My fiancé, Matthew Reid, spent 10 years building his career as a perfumer. I was there when no one cared about his work, and I stayed until every perfume he released sold out.   During his hardest year, Reid Fragrance Studio couldn't even afford an assistant. I organized his formulas by day and tested his fragrances by night until dozens of scents clung to my wrists at any given time.   Every perfume that later became a bestseller was perfected on my skin, right down to its final note.   I asked him for only one thing.   "You've created custom fragrances for so many people. Could you make one for me too? One that belongs only to me?"   He didn't even look up from the formula. His pen never stopped moving.   "Don't bring feelings into work."   I agreed and never asked again.   Then, on the night before the launch of Chloe, he sent me to his private fragrance cabinet to retrieve the final formula. Inside, I found several perfumes that had never been released: First Glance, Seventeen, The Snowfall When She Left, and Waiting for Her.   The same name was written on the bottom of every bottle.   The name was Chloe Parker.   The newest one had been finished three days earlier. The final line of the formula called for the gardenia note he had just captured from my wrist. In his own handwriting, the label read: For the only muse I'll ever have.   I put the perfume back and locked the cabinet.   The doctor had told me that the damage to my olfactory nerves was irreversible. If I kept going, I would soon lose my sense of smell completely.   I had waited 10 years. I didn't want to wait any longer.   Since there was no room for my name in his perfumes, I would take the gardenia scent that came from me and put an end to a love he had never acknowledged.