Chapter 3

3 Savannah was a humid, coastal city. The winter breeze didn't bite like the wind in Chicago.

I found work at a small fragrance company as a perfumer's assistant. The pay was just enough for rent and medical bills.

My boss, Mrs. Chen, was a divorcee who raised her kid alone. She saw my belly during the interview, asked nothing, and just said, “Start tomorrow.”

During my final week of pregnancy, I was still in the lab measuring essential oils.

My water broke at 9 PM while I was home alone. I hailed a ride, and the driver almost blew three red lights seeing my condition.

On the operating table, things went wrong.

I heard the doctors shouting my name. The monitors began to beep with a terrifying, high-pitched alarm.

Nurses were running in and out. Then, every sound faded into a dull, fuzzy hum.

I stared at the bright surgical lights, thinking of only one thing.

He can’t die. I carried him for ten months. He has to live.

I woke up at 3 AM. The room was dim, lit only by a small nightlight.

A tiny, wrinkled baby lay in a bassinet next to my bed, wrapped in a white swaddle. He was sleeping soundly.

Cassie was sitting in a chair nearby. Her hair was a mess, and her makeup was smeared across her face.

She was holding a critical condition notice she had signed on my behalf.

“You’re a lunatic,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “You didn't call me. You took an Uber by yourself while you were literally dying―”

“Is he okay?” I rasped.

Cassie froze, then burst into tears.

“He’s perfect. He looks just like you. His eyes are so bright.”

I turned my head toward the bassinet. His tiny fingers were curled, and his breath was as light as a kitten’s.

“His name is Asher,” I said. “Asher Rhodes Vance.”

“Rhodes?” Cassie blinked.

I smiled at her. “Named after his favorite aunt.”

Cassie cried for a long time that night. I still didn't cry.

I wasn't heartless. I had just moved past the stage where tears were necessary.

My son was alive. I was alive. That was all that mattered.

After I was discharged, Mrs. Chen promoted me to Junior Perfumer. She said the database I organized during my maternity leave helped win three major clients.

“You were born for this,” she said, handing me a new ID badge.

Four years passed. I became the Lead Perfumer for the Indo-Global Fragrance Group's Asia-Pacific division.

Cassie sent me a text one afternoon: “Someone is asking about you in Chicago.”

“Who?”

“The great Mr. Sterling.”

I looked at the name. Four years, and I thought I didn't care anymore. But my heart still skipped a beat.

“Let him ask.”

“There’s more. Indo-Global is opening a flagship in Chicago. They want you to headline the launch.”

“When?”

“Next month.”

I looked out the window at the Savannah coast. The waves kept hitting the shore, over and over again.

“I’ll go,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I took down a drawing Asher had made and tucked it into my bag. “I’m not going back to hide. I’m going back to prove something.”

“What’s that?”

“That the woman who signed those papers five years ago is dead and buried.”