Paige
My hand is shaking. I set the champagne flute down on a passing tray before I drop it. My heart is a frantic bird beating against the cage of my ribs.
“Paige, report. What did Wilde say to you?” Julian’s voice is a sharp, urgent buzz in my ear. “My thermal scan picked up a heart rate spike. Are you alright?”
I take a slow, steadying breath, forcing the mask of Seraphina back into place. “He sees the lie,” I murmur, my lips barely moving.
“What lie? That you’re Seraphina?”
“No. The lie in the perfume. He said it has the wrong author’s name on the cover.”
The silence from Julian’s end is more potent than any exclamation. He’s processing it. Connor Wilde isn’t just a rival CEO. He’s a connoisseur. A threat.
“Keep your distance from him,” Julian says, his voice tight. “He’s too perceptive. He’s not part of the plan.”
Before I can respond, a cloying cloud of fragrance precedes an even more cloying voice. “Well, well. If it isn’t the miracle of the season. Seraphina Laurent, risen from the dead.”
Isolde stands before me. She’s flanked by two of her vapid friends, their expressions identical masks of polite curiosity layered over pure malice. My stepsister looks me up and down, a flicker of something ugly, something like jealousy, in her eyes before she conceals it with a pitying smile.
“Isolde,” I say, my voice the cool, even tone of a woman who has never met her before. “Congratulations on your launch.”
“Thank you.” She gestures around the opulent ballroom. “It’s been a magical night. Everyone is simply captivated by my Aura.” She says ‘my Aura’ with a heavy, proprietary emphasis that makes my teeth ache.
“I’m sure they are,” I reply, my expression placid.
She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant for everyone around us to hear. “You know, it must be so strange for you. Coming back to the world after so long. Things change. People move on.”
“Some things never change,” I say, letting my gaze drift pointedly to her sycophantic friends.
A faint line appears between her perfectly waxed eyebrows. She didn’t expect a spine. “What an odd thing to say. But then, I suppose your mind is still a bit… foggy.”
“On the contrary,” I say, turning my body to face her fully. “I’ve never felt clearer.”
“Paige, what are you doing?” Julian’s voice is a frantic whisper. “This is a bad idea. Walk away.”
Isolde laughs, a brittle, unpleasant sound. “Good for you. It’s so brave of you to even be here. I can’t imagine trying to keep up with conversations about art and commerce after being… asleep.”
This is her goal. To paint me as a beautiful but brain-damaged doll. To diminish me. To make me irrelevant before I can even become a threat.
“Oh, I don’t find it too difficult,” I say, picking up a fresh glass of champagne. I swirl the liquid, watching the bubbles rise. “For example, I find the conversation around your new fragrance absolutely fascinating.”
Her smile tightens. She wants to be praised. She needs it. “Does it fascinate you, Seraphina? Please, tell me what a woman like you thinks of my creation.”
The trap is set. She thinks I’ll offer some vapid compliment about it smelling ‘pretty.’
I bring the collar of my dress to my nose, where a single, strategic drop of Aura was deposited by a passing guest moments ago. I inhale slowly, closing my eyes for a moment of pure performance. Several industry critics nearby pause their conversations, their attention snagged.
“It’s ambitious,” I begin. Her chest puffs out. “The top note is almost perfectly structured. That burst of Calabrian bergamot married to the pink peppercorn is a classic, but effective, opening.”
“Well, thank you,” she says, preening. “I do know my classics.”
“But the heart,” I continue, my voice dropping slightly, drawing the listeners closer. “The heart is where I have a question.”
Isolde’s smile falters. “A question?”
“The Bulgarian rose otto. It’s the star, of course. But it feels… thin. Almost sharp. It hasn’t bloomed correctly. Did you allow the absolute to mature for the full nine months before maceration?”
A blank look passes over her face. She has no idea what I’m talking about. She didn’t create this. She only stole it.
“Of course,” she sputters, a flush rising on her neck. “Every ingredient is of the highest quality.”
“I don’t doubt the quality,” I say smoothly. “Only the handling. A rushed rose is a sad thing, don’t you agree? It loses its depth. Its soul.”
An old perfumer from a rival house, a man named Monsieur Dubois, is now listening openly, his head cocked with interest. I have his full attention.
“And your base,” I go on, relentless. “The choice to use cashmeran with a heart that delicate… it’s certainly bold.”
“It provides a modern edge,” Isolde parrots, likely a line from the marketing brief.
“It provides a blanket,” I correct her gently. “It’s a shortcut to longevity, but it’s smothering the more subtle notes. The osmanthus is completely flattened. You can barely detect its apricot nuance. It’s a common mistake when a perfumer wants to anchor a complex floral without using a true, difficult animalic. Were you afraid of working with civet or castoreum?”
Isolde is completely white. Her two friends look back and forth between us, lost. But Monsieur Dubois is nodding slowly, his eyes alight with understanding. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He hears the same flaws she couldn’t.
“I… I felt this was the best expression of my vision,” she stammers, her voice losing its confident ring.
“Of course,” I say, taking a delicate sip of my champagne. “It’s your vision, after all.” I let the words hang in the air. I have not insulted her. I have not accused her of anything. I have simply spoken the truth, and in this room of experts, the truth is a guillotine.
She is speechless. Utterly, completely humiliated. She, the great new genius of Landen Perfumes, has just been verbally dissected by a socialite who supposedly has no knowledge of the art.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say, giving her a meaningless, brilliant smile. “I see someone I simply must say hello to.”
I turn and walk away, leaving her standing there, her face a mask of stunned fury, the whispers of the assembled critics already starting behind her like the rustle of dry leaves.
“Holy hell, Paige,” Julian breathes in my ear. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“Plans change,” I murmur back.
“You didn’t just fire a warning shot. You took out her entire command center with a sniper rifle.” There’s a note of pure, unadulterated awe in his voice.
A feeling I haven’t felt in years surges through me. It’s not just rage. It’s power. The thrill of the fight. The cold, clean satisfaction of landing a perfect blow.
My eyes scan the room, and I find him.
Connor Wilde is standing by the far wall, a glass of dark liquor in his hand. He wasn’t part of the crowd around Isolde, but he saw everything. I know he did.
He isn’t looking at Isolde’s humiliation. He’s looking directly at me.
His face is unreadable, a mask of cold control. But there’s a light in his gray eyes that wasn’t there before. It’s not just interest. It’s the sharp, focused gleam of a predator that has just seen its prey do something utterly, impossibly fascinating.
He lifts his glass in a small, almost imperceptible salute.
A shiver runs down my spine. I hold his gaze for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between us across the glittering, crowded room. He’s a shark, Julian had said.
And I just showed him I have teeth.
