Lance's POV:

"What exactly are you worried about?" I asked, a frown deepening my features. I knew Chloe would be emotional after our split, but I also knew her better than anyone.

"Lance, don't you want to know who that man in the car was?" Keira’s voice was soft, but it carried a sharp edge. "She’s impulsive right now. What if she’s associating with people just to spite us?"

My expression turned cold. "Chloe isn't like that. She has always been disciplined, almost to a fault." We had been together for eight years. Even in our younger, more idealistic days, she always maintained a clear boundary between her professional and private life. She was always within my sight—working, resting, dedicating herself to the company. The idea of her using someone else to get back at me didn't fit the woman I knew.

"Always disciplined, huh?" Keira murmured, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "I just hope she doesn't do anything she'll regret. That man... maybe it was just a coincidence."

"Don't worry about it," I said, trying to settle the unease in my own chest. "Stay away from the office today. The reporters are likely everywhere. I'll take you home soon."

I reached out, my hand brushing her cheek where the skin was still flushed. "Does it still hurt?"

"No," Keira whispered, leaning into the contact. "As long as you’re here, I don't feel the pain. I feel protected." I wrapped an arm around her, a protective instinct rising within me, yet my mind drifted back to the image of that Maybach and the silent authority it represented.

Chloe's POV:

I stayed with Grandma Alyssa until she grew weary. The years were catching up with her, and the day's excitement had taken its toll.

"Chloe, you must be tired too," she said gently. "Go take a nap in the guest room on the second floor—the one at the end of the hall."

I smiled awkwardly, my heart skipping a beat. I knew exactly which room she meant—it was Damon’s. "No need, Grandma. I’ll just take a walk in the garden. The fresh air will do me good."

"Alright, dear. Treat this place as your own. Do as you please."

The estate's garden was breathtaking in the early evening light. As a perfumer, I found the air itself to be a symphony of scents. The flower branches were meticulously trimmed, and several buds were on the verge of blooming, their petals shyly waiting for the moonlight.

The fragrance of damp earth mixed with the delicate sweetness of the flora triggered a dozen scent profiles in my mind. I found a few rare varieties I wasn't familiar with and leaned over to inhale their unique aroma.

As I bent down, a sharp, dull pain radiated through my waist—a reminder of the physical and emotional strain of the past few days. I straightened up slowly, looking at the grand house behind me. I was a stranger here, yet the scents of this garden felt more like home than any office I had ever occupied.

I closed my eyes, letting the evening breeze carry the complex notes of jasmine and cedar toward me. For the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about Lance, or Keira, or the Olson Group. I was thinking about the potential of a new scent—and the mysterious man who had provided the sanctuary where I could find it.