Weeks later

“What’s this?” I ask when Scarlett walks into my office holding what looks like an invitation.

“In three days, the annual perfumers’ convention will take place. This is your invitation—yours and your wife’s,” she explains.

“I completely forgot that was coming up,” I grumble, taking the invitation and tossing it on my desk. “I really don’t feel like going and watching Lefebvre be the center of attention again,” I complain bitterly.

“This year might be ...