A Hundred Chances Is Enough

Chapter 2 The Stolen Signature Scent

Camera flashes filled the top floor of the Cloudridge Art Museum. Expensive cologne competed with the fragrance I had created.

I stood near the back in a simple black dress.

Behind the stage, a massive screen looped through flowers, misty forests, and Serena under soft lighting. Then came the bottle, its name etched in gold script: *Serenity*.

Beneath it, the tagline: “The new signature scent by Serena.”

I had spent a year perfecting it in my lab and named it *Aletheia*, Greek for truth. Julian’s company had renamed it and credited Serena.

Serena stood onstage in a flowing white gown, one hand looped through Julian’s arm.

When a reporter asked about the inspiration, she gave a small smile. “It came to me during a difficult time. It’s a scent of healing. Julian was so supportive. He knows how much this means to me.”

She found me in the crowd and held my gaze. “Julian tells me his wife is terribly private,” she added. “She doesn’t much care for these public affairs.”

Pens moved across notepads. By morning, I would be the reclusive wife and Serena the artist.

The reporters found a story more interesting than perfume. A few recognized me from old society photos, and their microphones turned my way.

“Mrs. Vance! What do you think of Serena’s creation?”

“Is it true you and Julian lead separate lives?”

Julian stared at me from the stage and shook his head once. The warning was familiar: keep quiet now, sign for another property later.

Five years earlier, I would have left in silence and waited for the next deed. Tonight, the divorce filing was already stamped.

I took a flute of champagne from a passing tray and stepped into the camera light.

“Thank you for your interest.” The room quieted, and the cameras turned. Onstage, Julian straightened.

“There’s a misunderstanding I’d like to clear up.” I lifted my glass. “Mrs. Vance is a private title. Professionally, I’m the perfumer Mr. Vance’s company hired for this fragrance.”

A confused murmur rippled through the press.

“I developed its top and heart notes under a freelance contract.”

Several reporters looked back at the bottle on the screen. Julian had gone pale.

I set my untouched glass on a table. “As of last night, that contract is over. I wish the company luck with its new creative direction.”

I put down the glass, walked through the crowd, and left the museum.

Later that night, from a first-class seat to Florence, I opened my laptop. The list held one hundred properties: penthouses, islands, mansions, wineries.

Each transfer was unconditional and in my name.

I attached the file to an email and sent it to the top international asset liquidation firm in Europe. I used a two-word subject line.

*For Immediate Sale.*

The sales would pay for my new workshop.