From Discarded Wife To Scent Queen

My husband, the ruthless Underboss of the Ewing crime family, was terrified of one thing: his dead fiancée's memory.

Or rather, her living sister, Ivana, who used that memory to turn my life into a living hell.

To "apologize" for humiliating me at a gala, Corbett brought me a peace offering: a green macaron.

"Pistachio," he promised. "Your favorite."

I took one bite, and my throat instantly seized. It felt like barbed wire tightening around my windpipe.

It wasn't pistachio. It was almond paste.

Corbett knew I was deadly allergic. He used to carry my EpiPen on our first dates.

As I collapsed to the floor, wheezing and clawing at my neck, a scream ripped from the guest wing.

"Corbett! Help! They're posting mean comments about me again!"

Ivana.

Corbett looked down at me, his dying wife, and then looked toward the hallway where Ivana was crying over Instagram.

He hesitated for only a second.

Then he pulled his leg away from my grasping hand.

"I'll be right back," he said, turning his back on me. "Just... use your pen."

He ran to comfort a healthy woman while I crawled across the carpet, vision tunneling, forcing the needle into my own thigh to restart my heart.

As I lay there shaking, listening to him soothe her, the last thread of love snapped.

I didn't call an ambulance.

I pulled a burner phone from behind the vanity mirror and texted the one man Corbett feared more than death-his rival, Don Kain Solomon.

"I accept. Get me out."

Chapter 1

Jenna Jarvis POV

I lay in the cold center of a bed that cost more than my father's entire life savings, realizing my marriage wasn't just dying; it was being murdered by a ghost.

The scratching at the door started at 2:00 AM.

It was a sound like rats in the walls, but I knew it was something far more vermin-like than a rodent.

Corbett shifted beside me.

His body went rigid, the muscle in his arm twitching against my shoulder.

He wasn't reaching for the gun on the nightstand-the heavy Glock 19 that signified his rank as the Underboss of the Ewing crime family.

He was reaching for his robe.

"She's here," he whispered, his voice thick with a concern that used to belong to me.

I shut my eyes.

I forced my breathing to slow, feigning sleep because the humiliation of witnessing this ritual for the nine hundred and eighty-sixth time was too heavy to bear with my eyes open.

The door creaked open.

Ivana stood there.

Even through my eyelashes, the silhouette was unmistakable.

She was draped in Elenor's silk robe, the peach one Corbett had bought for his late fiancée a week before the car bomb took her life.

She clutched a pillow to her chest, looking small, fragile, and entirely calculated.

"Corbett," she whimpered. "The nightmares. I see the fire again."

Corbett was out of bed before the sentence ended.

He went to her, his bare feet silent on the plush carpet, and wrapped his arms around the woman who made my life a living hell.

"I've got you, Ivana," he murmured, his hand stroking her hair. "I promised Elenor I'd protect you. I'm here."

He guided her toward the chaise lounge in the corner of our master suite.

This was the sanctity of a Made Man's bedroom, a place where Omertà should have extended to the sheets, a fortress no outsider should breach.

Yet here she was: the sister-in-law, the manipulator, the snake in the garden.

I lay still, my fingernails digging into the Egyptian cotton sheets.

Corbett Ewing was a man who commanded legions of soldiers, a man who could order a hit on a rival with a nod of his head.

But in this room, he was a puppet dancing on the strings of a dead woman's memory.

He settled her down, tucking a blanket around her legs with a tenderness that made bile rise in my throat.

"Is she asleep?" Ivana asked, her voice raising just enough to ensure I heard it.

"Yes," Corbett whispered. "Keep your voice down. She had a long day at the lab."

"She smells like chemicals," Ivana said, wrinkling her nose. "It triggers my migraines."

I didn't smell like chemicals.

I smelled like L'Heure Bleue and the distinct, metallic tang of misery.

I possessed the "Nose," a genetic gift from my father, the late Consigliere.

I could smell the cyanide in a glass of wine from across a table, and right now, I could smell the distinct, cloying scent of Ivana's triumph.

Corbett didn't defend me.

He just sighed. "Try to sleep, Ivana."

I waited until his breathing evened out, watching him sit in the chair beside her, guarding her sleep while his wife lay alone.

I slipped out of bed, silent as a shadow.

I retreated to the en-suite bathroom and locked the door.

The click of the lock was the loudest sound in the world.

I sat on the cold tile floor and pulled a burner phone from the hollow space behind the vanity mirror.

One new message.

The position in Grasse is yours. The lab is ready. Neutral territory. My protection is absolute. - K.S.

Kain Solomon.

The Don of the rival family. The man Corbett hated more than the Feds. The man who looked at me not as a piece of furniture, but as a weapon.

I stared at the screen.

Leaving a Mafia marriage wasn't a breakup; it was a death sentence.

But staying here was a slow suicide.

Suddenly, a scream shattered the silence of the suite.

"Jenna! Get off me! Help!"

My blood ran cold.

I wasn't even in the room.

I shoved the phone back into its hiding spot and unlocked the door, throwing it open.

Ivana was thrashing on the chaise lounge, clutching her throat, her eyes wide with theatrical terror.

Corbett was shaking her shoulders. "Ivana! What is it?"

"She tried to strangle me!" Ivana shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the bathroom door where I stood, frozen. "She came out of the dark and choked me!"

It was a lie so blatant, so physically impossible, that I almost laughed.

I had been locked in the bathroom. The distance was twenty feet.

Corbett turned to me.

His eyes were dark, devoid of the logic that made him a successful racketeer.

"Jenna," he growled, his voice dropping to that lethal register he used for enemies. "What did you do?"

"I was in the bathroom, Corbett," I said, my voice steady. "The door was locked. You heard the click."

"I heard you moving," he snapped. "She's shaking. Look at her."

Ivana sobbed, burying her face in his chest. "She hates me because I remind you of Elenor. She wants me dead."

"Apologize," Corbett demanded.

I stared at him.

This man, who had sworn before God and the Commission to cherish me.

He was looking at his wife and seeing a monster, while holding the devil in his arms.

"No," I said.

"Jenna," he warned, stepping toward me. "She is fragile. She is Elenor's blood. Apologize for scaring her."

"I didn't touch her."

"Apologize!" he roared, the sound vibrating through the walls.

I looked at his hand, clenched into a fist at his side.

I looked at Ivana, who was peeking out from his chest with a dry, smirk-twisted mouth.

The flame inside me, the one that had kept me warm through three years of neglect, flickered and went out.

It was replaced by a cold, dark void.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice hollow.

Corbett relaxed, thinking he had won.

"I'm sorry," I repeated, looking directly at him, "that you are too blind to see you are sleeping with a corpse."

Jenna Jarvis POV

Silence is usually a luxury in New York, but in the penthouse, it felt like a shroud.

Corbett had rushed Ivana to the emergency room at 3:00 AM because her "panic attack" had escalated into hyperventilation the moment I refused to grovel further.

He didn't ask me to come.

He didn't look back.

Now, sunlight was bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the museum I lived in.

Beige sofas. Beige walls. Abstract art that meant nothing-canvas voids devoid of soul.

It was Ivana's taste. Corbett had let her "redecorate" six months into our marriage because she said the colors soothed her trauma.

I walked into the master bedroom.

The bed was unmade. Ivana's pillow was still on the chaise, indented from her head.

I picked it up. It smelled of her perfume-a cheap, floral scent that failed to mask the underlying odor of decay she seemed to carry in her pores.

I threw it on the floor.

Corbett had told me to "clean up my act."

He told me to get rid of the "clutter" in my studio because the smell of the essential oils was bothering Ivana.

I walked to my studio down the hall.

Rows of amber bottles lined the shelves. My father's legacy.

Sandalwood from Mysore. Rose from Grasse. Oud from a supplier who had been dead for ten years.

These weren't just smells. They were memories. They were currency.

I didn't throw them away.

I began to pack.

I wrapped each bottle in velvet, placing them into nondescript cardboard boxes.

I wasn't cleaning up. I was extracting the only valuable thing left in this marriage: myself.

My phone buzzed. A notification from a gossip site.

Underboss Corbett Ewing Spotted at Le Petit Chou with Mystery Blonde. Comforting the Grieving Family?

I clicked the link.

The photo was timestamped an hour ago.

They weren't at the hospital.

They were at a high-end patisserie on the Upper East Side.

Corbett was feeding Ivana a macaron. His hand was cupping her jaw.

He looked devoted. He looked like a husband. Just not mine.

I felt a crack in my chest, a physical fracture running deep through the bone.

I called the butler, heavy boxes in my arms.

"Take these to the loading dock," I said. "Donation pickup."

It wasn't a donation. My contact from the Solomon family would be there in ten minutes.

By the time Corbett returned, the studio was bare.

He walked in, looking exhausted but self-righteous.

I was in the living room, standing over the incinerator chute in the utility closet.

I held a black trash bag.

"Where is Ivana?" I asked.

"She's resting in the guest wing," he said, loosening his tie. "The doctor said she needs absolute quiet. You were cruel last night, Jenna."

"I saw the photos," I said. "The macarons looked delicious."

He stiffened. "She needed sugar. Her blood pressure dropped."

"Feeding her by hand restores blood pressure? I must have missed that in medical school."

He glared at me. "Stop it. Stop being so jealous of a broken woman."

He noticed the bag in my hand. "What is that?"

"Our honeymoon albums," I said. "And the wedding video."

His eyes widened. "Jenna, don't be dramatic."

"You asked me to clean up the clutter," I said. "I'm removing the things that no longer exist."

I opened the chute. The metal clanged.

"Jenna, stop!"

I dropped the bag.

It vanished into the dark throat of the building.

Corbett stared at the empty space, his jaw working. "We will talk about this later. Right now, I need peace."

He walked to the kitchen counter and picked up a small white box.

"I brought you some," he said, his tone shifting, trying to pivot back to the benevolent provider. "Pistachio. Your favorite."

He held out a green macaron.

It was a peace offering. A bribe.

"Did she apologize?" I asked. "For accusing me of strangling her?"

Corbett sighed, rubbing his temples. "She doesn't remember saying it. She was in a fugue state. You have to be the bigger person, Jenna."

"I'm tired of being the bigger person, Corbett. I'm shrinking."

"Just eat the damn cookie," he said, thrusting it at me. "I'm trying here."

I looked at him. I looked at the cookie.

If I refused, we would fight for hours. If I ate it, maybe he would leave me alone long enough to finalize my exit.

I took the macaron. I took a bite.

The taste hit my tongue instantly.

Sweet. Nutty.

And then, bitter.

My throat seized. It felt like someone had wrapped a barbed wire noose around my windpipe and yanked.

Almond paste.

I was deathly allergic to almonds. Corbett knew this. He used to carry my EpiPen in his suit pocket on our first dates.

I dropped the cookie. I clawed at my throat.

"Jenna?" Corbett frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Al...mond..." I wheezed, falling to my knees. The room began to spin. Black spots danced in my vision.

"It's pistachio," he said, confused. "I ordered pistachio."

Suddenly, a scream ripped from the guest wing.

"Corbett! They're posting hateful comments about me! Help!"

Ivana.

I was gasping for air, my lungs turning to stone. I reached out a hand toward him, grabbing his pant leg.

Help me.

Corbett looked down at me, then toward the hallway where Ivana was screaming about Instagram comments.

He hesitated.

For one second, he looked at his dying wife.

Then he pulled his leg away from my grasp.

"I'll be right back," he said. "Where is your pen? Just... use your pen."

He turned and ran toward the guest wing.

He ran toward the noise.

I lay on the floor, my vision tunneling.

He left me.

He left me dying on the floor to comfort a woman upset about cyberbullying.

I dragged myself across the carpet, my fingernails breaking against the floor.

My purse. The kitchen counter.

I couldn't breathe. My heart was hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs.

I reached up, my hand shaking violently, and tipped my bag over.

Lipstick. Keys.

The yellow cap of the EpiPen.

I grabbed it. I didn't have the strength to check the dosage.

I swung my arm and stabbed the needle into my thigh, right through my jeans.

The click was the only sound in the room.

The adrenaline hit my system like a freight train.

I gasped, a horrible, ragged sucking of air.

I lay there, shaking, tears streaming down my face, listening to Corbett in the other room soothing Ivana.

"Shh, don't cry. It's just the internet. I'll have the accounts banned."

He was protecting her feelings while I fought to keep my heart beating.

I closed my eyes, and the last thread of love I had for Corbett Ewing snapped.

Jenna Jarvis POV

The hospital ceiling was a grid of white tiles, a sterile abacus counting down minutes of a life I felt slipping through my fingers.

I tried to swallow, but my throat seized; it felt as though I had swallowed a handful of razor blades.

I had driven myself to the ER-or rather, I had stumbled into a cab, rasped the address, and collapsed in the backseat before the driver could even ask if I was okay.

I woke up alone.

There were no flowers. No husband pacing the floor. Just the rhythmic, indifferent beep of the cardiac monitor.

I reached for the phone on the bedside table, my movements sluggish. My fingers were bruised from where the IV had been inserted previously.

I dialed Corbett.

It rang four times.

"Hello?"

It wasn't Corbett.

"Ivana," I croaked. My voice was a wreck, a jagged ruin of sound.

"Oh, Jenna," she purred. "Corbett is in the shower. He's so stressed. You really shouldn't have caused such a scene over a cookie. It was very dramatic."

"Put him on," I whispered, gripping the plastic receiver until my knuckles turned white.

"He's busy," she said, dismissively. "We have a meeting with the florist. For the gala. You know how important appearances are."

She hung up.

I stared at the phone, listening to the dial tone hum like a flatline.

Rage is usually described as hot, like fire. But this rage was cold. It was absolute zero, freezing the tears in my ducts before they could fall.

I ripped the IV out of my arm. A sharp sting was followed by a warm trickle as blood dripped onto the pristine white sheets, blooming like a stark red poppy.

I didn't care.

I dressed in my ruined clothes and walked out of the room, using the wall for support.

"Ma'am, you can't leave! You're Against Medical Advice!" a nurse called out from the station, half-rising from her chair.

"I'm saving my own life," I rasped, and kept walking without looking back.

I took a cab back to the penthouse.

When I entered, the air smelled overwhelmingly of lilies-the scent of funerals.

Corbett was in the living room, arranging a massive bouquet of white lilies in a crystal vase. He looked the picture of the grieving husband, minus the grief.

He looked up, startled. "Jenna? The hospital said you left."

"I did."

He rushed over, trying to hug me. I stepped back, putting a clear three feet of distance between us.

"Don't," I said.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking pained, though whether it was guilt or inconvenience, I couldn't tell. "I didn't know it was almond. The box said pistachio. It was a mistake."

"Leaving me on the floor wasn't a mistake, Corbett. It was a choice."

He flinched. "Ivana was hysterical. I thought you had your pen. I knew you could handle it. You're strong, Jenna. She's... she's not."

"I'm strong because I have to be," I said, my voice gaining a steely edge. "Because my husband is weak."

His face hardened. "Watch your mouth."

"I want a divorce."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

Corbett laughed. It was a dry, incredulous sound. "You can't divorce me. We are married. You are a Ewing. Nobody leaves."

"Watch me."

"Jenna, stop this," he said, his voice lowering into that reasonable tone he used to manipulate board members. "I'm trying to make it up to you. Look at the flowers. And... I have a solution for the studio issue."

My stomach dropped. "What solution?"

"Ivana needs a space," he said. "For her art therapy. Her therapist suggested it."

"And?"

"And your studio has the best light."

"No," I said, panic fluttering in my chest. "That is my work. My equipment. My father's organ."

"You packed it all up anyway," he said, gesturing to the empty shelves. "I saw the boxes were gone. You don't need the furniture."

"The perfume organ is an antique. It's built into the wall. You can't move it."

"I hired specialists," he said.

A loud thud came from down the hall.

I ran.

I ran past him, down the corridor, to my sanctuary.

Two men in blue jumpsuits were wrestling the massive oak workbench-the organ where my father had taught me how to blend jasmine and cedar-through the doorframe.

Wood splintered.

A deep gouge appeared on the side of the desk, exposing the raw, pale wood beneath the varnish.

"Stop!" I screamed, grabbing the arm of one of the movers. "Put it down!"

"Mrs. Ewing, please," the man said, looking nervous. "Mr. Ewing gave the order."

I turned to Corbett, who had followed me at a leisurely pace.

"Tell them to stop," I begged. My pride was gone. This was my soul they were dragging across the floor. "Corbett, please. It's all I have left of him."

Corbett looked at the desk, then at the empty room that would soon be filled with Ivana's chaotic, amateurish paints.

"It's just furniture, Jenna," he said softly. "Ivana needs this. Let it go."

He signaled the men.

They heaved. The leg of the desk caught on the doorframe and snapped with a sickening crack.

It sounded like a bone breaking.

I didn't scream.

I just stood there, watching my heritage being hauled away to the trash, while my husband supervised the demolition of my heart.