Todos os capítulos de Scent of my mistress : Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

The room was silent when Ava woke. Too silent.Her lashes fluttered open against the soft gray of morning light, filtering weakly through half-drawn curtains. The air carried the faint scent of silk, wine, and sweat, reminders of a night that should have broken her but instead left her strangely alert.Her hand stretched across the bed, fingers brushing the cool sheets where Lydia had been only hours ago. Empty. Cold. Lydia was gone.For one fleeting heartbeat, Ava’s chest tightened. She almost let herself believe that the night had been nothing more than a fever dream, the cruel whispers, the bruising kiss, the way their bodies clashed against the glass, desperate and destructive. But then her eyes landed on the nightstand.A glass rested there, half-filled with dark wine, the rim marked with a crimson smear of lipstick. Lydia’s lipstick.There was no note, no apology, no tender gesture. Just a stain. A mark of ownership, left behind like a mocking brand.Ava sat up slowly, the sheet

The night carried a false calm, the sort that could trick a careless mind into believing nothing stirred beneath its surface. But Lydia had never been careless. She knew that stillness was never innocent. Quiet was a ledger. It revealed who held their breath, who trembled in shadows, who waited for the knife to fall. And tonight, every hushed corner whispered the same truth—her husband was splintering, piece by fragile piece.From her place upstairs she heard him leaving. His footfalls landed on the marble floor with clipped urgency, the echo betraying his desperation. The front door close so hard making it frame shivers. Not hesitation. Not explanation. Just escape.She remained still for a moment, the silk robe at her waist catching faint light from the hall. Then she descended the staircase, each step deliberate, the muted click of her heels sounding like punctuation in the silence. She walked through the foyer and into the living room, where Damian’s discarded tie lay coiled in de

The room was still as stone, the silence pressed so tightly it seemed the chandeliers themselves held their breath. Damian stood in the middle of the suite, fists tight, eyes darting between Lydia and Ava, two women poised like adversaries on either side of a throne he no longer controlled. The city’s glow bled through the glass walls, indifferent to the storm brewing inside.Ava broke the silence. A laugh slipped from her throat, brittle, the kind that belonged to someone who knew her next words would detonate everything. She lifted her empty gently . “You two speak of crowns and kingdoms,” she said lightly, her tone mocking. “But the truth is battles are not always won with swords. Sometimes they are won with secrets.” Her eyes locked on Lydia, holding, challenging.Lydia’s fingers stilled against her glass. Her expression did not shift, but there was a faint tightening around her eyes. “Secrets are a currency for the weak,” she said. “I do not need them.”“Don’t you?” Ava’s voice s

The echo of the door slam lingered in the suite like thunder long after the sound had died. The crystal chandeliers trembled faintly, scattering shards of light across the marble. Outside, the city pulsed with indifferent rhythm, cars threading like veins of fire beneath the skyline. Inside, silence pressed down with the weight of something unspoken, thick and suffocating.Lydia did not move at first. She stood with her hand resting lightly against the bar, her body still and composed, as if Damian’s roar had not rattled her in the slightest. Her silk dress caught the glow of the lamps, its folds uncreased, its black sheen unshaken. Only the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth betrayed the storm she held at bay.Ava, on the other hand, was alive with restless energy. She leaned against the glass wall, her champagne glass empty in her hand, her chest rising in quickened breaths she tried to disguise as laughter. The smirk she wore was too sharp, too brittle, but her eyes glowed

The night air struck Damian like a slap, sharp and unrelenting, but it did nothing to cool the fire raging in his chest. He moved quickly down the street, his strides uneven, fists clenched, every step a desperate attempt to outrun the humiliation that clung to him like smoke. His breath came heavy, not from exhaustion, but from the raw weight of fury.Lydia’s calm voice echoed in his mind, slicing deeper than any blade. “Choose between being king, or being pawn.”The words repeated again and again, each time heavier, each time more unbearable. He pressed a hand against his forehead as though he could squeeze them out, but they lingered. Behind the words came Ava’s smirk, that infuriating curve of her lips, taunting him with the revelation that Lydia had once been hers. That betrayal cut differently,sharper, more personal. It was not just about Damian losing ground as a husband, it was about being shoved into a story that had been written long before he arrived.He paced the length of