Chapter 3

Clutching that card, tears threatened to spill from my eyes.

The door swung open. Aurora walked in, spotting the tools, her expression shifting through shock, mockery, and cold sneer.

"Julian certainly has too much time on his hands, humoring a kid with toy chemistry sets."

She picked up the vial of May Rose absolute, brought it to her nose, and wrinkled it in disgust.

"And here I thought Julian had immaculate taste. Even he gets distracted by cheap parlor tricks."

She tossed the priceless vial carelessly onto my vanity.

"Know your place, Eve. Don't think a few polite words from Julian make you somebody. In this family, in his world, this little hobby of yours doesn't even qualify as a joke."

I stayed silent, picked up the glass vial, and carefully nestled it back into its cushioned box.

A quiet voice echoed in my head: "At least he sees me. You never did."

Julian’s gift became the only light in my gray world.

I threw myself into perfumery, spending day and night inside my glass greenhouse.

My allergy symptoms faded. I cut off the heavy bangs I had used to hide behind, revealing a clean forehead.

I wasn't a stunner like Aurora, but I could finally look in the mirror and smile.

My mother was a legendary tastemaker in the fashion circuit.

When Aurora changed a shade of lipstick, my mother could immediately tell whether it was Armani or Louboutin, analyzing the subtle shift in her power aesthetic.

Yet my new haircut went completely unnoticed for an entire week.

I still had a shred of hope.

During a rare family dinner, I took a breath and asked, "Mom, do you notice anything different about me today?"

My mother’s eyes lifted from her Forbes magazine, brushed across my face for half a second, and she waved her hand like swatting an annoying fly.

"Aurora's European project hit a snag, and I have a migraine. Don't bother me with trifles, Eve."

In that instant, every desire to share died inside me.

From that day forward, I stopped talking about myself.

Even when I won the New Talent Award at an international perfumery competition, I kept quiet. If they didn't ask, I didn't speak.

Perhaps my complete silence finally gave them peace of mind.

On my twentieth birthday, my father handed me a bank draft and the deed to a cottage on the outskirts of town.

He called it an "adulthood gift."

In reality, it was an eviction notice. A polite, gilded exile.

My mother delivered the news with practiced grace.

"Eve, you're an adult now. You need space to breathe. Our house is always packed with business associates, and it disrupts your quiet time. It’s better out there."

"Besides, Aurora and Julian are getting engaged soon. We're remodeling the estate, and construction will be dusty. With your weak lungs, we wouldn't want you getting sick."

Every sentence sounded caring.

Every word told me: "There is no room for you here anymore."

I remained quiet, then accepted the keys.

On moving day, Aurora stood by the door in her riding boots, fresh from the polo club, tapping her whip against her leg.

She watched the movers carry my glass flacons with raw contempt.

"Good. Get out. Stop stinking up the house with your concoctions."

She paused, using the tip of her riding crop to tap a box packed with rare resins.

"Do you know the difference between us, Eve?"

She didn't wait for my answer.

"I create billions in market value for the Vance name. And you?" She gave a cold chuckle. "You create fleeting smells that evaporate into thin air."

"Be grateful the family is giving you a house. We don't owe freeloaders a living."