Chapter 11
Valeria’s fragrance house launched eight months later.
Without Luca.
Without Caradonna accords.
I received a bottle anonymously.
I knew immediately who sent it.
Solenne.
Reworked.
Less orris.
More tea.
Stronger cedar.
Better.
I hated that too.
Mother smelled it.
“Nice.”
“That’s all?”
“What do you want? A duel?”
She sprayed her wrist.
Then:
“She found her own smell.”
That sentence landed.
Yes.
No Caradonna skeleton beneath it.
No stolen private accord.
No Luca insurance.
Hers.
Lucian handled distribution.
Small.
Independent.
They sold through boutiques.
Not Luca’s hotels.
Good.
I did not invest.
Important.
Sometimes support means not buying ownership of the thing someone wanted separate from you.
Valeria sent no letter.
Also good.
Then three months later, Cora Bennett, one of my atelier assistants, told me something uncomfortable.
“You should’ve hired her.”
“What?”
“Valeria.”
Cora had worked with her unofficially during late-night trials before everything exploded.
“She understood creative direction.”
I stared.
“Why didn’t Helena tell me?”
“She did.”
Damn.
Apparently Helena once suggested Valeria lead a capsule line.
I answered:
“After the wedding.”
Again.
Same phrase.
Later.
I had used marriage as gate to legitimacy without noticing.
Not malicious.
Still.
I called Helena.
“Why didn’t you push harder?”
She laughed.
“You’re the boss.”
That phrase felt less flattering now.
I created a formal guest-creator program at the atelier.
Not for Valeria.
Too late and too complicated.
For others.
Artists could collaborate without marrying, inheriting, or belonging to Caradonna.
Helena approved.
Margaret said:
“Congratulations on discovering other people have ideas.”
I considered sending her to a retirement home.
May you like
She would run it in three days.
I chose peace.
