On a rainy night in New York, my husband died.

My best friend held me close, trying to comfort me, but then I caught a whiff of my husband's cologne on her—that one-of-a-kind custom fragrance I hadn't even had the chance to give him yet.


The bottle had vanished from my vanity drawer only to reappear in the hollow of her neck.

On the television, a news anchor reported last night's fatal accident on the Manhattan Bridge with practiced detachment. "Investment rising star Liam Blackwood died at the scene when his blue Porsche lost control on the rain-slicked road…"

I curled up on the penthouse sofa, clutching Liam's gray cashmere sweater that still held his familiar tobacco and woody scent.


The man who had kissed my forehead just the night before, whispering "Wait for me to come back, baby" was now just another cold statistic in the evening news.

Liam's mother Eleanor and brother Mike showed up with their suitcases and moved right in.


"Ava, we couldn't bear to leave you alone." Eleanor stroked my cheek with her bright red manicured nails, but her eyes held nothing but calculation and greed.

Mike sprawled across the sofa, his eyes greedily appraising every piece of artwork in the apartment, mentally tallying their value.

They were vultures, circling under the pretense of "family support." Eleanor barked orders at the staff while Mike shouted at sports games until 3 AM. Their presence was like sandpaper on my already raw nerves.

My only comfort was my best friend Chloe.

She came by daily, wrapping me in tight hugs and letting me sob against her shoulder.

"It's okay, Ava. This will pass. You've still got me—I'm not going anywhere."

During those days when grief threatened to drown me, Chloe's embrace was my only sanctuary. I clung to her like a drowning woman grasping her last lifeline.

Until this afternoon.

Chloe pulled me into her arms again, murmuring softly, "I know how much you're hurting. Let it all out."

I rested my head against her shoulder, breathing in her familiar perfume mixed with…

Wait.

That was an unmistakable men's cologne—crisp cedar notes blended with subtle leather, finishing with just a hint of spicy white pepper.

That scent…

I froze, the blood in my veins turning to ice.

A month ago, I'd tracked down an exclusive French perfumer to create a birthday surprise for Liam—a truly one-of-a-kind cologne based on his preferences and personality. I'd even named it "Abyss," because Liam's eyes were deep enough to drown in.

I hadn't even had the chance to give him the gift.

Why was this unique fragrance—which should have been hidden in my vanity drawer—now clinging to Chloe's skin?

A thought so absurd it made me tremble crashed into my mind.

"Ava? What's wrong?" Chloe noticed my sudden tension and pulled back slightly. "You look pale. Are you feeling sick?"

My body began to shake uncontrollably as my stomach churned. Looking at her face full of "concern," I suddenly found her expression unbearably fake and nauseating.

"Don't touch me!"

I nearly screamed, shoving her away with all my strength.

She stumbled backward, caught off guard by my force, and crashed into the coffee table with a heavy thud.

"Ava! What the hell?" Shock and annoyance flashed across Chloe's face before quickly morphing back to concern. "What's wrong with you? Should I call a doctor?"

"I'm… I'm fine." I gripped the sofa for support, fighting for breath and struggling not to fall apart completely. "Just… dizzy. I need to be alone for a while."

My voice came out as a rasp, each word forced through my constricted throat.

Chloe studied me with suspicion, searching my face. Finally, she relented. "Fine. Get some rest. I'll check on you tomorrow."

After she left, I couldn't hold it together anymore. I stumbled to the bathroom and collapsed over the toilet, heaving violently.

Nothing came up but bitter bile that burned my throat. The woman in the mirror—ghostly pale with vacant eyes and disheveled hair—was a stranger to me. That distinctive cologne that should have belonged only to my husband kept confirming my horrible suspicion.

Late that night, the apartment finally fell silent.

I forced myself up from the cold bathroom floor, my fear and nausea replaced by something colder—rage.

I had to find that cologne bottle.

I rushed to my dressing table in the study and yanked open the drawer where I'd hidden the gift. Empty.

Impossible.

Like a woman possessed, I tore the study apart—books swept from shelves, papers scattered across the floor. I searched every corner, every possible hiding spot.

The wardrobe—nothing.

The bathroom cabinet—nothing.

I even ransacked Liam's study, turning out every pocket of every suit.

Nothing. That custom-made, one-of-a-kind cologne had vanished into thin air.

I collapsed onto the cluttered study floor, surrounded by the scattered remnants of our life together, each item silently mocking my stupidity.

The cologne was gone—and it had reappeared on Chloe.

One lie requires countless others to maintain. But truth needs only a single undeniable detail.

My husband wasn't dead at all.

The man I'd loved so deeply and mourned so desperately, along with the best friend I'd trusted completely as my only emotional support—they'd orchestrated this elaborate death hoax together.

As the tide of grief receded, it revealed something cold and hard beneath. I looked up at the gloomy sky outside, my tears long dried up, replaced by an icy fire burning in my chest.

The grieving widow is dead. From now on, I am vengeance incarnate. And I'm coming for you both.