Morgan Fragrance's valuation peaked early winter.Dorian scheduled a brand-exit meeting with investors to dissolve engagement after relaunch.
What he didn't calculate was that Lila overheard it, and overhearing perfected chaos better than New York ever drowned jackets.
She walked into the investor lounge at 11:08 PM carrying a tiny scent capsule like a woman delivering diplomacy with volatile compounds.
"So the engagement is temporary," she repeated the exact sentence back at him.
The investors vanished respectfully, sensing emotional storms calibrated beyond stock analytics.
Dorian remained still. "We agreed it was… optics."
"We agreed on solvency," she corrected. "Not emotional expiry dates."
His jaw clenched fractionally, betraying the tiny human crack behind the empire blueprint.
She finally said the one sentence that fractured architecture meets fragrance:
"Some perfumes evaporate. Others stain coats forever. You want permanence as data but fear it as heart."
He stood slowly. "I don't fear permanence."
"You archived a vandalized jacket for 3 months. Silence is proof."
He had no reply to that.
Lila continued more softly:
"My mother built fragrance to hold memory. You bought memory to protect it. But you fear becoming the memory a person depends on."
She dropped a test strip on the desk gently, scent rising between them like fog negotiating with steel.
"You misunderstand supervision for love," she said, voice trembling but steady. "I misunderstand fear for rejection. Both are design flaws. But only one of us is admitting it."
Dorian inhaled the strip silently again, ocean notes filling his lungs like elegiac shareholder democracy.
He whispered—dangerously faint:
"Then fix the flaw."
"I can fix perfumes," she replied. "You must fix fear."
That night, love expired not by contract, but by cracked blueprint logic.