chapter 154
Scarlett Smith's POV:
The maid's hurried footsteps outside my studio door told me my time alone was ending. I set down my brush, the scent of jasmine oil paint still fresh on my fingertips.
"Mrs. Smith," she said softly, hovering at the threshold. "Miss Mia has retired for the evening. She asked me to ensure her competition piece was properly stored."
I nodded, watching as she carefully lifted the perfume presentation case Mia had been perfecting for weeks. The LUMIÈRE fragrance competition.
Even from across the ocean, I followed every development with an attention that bordered on obsession.
"Leave it," I heard myself say. "I'll see to it myself."
The maid hesitated, clearly torn between following my instruction and her loyalty to Mia. Smart girl. In this household, allegiances shifted like sand.
After she left, I approached the presentation. Mia's work was technically flawless—every note precisely balanced, every transition seamless. She'd inherited my understanding of composition, if not my passion for the story behind each scent.
But as I inhaled the fragrance more deeply, my fingers trembling slightly as they adjusted the formula notes, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. The soul of it. That indefinable quality that transformed mere ingredients into memory.
If she submitted this for the competition, Mia might place—technical precision alone could carry her that far. But she'd never break into the top ranks.
My hands moved of their own accord, adding a drop here, adjusting the base notes there. Small changes that somehow made the fragrance breathe differently, tell its story with whispers rather than shouts.
It wasn't until I heard the soft cough from the doorway that I realized what I'd done.
"Mother," Ethan's voice carried that particular blend of concern and disapproval I'd grown accustomed to. "You shouldn't be up this late. Not with your condition."
He stood there in his silk pajamas, looking every inch the devoted son.
"I was just admiring your sister's work," I said, stepping back from the presentation case. "She's quite talented."
His gaze flickered between me and the perfume bottles, sharp enough to catch the subtle alterations I'd made to the composition notes. "Mother, you can't keep doing this. Helping her when she doesn't even know—"
"What would you have me do?" The words came out sharper than intended. "Watch her fail? She's my daughter."
"And spoiling her helps how exactly?" He moved closer, his face half in shadow. "The other competitors don't have mothers secretly improving their work in the dead of night."
I turned away, unable to meet his eyes. He was right, of course. But how could I explain the compulsion that drove me? The need to see her succeed, to give her the advantages I'd never been able to give to—
The memory hit me without warning. A small girl with bright eyes, sitting cross-legged in our tiny garden, carefully sorting rose petals by their subtle differences in scent. "Mama, this one smells like honey," she'd said, holding up a bloom with such reverence. "And this one is like sunshine."
She'd been so gifted, even then. I'd dreamed of the day she'd grow up to take the fragrance world by storm, winning every competition, her name in lights. Instead, I'd left her with nothing but absence.
"Go back to bed, Ethan," I said quietly.
He lingered another heartbeat, then turned and walked away, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
---
Several days later, when the competition results were finally announced, Mia burst into the breakfast room, her face glowing with triumph.
"First place!" She practically sang the words, waving the official notification. "Mother, I did it! The judges said my piece showed 'exceptional maturity and refinement.'"
I forced a smile, ignoring the bitter taste of guilt on my tongue. "Congratulations, darling. You worked very hard."
"But there's media coverage about that Onyx person too," she continued, her enthusiasm dimming slightly. "Some are saying she should have won. They're calling her a prodigy."
The maid setting out breakfast seemed to freeze for a moment before continuing her work. Even the servants knew better than to show too much interest in certain topics.
"The media loves to create drama," I said carefully, buttering my toast with mechanical precision. "What matters is the official result."
Mia nodded, but I could see the shadow of doubt in her eyes. "I researched her submissions. Natural, botanical fragrances with this... melancholic undertone. Like she's trying to capture something lost." She shook her head dismissively. "Too sentimental for real luxury market appeal."
My hand stilled. "Sometimes the most powerful fragrances come from genuine emotion."
"You sound like you admire her," Mia said, her tone sharpening.
"I admire anyone who pursues their passion authentically," I replied, meeting her gaze steadily. "Competition brings out the best in true artists."
She seemed satisfied with that, returning to her breakfast with renewed appetite.
But I could barely swallow another bite. This Onyx—whoever she was—had touched something deep in the judges' hearts to come so close to winning despite the odds clearly stacked against her.
Later, in the privacy of my studio, I pulled up the competition coverage on my tablet. There she was—Onyx, the mysterious perfumer who'd taken second place. No photos of her face, just images of elegant bottles and detailed fragrance notes that made my breath catch.
Jasmine. Vanilla. Rain-soaked earth. The ghost of woodsmoke.
I knew these combinations. They were the same ones I'd taught my daughter when she was small, showing her how to layer scents to tell stories of home and longing. But that was impossible. That's just a coincidence.
Thousands of perfumers used similar notes. Still, my hands trembled as I scrolled through the formula descriptions.
"Ma'am?" The maid's voice startled me. "Mr. Smith has returned. He's requesting your presence in his study."