Chapter 4

Mia's POV

"That girl..." I heard my own raspy voice asking. "What was her name?"

"I think it was... Clara? Yeah, Clara Vance. A famous talent and beauty in the photography department back then. But I think she moved abroad later, and nobody really heard from her after that." Chloe stopped, finally catching sight of my deathly pale face. The casual gossip melted away, replaced by concern as she leaned across the table. "Mia, what's wrong? Why do you look so sick? Did Logan do something to you?"

Closing my eyes, that girl's gorgeous profile from the sketchbook surfaced in my mind once more.

Clara Vance.

So her name was Clara.

The girl he was willing to throw his life away for, the one he risked his entire career as an architect to protect—her name was Clara!

"I'm fine," I said, standing up so abruptly that my knee knocked the coffee cup off the table. The dark brown liquid dripped over the edge, splashing across my cream-colored trench coat in an ugly stain. "I just remembered I have something to take care of. I have to go."

I practically fled the café.

Back at the apartment I shared with Logan, I drifted into the study like a ghost.

Logan wasn't home today; he was out of town surveying a plot of land for a project. Walking straight to the bookshelf, I didn't reach for the sketchbook. Instead, my eyes locked onto the top row of thick, foreign architectural magazines.

I remembered clearly—once, while cleaning his study, I had accidentally opened one of them.

Stepping onto a chair, I searched through them, issue by issue. Finally, inside an original issue of *Domus* at the very end, I found a dog-eared page.

Opening it revealed a dried, yellowed petal pressed between the sheets.

Years had drained it of its color and moisture, leaving it paper-thin. Yet, leaning close, I could still catch the faint, lingering scent of lilac.

My hand shook violently. The magazine dropped to the floor, and the dried petal drifted down, landing softly on the top of my foot.

Lilacs.

Clara's favorite flower was lilacs. I had seen a comment buried under an old post on Logan’s Ins that he had forgotten to delete. An account named *Clara* had written: *The lilacs are blooming so beautifully this year. Logan, you owe me a bouquet.*

Stumbling back into the bedroom, I yanked open the vanity drawer.

Inside sat four identical perfume bottles, neatly aligned. It was a niche British fragrance house, packaged in minimalist glass. For three years, on every Valentine's Day and anniversary, Logan's gift to me had unfailingly been this exact perfume.

I had once thought this was his special way of loving me. I thought he was just rigid, that once he found a scent he liked on me, he stuck to it. I had even lovingly complained to my friends: "He's just stubborn. Once he settles on something, he never changes it."

To cater to his "special preference," I had abandoned the citrus scents I loved and faithfully wore this perfume every day. Every morning, every night before bed. I had immersed myself in this fragrance just so that when Logan pulled me close, he would wear that relaxed, almost intoxicated expression.

With trembling hands, I pulled the cap off one of the bottles.

A fine mist settled into the air. An initial note of cool woods gave way to an overwhelming, soul-piercing scent of lilac.

The very scent that had once been my greatest comfort now felt like an icy hand wrapping tightly around my throat.

Covering my mouth, I dashed into the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet. Having eaten nothing all morning, only bitter bile came up. Tears poured down my face, mingling with the nausea. Kneeling on the cold tiles, I stared into the mirror at the pathetic wreck of a woman looking back.

I had cut my hair into the same sharp bob as Clara.

I wore the same minimalist clothes as Clara.

I smelled of the lilacs that belonged to Clara.

For three years, I had slept beside this man, listened to his heartbeat, and felt his warmth—only to realize I was nothing more than a skin suit named "Clara Vance."

Logan didn't love me.

He had simply used my haircut, my clothes, and my scent to reminisce about the woman who had left an indelible mark on his soul. From start to finish, I was just a perfect, unwitting substitute.

As the scent of lilac thickened in the bathroom, something snapped inside me. Rushing out, I grabbed the expensive bottles of perfume from the drawer and hurled them violently into the trash can.

The suffocating, overpowering fragrance instantly consumed the room.