say it. You will become my property until I deem the balance settled.”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, the words a death sentence and a lifeline all at once.

“Or, you can die. Right here, in this alley. No one will find you this time. I will make sure of it.”

He let go of my chin, his gaze unwavering.

“The choice is yours, Fiona.”