His Engagement Ring Was Stealing My Genius

At last season's Grand Olfactory Gala, Vivienne Harrow presented my formula before I could reach the stage.

I confronted her. She asked where my proof was.

I had nothing. The formula had never left my head — no notes, no records, nothing. I didn't know how she'd gotten it.

I died not knowing.

Then I opened my eyes, and she was already reaching for me.

"Not this time."

I stepped back.

…

The host was mid-sentence when I blinked back into myself.

"— our two finalists, ladies and gentlemen!"

Applause hit the room. Down in the crowd, my section started chanting — loud and certain, like they hadn't gotten the news yet.

I looked around. Chandeliers, champagne, three hundred people in their best. The Grand Olfactory Gala.

Still here. It hasn't happened yet.

Vivienne Harrow was sitting right next to me.

She turned the moment I looked up, like she'd been waiting for it. That smile — soft, a little humble, the kind that photographs well.

"Whatever happens tonight," she said, "I'm glad it came down to the two of us."

I went still.

Looking at her, the memories hit me all at once.

Eighteen months ago, the industry had us pegged as rivals worth watching. Vivienne had the Harrow name, three generations of money, and connections that opened doors I'd never find on my own. I had none of that.

What I had came from somewhere else. Women in my bloodline had been making things for centuries — formulas that didn't just smell like something, they did something. Nobody had a clean explanation for it. The industry called it instinct and left it at that.

I was the one who kept making noise anyway.

A formula I'd been developing in private leaked last year — I still don't know how. The right people heard about it. One month later, Vivienne announced a new collection. Six months after that, it brought us both to this stage.

Last time, I stood in this exact room and watched her present my formula to the judges, note for note, and I asked her how. She said prove it. I had nothing. Every ratio, every decision lived only in my head. No paper trail, no recordings, no witnesses.

The crowd flipped before midnight. Her side first, then mine.

I still didn't know how she'd done it.

Same script. I watched Vivienne hold that gracious expression while the applause rolled in, and I understood — she could afford to be generous right now. She already knew how tonight ended.

I had goosebumps.

The host cleared his throat.

"For the final round — each perfumer will proceed to their private atelier. Thirty minutes to complete your composition. You will return and present to the judges in draw order." A pause. "The first to present sets tonight's benchmark."

My spine went cold.

First to present, your work is the original. Second, anything similar reads as imitation — even if you made it first. Vivienne needed that first position. She'd always needed it. Without it, the whole setup fell apart.

The stage lights dimmed toward the corridor. The room went quiet the way it does when something ceremonial is about to happen.

Vivienne turned to me. She extended one hand, easy and practiced — the way people at these events reach for each other without thinking twice.

"Good luck, Isolde."

Her fingertips were an inch from my wrist.