Illegal Use of Hands

My husband told me I was a bad investment, a legacy asset he was forced to liquidate after a car crash stole his memory of our love five years ago. He replaced me with a "Muse," a supermodel whose lies were as polished as the magazine covers she graced.

But when her son—the boy Adrian believed was his heir—suffered a sudden allergic reaction, she tearfully accused me of being a jealous chemist who mixed poison to harm an innocent child.

My husband, the man whose empire was built on the scents I created, didn't hesitate. In a blind rage, he declared that if my hands were used for evil, they shouldn't be used at all. He ordered his security team to bring quick-drying industrial cement.

"Since you can't control these hands, I will seal them forever," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy.

He then had my hands encased in stone and had me displayed in the window of our flagship store, a public spectacle for the world to condemn.

As I stood there, the heavy weight crushing my fingers and my soul, I finally understood. My blind love and foolish hope had been my downfall. I had loved the wrong man, and he had utterly destroyed me.

But they made one fatal mistake. They didn't know about the hidden camera I’d planted in the nursery. And they had no idea that my family controlled the very flowers that kept his empire alive.

Chapter 1

Elena POV:

He told me I was a contractual obligation, a stale formula he was forced to keep on the books. Five years ago, a car crash stole his memory of our love, gifting him a new life with a woman whose lies were as synthetic as her beauty. Now, he stood before me, basking in the flashbulbs, while I, his legal wife and chief perfumer, handed him the papers he thought were just another business deal, not the divorce I had meticulously orchestrated to finally break free.

"Elena, wipe Leo's shoes. He stepped in something," I was ordered, my voice a practiced, smooth monotone.

"Finally," Bella purred, her eyes scanning the adoring press. "This launch better live up to the hype, Addy. My followers expect nothing less."

"It will, darling. Elena is a decent enough chemist, for what she is," Adrian replied, a dismissive wave of his hand. It was a knife twist I had grown accustomed to. My life's work, my very soul distilled into fragrances, reduced to being "a decent enough chemist."

My phone vibrated in my pocket. A message from Lucas. Did you do it? Are you free yet? The gallery asked about you. I saw Adrian reaching for a glass of champagne. My hand instinctively darted to my pocket, shoving the phone deeper into the fabric, out of sight.

He didn't know he was signing away his claim to me. He signed our divorce papers.

A small, bitter laugh threatened to escape me. He thought he was just authorizing another million-dollar purchase. He was unknowingly signing his own exile from my life. The irony alone was almost enough to make me smile.

As he finished, Leo, the five-year-old boy Bella claimed was Adrian's heir, pointed at me with a sticky finger. "Elena, my shoes! Now!"

I knelt, my heart a cold stone. As I wiped a smudge from his designer sneakers, he deliberately tilted his ice cream cone, smearing chocolate and strawberry syrup all down the front of my vintage silk gown. "Oops," he giggled. "You look dirty, Elena."

My stomach churned. The sweetness of their public display was a venom that slowly corroded my insides. I offered them a tight, professional smile, picking up the signed papers. The thick parchment felt heavy in my hand, a strange mix of freedom and finality.

Suddenly, Leo let out a piercing shriek. "She pinched me! Mommy, Elena pinched me hard!"

Adrian’s head snapped toward me. His face contorted with disgust. "Don't touch him," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

His hand shot out, not to question, but to shove me. "Get away from my son!"

I stumbled backward, my heels catching on a power cord. I crashed into the high-temperature essential oil distiller set up for a live demonstration. A sharp crack echoed through the silent backstage area. Pain exploded across my hand as boiling hot rose oil splashed from the fractured beaker. I gasped, stumbling back, clutching my blistering hand. My vision swam.

He saw the pain, the way my skin was already turning an angry red. But his eyes held no remorse. Only contempt.

"Filthy," he spat, pulling a silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He wiped at a stray drop of oil on his own sleeve, as if my presence carried some vile disease. "Don't you ever put your hands on my son again, Elena."