The Fragrance Queen's Final Note novel Chapter 9

The backyard of the estate was a sprawling garden. It was home to a variety of rare botanicals she had meticulously cultivated for her perfumery. She nurtured them with absolute devotion, treating them as if they were her own children.

As she sprinted downstairs, her mind spun with terrible scenarios. Had Renata figured out the perfume trick and ordered Romy to rip up her flowers in revenge?

But the moment she reached the yard, she realized the reality was infinitely worse.

Romy hadn't just plucked her flowers. The vicious little brat had literally set her entire garden on fire!

The rare plants she had painstakingly grown, stem by stem, over the last three years had been completely incinerated.

Datura, rosemary, black roses, cardamom, geraniums, clary sage—everything she could name and everything she couldn't had been reduced to charred, twisted stalks. It looked like the aftermath of a silent massacre!

Romy stood off to the side, wailing loudly. Between her obnoxious sobs, she stammered out an apology. "I'm sorry, Queenie! I didn't mean to! I just wanted to cook an egg in the garden to see if bugs would come out... I didn't know this would happen!"

The nanny hastily added, "Mrs. Calvert, she said she just wanted to play in the yard! No one thought she'd play with fire. The wind was blowing south today. The flames spread so fast, we couldn't put them out in time!"

Queenie felt her blood turn to ash, a deafening ring echoing in her ears. The phantom image of Renata flashed before her eyes, and she was gripped by a visceral urge to tear the woman apart.

The little girl walked over and tugged at her clothes. "I'm so, so sorry, Queenie... I..."

"Are you sure it was an accident?!"

Before the girl could finish, Queenie screamed at the top of her lungs.

She had always been composed, someone who almost never lost her temper. Her sudden, terrifying explosion made even the nanny jump out of her skin.

Romy started bawling even louder, too frightened to utter another word, just aggressively sobbing.

Her fury was like a trapped beast, slamming violently against the cage of her ribs, desperate to claw its way out.

But with Herculean effort, she grabbed the beast by the throat and forced it back down.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Slowly, she crouched down and reached out to touch her most prized black rose.

This was the core botanical she had selected for “Penumbra,” the signature piece she was submitting for next month's competition. She had spent a fortune importing this particular breed from an overseas grower two years ago. They had only yielded two saplings, and the species was unbelievably rare.

She had fought tooth and nail against the climate and soil to keep them alive. And they had finally bloomed into exquisite, pitch-black roses. The color was striking, but the fragrance was downright intoxicating.

She had been utterly confident that this singular scent would win her the championship. Now, everything was completely destroyed.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify