Chapter 4 Where Smoke Hangs in the Roses

Sometimes the wounds you live with aren't scars-they're family.

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Eden

Mornings at the shop are always the same.

The slow roll of blinds. The soft chime of the front door. The quiet gurgle of the old espresso machine in the back.

And my uncle's voice-sharp like clove, smooth like whiskey.

"Eden," he calls. "We've got the client from Zurich coming by at noon. Make sure the samples are set and nothing smells like last night's ramen."

That last part is a dig.

I get it. I forgot to take out my dinner again.

"On it," I call back, already tying my apron.

The shop smells like bergamot and white rose today. Not because I planned it. That's just what happens when I mix bottles on auto-pilot.

My uncle's name is Charles Monroe. To customers, he's charming, elegant, the silver-haired perfumer with a French accent no one can place and hands that never stop moving.

To me, he's just the man who kept me alive when I didn't know how to grieve.

He raised me. Fed me. Paid for therapy I skipped.

And in return, he thinks he owns pieces of me I never offered.

"You're distracted again," he says later, peering over his glasses. "The Zurich blend is too citrus-heavy. Fix it before noon."

"I like the citrus," I mumble, but I already know he won't listen.

He sighs dramatically. "And that necklace. Still wearing it? Makes you look like a rich man's secret."

My heart does a small twist. "It's not yours to comment on."

He just lifts a brow. "Everything you wear in this shop is mine to comment on."

That's the thing about Charles. He loves me, sure. But it's the kind of love that comes with rules, debts, and ownership written between the lines.

At lunch, Aurora breezes in.

She's flawless, as always. Glossy brown hair tied in a perfect high ponytail. Cream pantsuit. Her scent is strong-oud and leather with a hint of something sweet underneath. Fake sweet.

"Darling cousin," she says, air-kissing my cheeks without touching them. "I came to check on your little perfume disaster. Heard you spilled vetiver all over a luxury batch."

I smile tightly. "It was a drop. And the bottle was already cracked."

She shrugs. "That's what happens when you work like an artist and not a businesswoman."

Aurora works the numbers. She doesn't blend. Doesn't create. But she knows how to talk, and she knows how to sell. Charles loves her for that.

He walks in mid-conversation and lights up when he sees her.

"Aurora," he beams. "Eden needs your help with client management. She's too dreamy lately."

"I can manage my clients just fine," I say quickly.

"She's always been emotional," Aurora says sweetly. "But that's what makes her scents so... unstable."

That hit hard.

I wipe my hands on my apron and walk to the back, ignoring Charles's sigh.

Sometimes I think I should've left this shop years ago.

Started my own studio. My own life.

But the truth is... it feels like all I have.

The shop. The oils. The constant fight to be enough in the eyes of people who already decided I wasn't.

That night, I stay late.

Alone. Lights low. Music soft. Just me and my scent strips.

I pull out a blank vial and start mixing something new. Something sharp and sweet. Something that smells like rebellion.

Then I glance at the envelope on my desk again-the one with the black wax seal and the words Come pretty still taunting me like a dare.

I don't know if I'm going.

But I pick up the silver necklace resting beside me... and I put it on.

Just to see how it feels.