The morning light in the Bennett house had a softness Clara used to love. It spilled through the kitchen windows like milk, warming the white tile and the little potted herbs she kept alive out of duty more than desire. There was a time when she’d hum while frying eggs, when she’d glance at the clock not in irritation but in anticipation waiting for Mark’s car to pull up, for Ethan’s laughter to echo through the hall. Now, silence lived in the corners of the house. Mark came down late that morning, already dressed, tie knotted tight, jacket folded neatly over his arm. He kissed her on the cheek, and she noticed it faint but unmistakable a scent that didn’t belong to her. It was floral, sharp, and expensive. Jasmine, maybe. Clara’s perfume was sandalwood and bergamot earthy, restrained. This was something younger, brighter. “Morning,” he said, brushing past her to pour coffee. “Morning,” she echoed. He didn’t see her flinch when the perfume followed him, hanging in the air
Last Updated : 2025-10-15 Read more