Page 71 of October
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What?"
"I'm opening a dog shelter."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
"Yeah. I once told Joseph how I'd always loved animals, how I used to dream of having a pet when I was a kid, but I was never allowed, and later, when I was finally old enough to make that choice for myself, life just got in the way. I never had the time. Never had the energy.
So one day, he surprised me. He took me to visit different types of animal shelters. Suggested it could 'loosen whatever medieval sword I've apparently got lodged in my spine.' Said I needed reminding that I'm not the center of the universe—that there's a lot of pain out there, and not all of it's mine. We went to places full of cats curled up in corners, blinking slowly like they already knew too much about being left behind. We went to shelters for dogs too, with rows of wagging tails and hopeful eyes, some barking, some too tired to even try. He even found a rescue that took in rabbits, ferrets, the odd bird with missing feathers—like a whole world of forgotten lives under one roof."
He rubbed his palms together awkwardly, but his smile was genuine. "And... I kind of fell in love with this one. Found thisrun-down place no one cared about, made the necessary steps, and... I'm the owner now. But also the worker. Cleaning kennels, mopping floors, walking dogs... all of it."
A laugh, small but real, escaped me. "What did you name the shelter?"
"The Marigold"
...The birth flower of October.
Chapter Twenty-Three: Shades of Beige and Betrayal
I loved studying perfumery. I'd been reading about scent composition for years, testing oils and accords late at night when the house was asleep as a hobby. But now... it was official.Structured. I had modules, assignments, feedback. Chemistry mixed with poetry.
It felt good toknowsomething. To build something that wasn't tied to anyone else—not my parents, not Thomas, not even the kids. Just mine.
Most days I took the online courses from the kitchen table, books spread around me like a tiny empire, notes on aldehydes, jasmine absolutes, fixatives, volatile top notes. The instructor had a sharp Parisian accent and a dry sense of humor. I liked her immediately.
But it wasn't just the theory I loved; it was the lab days. The course partnered with a local workshop downtown, one of those tucked-away places with tile floors, wooden shelves stacked with amber bottles, and the constant, soft hum of low jazz playing from someone's ancient speaker. It smelled like citrus peel and orris root, like someone had bottled an old bookstore and left it to ripen in the sun.
The first time I stepped inside, I nearly cried. It was like walking into something I'd been building in my head for years—but real. Tangible. Mine.
I'd lost track of how many trial scents I'd mixed. I had one that reminded me of Lola's hair when she's just out of the bath. Another that smelled like late summer after rain. Another still, sharp and resinous, that made me think of the momentbeforea kiss, and now... I was thinking of turning it into more than a dream. I had savings of my own and of course, there was the house. And the money in the bank Thomas made sure was fully in my name after everything exploded. Legally, financially, I wasn't going to drown.
But I didn't want comfort just for the sake of comfort. I wantedwork. I wantedindependence. The idea of a shop—arealone, with warm light, soft chairs for customers, shelves filled with scents I'd created myself, felt less like fantasy and more like something waiting for me to catch up.
Thomas had mentioned the other night that the company's valuation had dropped since his father's scandal. "Market confidence is shot," he said, resting his head in his hands. "We're solvent, but brand equity's taken a hit. There are analysts working on repositioning, but it's going to take time."
I didn't flinch when he said it. The old me might have panicked at the wordsvaluation,solvent,repositioning, like money was this fragile thing that could snap under our feet. But now, I didn't feel like I was hanging by his rope anymore. I had my own. And I was going to follow it all the way to somethingbeautiful.
As usual, I called August to meet at the gym. The moment I stepped inside, her head snapped up, and she burst out laughing. "Only you," she said, shaking her head, "would walk into a gym smelling like a perfume ad. Like, who does that? Who comes here smelling expensive?"
She was already there, sitting on one of the mats with her knees hugged to her chest, scrolling through her phone like she owned the place. I grinned, dropping my bag next to hers. "What can I say? I have a brand to maintain."
"Oh, I know. 'Tragic but smells divine.' Very niche. Very high fashion."
I nudged her foot with mine. "Rude. Hey."
"Hey yourself."
I sat down beside her, stretching my legs out in front of me. "Honestly, I feel like I'm here more for emotional damage control than fitness these days."
She smirked. "Aren't we all? Trauma squats. Betrayal pushups. Disappointment lunges. I'm basically ready for the Olympics at this point."
That made me laugh, she smiled faintly. "Emotional weightlifting burns calories too, apparently."
I sat down next to her and let out a slow breath. "I talked to Thomas.We talked about everything. No more half-truths, no more dodging. I got my answers, the real ones this time. And yet... the pain didn't disappear just because I finally understood. Knowing doesn't always heal. Sometimes it just sharpens the edges of what's already broken."
August didn't say anything right away. She just locked her phone and gave me her full attention, the way only someone who's lived through something similar can.
"I've been thinking about it a lot lately, more than I'd like to admit. Sometimes I wonder if it would've been easier if he'd just slept with her, like, if it had been a one-night stand, some careless, pathetic mistake, and the strange part is, I know he didn't. I know him, he doesn't even like touching people; even with me, it took time, trust. And yet, some twisted part of me almost wishes he had. Because then I could've pointed at it, held it up like evidence in court, something real, something with edges. I could've named it, hated it properly, burned the whole thing to ash and been done with it.
