The wife he threw away built a bigger empire

The wall clock in the kitchen ticked loudly, a slow and agonizing sound. It was 11:45 PM. I sat at the dining table, staring at the two plates of food sitting on the expensive mahogany wood. I spent my entire week's pay from the diner to buy top-tier ribeye steaks, fresh asparagus, and baby potatoes. I spent three hours cooking everything to absolute perfection. Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. I looked down at my dress. It was a simple, faded blue cotton dress I bought five years ago. It was the nicest thing I owned. My feet throbbed in pain from working a fourteen-hour shift at the Silver Diner earlier that day. My fingers had tiny burn marks from the grill, but I had scrubbed them clean and sprayed a little bit of vanilla water on my wrists so I would smell nice for him. By 1:00 AM, the steak was freezing cold. The butter on the potatoes had congealed into a hard yellow crust. I picked up my cracked phone and dialed Nathan’s number for the seventh time. “You have reached the voicemail of Nathan Vanguard, CEO of Vanguard Fragrances. Please leave a message.” I slowly lowered the phone. A suffocating lump formed in my throat. I tried to push the bad thoughts away. I told myself he was just stuck in a late-night board meeting. I told myself he was working hard for our future. That was what I always told myself every time he missed a dinner, every time he forgot my birthday, and every time he looked at me with cold, distant eyes. I rested my head on my arms on the table. The sheer physical exhaustion of my day finally took over. My eyes grew heavy , and I drifted into a restless sleep right there in the dining chair. The loud click of the front door unlocking jolted me awake. I gasped and sat up straight. The clock on the wall read 2:15 AM. The oak door swung open, and Nathan walked into the penthouse. He wore a sharp, custom-tailored black suit. His hair was perfectly styled, but his tie was pulled loose. He looked incredibly handsome, but his expression was deeply annoyed when he saw me sitting at the table. "Nathan," I said softly, rubbing my tired eyes. I stood up, ignoring the sharp pain in my aching heels. "You are home." "Why are the lights still on?" Nathan sighed heavily. He dropped his expensive leather briefcase onto the floor and took off his suit jacket. "I told you I was going to be late, Hazel." "You did not text me," I whispered. I walked slowly toward him. "Today is our anniversary, Nathan. I made your favorite ribeye steak. I waited for you." As I stepped closer to him, my breath suddenly hitched. My nose was not like a normal person's nose. I had a hyper-sensitive olfactory nerve. It was a rare genetic trait that allowed me to break down complex scents into their rawest chemical notes. Before I dropped out of university to pay Nathan's bills, I was top of my botanical chemistry class. The air around Nathan hit my senses like a physical slap. He smelled like expensive dry champagne. But underneath the alcohol, there was a , sweet perfume clinging to his shirt. My mind automatically broke the scent down. It was a synthetic peony note, mixed with white musk, and a cheap ethanol base. It was cloying. It was loud. And I did not create it. I only wore pure vanilla water. A woman had been pressed tightly against his chest. My heart shattered into a million tiny, sharp pieces. The realization hit me so hard my knees actually buckled slightly. The late nights. The ignored phone calls. The cold looks. It all made terrifying sense now. "You are smelling my shirt like a dog," Nathan snapped, stepping back with a look of utter disgust. "Stop doing that, Hazel. It is weird." I swallowed the lump of tears in my throat. I refused to break down and scream. I still desperately wanted to save my marriage. I wanted to believe there was a mistake. "I can heat up your food," I offered, my voice shaking terribly. I turned toward the cold plates on the table. "It will only take two minutes in the microwave, Nathan. Please, just sit with me for five minutes." "I am not hungry," Nathan said coldly. He did not walk toward the kitchen. He picked up his leather briefcase from the floor. He snapped the golden locks open and pulled out a thick, cream-colored manila folder. He walked over to the glass coffee table in the center of the living room and tossed the folder down. It landed with a , final thud. I looked at the folder, and then I looked at my husband's cold, empty brown eyes. "Sign the papers, Hazel," Nathan said, his voice completely devoid of any emotion. "We are done playing pretend."