Chapter 5

"Second-degree burns, with some deep second-degree areas."

The doctor took off his gloves and looked up at me. "What do you do for work?"

"I’m a perfumer."

He paused, and the motion of tossing his gloves into the trash slowed by half a beat.

"The deep second-degree areas over the joints on the back of your right hand may leave scars. Right now, we still need to monitor the wound for infection risk, and skin grafting cannot be ruled out later."

"Will finger movement be affected?"

"It’s hard to say for now. It depends on recovery. If scar contracture develops, the bending angle of your fingers may be limited."

By the time Ava rushed into the hospital room, my hand was already wrapped in gauze.

"Serena Cole, are you insane? Why didn’t you call me? Your hand—"

"Help me do a few things."

Her eyes were red with anxiety, and her mouth was still open before she could finish scolding me.

"First, block every contact method for Ethan Shaw."

"Okay."

"Second, help me check flights to Grasse today."

"You’re leaving?"

"I’m going to Grasse. There’s a fragrance-producing region there, and I contacted an estate owner before. I can do independent R&D there."

"Wait—your hand is already like this, and you still—"

"Ava."

She shut up.

I lowered my head and looked at my right hand, wrapped tightly in gauze. Beneath the white bandages were ulcerated wounds, broken blisters, and a piece of skin whose future was uncertain.

A perfumer’s hand.

"Help me buy a ticket. Tonight."

She said nothing more and took out her phone to start working. She blocked him and deleted all chat records.

Then she suddenly stopped.

"Serena, look at this."

She handed me her phone.

It was an Ins page. The account was called "Lily Sweetpea," with half a side profile as the avatar, and an amethyst necklace hanging at the collarbone—I had seen the same style beside the cup rack in Ethan’s bathroom.

The latest post had been published three hours ago.

Title: [New Home Decorating Vlog | Building Our Little Nest with Him]

A nine-photo grid.

The first photo was the living room, my sofa, the floor lamp I chose, and a bouquet of gardenias on the table.

The second photo was the kitchen, with the fridge door open and rows of thirty-percent-sugar Coke inside, the sticky notes on the cups clearly visible.

The third photo was the bathroom. That pink SMALL BUT MIGHTY cup was placed in the center, and the spot for my toothbrush beside it was already empty.

The fourth photo was the bedroom.

The photo on the nightstand had been changed. In the frame was a photo of Ethan and Lily together, the two of them leaning against each other at the beach Ethan and I had gone to last year.

Comments:

"You’re so happy! Your boyfriend’s place is huge!"

"How many bedrooms is this? So luxurious for two people!"

"I’m jealous, I’m jealous. When are you getting the marriage license?"

In three hours, there were two hundred and forty-seven comments.

She had turned my home into her content material.

My sofa, my lamp, the lease I signed, the home I found, all became "our little nest" in her title.

"There’s another one." Ava scrolled down to a post from last week. "Look at this."

Title: [My Perfumery Diary | Learning to Make Perfume at My Boyfriend’s Company]

In the photo was an open leather-bound notebook—my mother’s formula notebook.

She had photographed the inner pages.

My mother’s fountain pen writing, the raw material ratios and scent trial records written line by line, had been photographed and posted on social media by her, with the caption: "My boyfriend’s company’s exclusive formula notebook. I heard it’s worth millions. I’ll work hard too and become a master perfumer!"

One thousand three hundred likes.

Four hundred and seventy saves.

The things my mother wrote stroke by stroke were now in the saved folders of four hundred and seventy strangers.

"Serena…"

"Have you bought the plane ticket?"

"I bought it. Eleven tonight."

"Let’s go."

I stood up, without putting my right arm into the sleeve of my coat, and when the gauze on the back of my hand brushed against the edge of my clothes, the pain made my vision go white.

Ava supported my arm and walked me to the hospital lobby, and my phone suddenly rang.

An unfamiliar number.

When I answered, it was a man’s voice, very formal. "May I ask if this is Ms. Serena Cole? I’m Attorney Clark from M&C Law Firm, contacting you on behalf of Mr. Ethan Shaw."

"What is it?"

"The share agreement you previously signed with Mr. Shaw does not constitute a valid shareholder relationship under the law because it does not have the statutory filing procedures required by the company charter. Mr. Shaw hopes to negotiate with you amicably—"

"You mean that agreement is invalid?"

"Strictly speaking, that handwritten document is indeed difficult to use as—"

"I invested eight hundred thousand at the time. There are transfer records."

"Mr. Shaw’s position is that the nature of that sum was a personal loan rather than an equity investment, and he is willing to repay it in installments—"

I hung up.

The taxi was waiting at the entrance. Ava opened the car door, looked at my face, and said nothing.

After the car drove through two intersections, she finally asked quietly, "Serena, are you… okay right now?"

The night slid past the car window, and streetlights retreated one by one.

"Help me look into someone," I said. "Lily Hart’s background, work experience, and how she got into Ethan’s company."

"You suspect she—"

"I don’t believe anything anymore. Help me investigate."