The Cold Surgeon’s Secret Addiction

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the fragrance atelier, the sky churned in shades of bruised slate. The rain had been falling relentlessly for three days, drenching the city in a damp, suffocating melancholy that rattled the nerves.

Inside the quiet laboratory, Celeste Vance sat motionless, staring down at her formula notebook. Every single line on the page was slashed through with heavy red ink.

Her dark eyes remained cast down, lost in the echoing memory of last night’s conversation.

“Chloe, don’t blame your father and me for being traditional,” her mother’s sharp, decisive voice echoed in her mind. “The alliance with the Sterling family was arranged when you were children. You and Zephyr grew up together. You know him. He is a man a woman can rely on for life.”

“Why me?” Chloe had countered, her tone laced with casual indifference. “Why not Celeste?”

“Celeste... wouldn't do,” Madeline Vance had replied without a second's hesitation. “Neither her temperament nor her career fits the Sterling lineage.”

Celeste and Chloe were identical twins, born fifteen minutes apart. They shared the exact same delicate features, the same dark hair, the same pale skin—yet their natures belonged to entirely different worlds.

Chloe was vibrant and dazzling, a wild butterfly effortlessly drawn to the spotlight. Her innate radiance and unfiltered passion allowed her to charm anyone in high society within seconds.

Celeste was the polar opposite. In the eyes of the Vance family, she was the obedient, low-maintenance daughter. She never caused trouble, spoke in soft, measured tones, and carried herself with the quiet elegance of pale moonlight.

Yet, those who truly knew Celeste understood that this docility was merely a carefully constructed armor. They carried the exact same DNA; they had been raised in the exact same pristine halls. The wild passion and reckless desire that drove Chloe also burned in Celeste’s veins—she simply chose to bury hers beneath a mask of absolute composure.

A bird with unfurled wings never feared the storm, no matter how high or far it flew, because it knew there was an unshakeable harbor waiting to shield it from the rain.

Chloe was the bird. Celeste was the harbor.

The sharp chime of her phone shattered the silence, pulling Celeste back from the abyss of her thoughts.

Her eyes slowly refocused. Her fingers trembled slightly as she swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear.

“Celeste,” her mother, Madeline, commanded from the other end. “Come straight home after work tonight. We are having dinner with Zephyr and his parents.”

A brief pause, followed by a note of triumph in Madeline’s voice. “Zephyr has officially accepted the arrangement.”

Hearing those words, Celeste picked up her pen, her gaze falling on the final line of her fragrance log. With a sudden, decisive motion, she dragged the nib across the paper, carving a heavy, jagged X over the page.

The metal tip tore through the fragile parchment with a harsh scratch, leaving a jagged scar in the fibers.

Madeline continued to drone on about the evening’s logistics, oblivious. Celeste’s brow furrowed, and she slashed the pen across the page once more, tearing the paper completely. The frayed edges curled upward—a broken, ruined mess.

The torn paper mirrored the crack in her heart, slowly being ripped open wider and wider.

“Celeste? Are you listening to me?”

“Zephyr will pick you up on his way over.”

Celeste crumpled the ruined page in her palm and tossed it into the wastebasket. “No need. I’ll make my own way back.”

“Don’t be difficult, Celeste. Be ready by six.” The line went dead.

A soft knock sounded at the glass door. After Celeste offered a quiet word of permission, the door swung open, and Sophie Miller, the lab’s senior intern, stepped inside.

“Hey, Celeste,” Sophie called out with an energetic smile. “The team is talking about going out for drinks tonight. Everyone’s exhausted from the new launch prep and we desperately need to blow off some steam. Are you in?”

Celeste composed her expression, pulling her scattered soul back into place. “I can’t tonight. Family dinner.”

Sophie was twenty-two, eager, perceptive, and acutely sensitive—traits essential for anyone attempting to survive in the competitive world of haute perfumery.

With a single glance, Sophie caught the subtle shadow in Celeste’s eyes. She sauntered over, leaning against the marble counter. “Look, the rain finally stopped outside. A change in the weather usually brings a change in mood. You should smile more, Celeste.”

From behind her back, Sophie produced a warm, lidded paper cup and placed it gently on Celeste’s desk. “Julian bought spiced chai lattes for the whole team.”

Celeste offered a faint, breathtaking smile. “Thank you, Sophie.”

Sophie dramatically clutched her chest, pretending to gasp. “Goodness, Celeste... Julian was right when he said you’re like a wild peach blossom.”

“A peach blossom?”

Sophie paused, formulating her words carefully. “How do I put it? Your allure isn't loud. It’s like a blossom swaying in a spring breeze—effortless, delicate, but completely intoxicating if someone actually stops to look.”

Celeste blinked in surprise, then let out a soft laugh that cleared a fraction of the darkness in her chest. “A good perfumer needs strong emotional expression. Congratulations, Sophie, you pass the test.”

Sophie scratched her head self-consciously. “I’m barely an apprentice. My ultimate dream is to become someone like Madame Elara at Veil of Essence.”

She paused, realizing the political weight of her statement, and added quickly, “Not that I’m disloyal to our atelier, Celeste...”

“It’s fine,” Celeste murmured softly. “Madame Elara is my idol, too.”

Veil of Essence—known globally as VOE—was the undisputed crown jewel of the international fragrance empire. To mention VOE was to evoke reverence, particularly for the legendary woman behind its vision: Elara.

She was not merely a visionary nose; she was an uncannily sharp market prophet. Her obsession with scent wasn't just an artistic hobby—her ability to predict olfactory trends before they even emerged had kept her standing at the pinnacle of an unforgiving industry for over two decades.

Elara possessed a terrifying instinct. She captured elements the world hadn't yet realized it desired. Fragrances that flopped upon their initial release often became cult phenomena years later, driving millions of consumers into a frenzy.

Elara’s debut creation had been named Frosted Bloom.

Dominated by the crisp, biting scent of white plum blossom, the perfume’s initial impression was cold and razor-sharp, carrying the fierce, untouched vitality of a winter sunrise. Clean, pure, and utterly devoid of warmth.

When Frosted Bloom first launched, the market’s reaction had been disastrously cold. Critics deemed it “too faint,” “ghostly,” and “lacking presence.” In an era dominated by heavy, opulent, suffocating orientals, the understated frost of the white plum blossom was branded a failure destined for obscurity.

Yet, as seasons turned and years bled into one another, those who had once dismissed it suddenly found themselves haunted by its memory. Frosted Bloom blew up overnight.

The very luxury houses that had scoffed at it scrambled to deconstruct its formula. Master perfumers across Paris, New York, and Grasse spent vast fortunes attempting to crack its secret. They analyzed every molecule, yet none could replicate the ethereal essence of Elara’s creation.

The primary note was undoubtedly the icy fragrance of the white plum, but the supporting notes remained shrouded in mystery. Rumors circulated that Elara hadn't used conventional botanicals at all, but rather extremely rare, undisclosed raw materials, extracted through a proprietary cold-press process that locked the plum’s fragrance into an eternal, slow-releasing bloom.

To this day, no one had unraveled the secret of Frosted Bloom. It stood alone at the summit of the fragrance world.

As a perfumer, Celeste had always been mesmerized by the sheer genius of the scent—even though she was severely allergic to white plum blossoms.

A single whiff of the actual flower caused a burning itch in her throat and a dull migraine; prolonged exposure left deep, crimson welts on her porcelain skin that looked strikingly like scattered bite marks.

The white plum was a flower she was cursed never to touch.

Yet, no one knew the truth: the day before Frosted Bloom officially launched to the public years ago, Celeste had already smelled it.

On Zephyr Sterling.

She had been a university student then, rushing around a marble corner on campus when she slammed headfirst into a tall, solid chest.

Before she could process what had happened, her balance failed, and her face buried itself directly against the lapel of Zephyr’s tailored coat.

A cold, razor-sharp scent of white plum blossom enveloped her, spinning like invisible silk thread, wrapping around her lungs and pulling her into an intoxicating trap.

She had felt dizzy. Almost instantly, the familiar, sharp sting flared deep in her nasal passages, followed by a burning sensation in her throat.

Her logic had snapped back into place. Knowing her body’s violent physical reaction would betray her, Celeste had silently taken a step back, turned, and fled without offering an apology.

She hadn't looked back, but she could still feel that icy plum fragrance clinging to the humid air, chasing her, refusing to dissipate.

The next afternoon, when her roommate, Gemma Smith, sprayed a fresh sample bottle in their dorm room, Celeste recognized it instantly. It was the exact same scent.

She had initially assumed the fragrance on Zephyr’s coat was a coincidence—a scent he had accidentally brushed against on someone else. But the two aromas were identical.

Why had Zephyr possessed a bottle of Frosted Bloom before its global release?

Zephyr Sterling had never shown the slightest interest in perfumery, nor was he the kind of man to wear an icy, floral fragrance without a calculating reason.

Sophie waved a hand in front of Celeste’s face, shattering her memory. “Celeste? Earth to Celeste! It’s clock-out time.”

“Right.” Celeste lowered her head, gathering the scattered formulation sheets and sliding them into her leather portfolio. She walked over to the brass coat rack, pulled down her heavy wool coat, and wrapped it tightly around her slender frame.

Near the front desk, a group of junior researchers had gathered in a circle, debating where to spend their evening—sushi, a steakhouse, or the new lounge downtown.

When they saw Celeste approaching, several turned with warm smiles.

“Celeste, are you sure you won't join us?”

“Come on, just one drink!”

Celeste offered a polite, practiced smile. “Not tonight. Have fun, everyone.”

Julian Winter rose from his desk and walked toward her.

He was exceptionally tall—at six-foot-three, his presence carried an unmistakable authority, though his soft features and refined manners usually tempered his intimidating height. “Celeste, I’ll walk you to the exit. There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

“Sure.”

Celeste pushed open the heavy glass doors. The rain had finally ceased, leaving a biting, frigid wind in its wake. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, her shoulders tensing against the chill.

A gust of wind whipped her dark hair across her face, leaving several strands clinging to her pale cheeks—a vision of fragile exhaustion.

As they reached the portico, Julian reached out his hand toward her face. Before his fingers could make contact, Celeste instinctively tilted her head, smoothly dodging his touch.

“Julian,” she said, her voice even.

Julian offered an apologetic, self-deprecating smile, lowering his hand. “Sorry. I just... I hate seeing things out of place.”

“It’s fine.”

Julian’s tone dropped an octave, turning serious. “Celeste, keep an eye on Sophie. Her motives in the lab... might not be as pure as she makes them out to be.”

Celeste nodded subtly. “Thank you for the warning, Julian. You should head back inside.”

Recognizing her polite boundary, Julian refrained from pushing further. “Alright. Get home safely.”

“I will.”

Celeste turned around. Through the light mist, her gaze fell upon a sleek, black Bentley Continental parked silently by the curb.

Its polished body had been washed clean by the storm, its glossy black paint reflecting the streetlights like a dark mirror.

It was Zephyr’s car. She would know the license plate anywhere.

And right now, he was the last person on earth she wanted to face.

Harboring an unspoken, desperate obsession for her twin sister’s future husband was a sin she carried in absolute secrecy.

The paper cup in her hands still retained the last fading embers of warmth. Celeste’s icy fingers tightened around the cardboard, drawing what little comfort she could from it.

She stood in the damp cold for a long moment. Finally, before Zephyr’s legendary patience could completely wear out, she walked over, pulled open the front passenger door, and stepped inside.

Celeste hadn't originally intended to sit in the front.

Months ago, during a rare occasion when he had driven her home, she had quietly climbed into the back seat, staring out the window at the passing trees.

Zephyr had suddenly spoken, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade: “Celeste, I am not obligated to be your chauffeur.”

Celeste had frozen, a sharp pain lancing through her chest. Her fingers had gripped her bag tightly, and she had kept her head down, avoiding the cold, piercing glare of his eyes in the rearview mirror.

If she had a choice, she would never have troubled Zephyr Sterling for a single thing.

A second later, his deep, commanding voice had filled the car: “Next time, sit in the front.”

The air inside the dark interior of the Bentley was infused with a subtle, dry woodiness—clean, elegant, and devoid of the icy plum blossom scent that triggered her allergies. Celeste felt her rigid posture ease just a fraction.

Her violent allergy to white plum blossoms had only developed in her late teens. As a child, she had been entirely immune to the fragrance. Because it was a late-onset sensitivity, neither her parents nor Chloe knew the truth.

When the engine remained silent for a long moment, Celeste turned her head, offering a puzzled glance at the man beside her.

Streetlights outside swept across his side profile in rhythm, carving his jawline and sharp bridge in stark, dramatic contrast.

Zephyr Sterling was the exact embodiment of every idealized standard she had ever held for a partner—yet he radiated an insurmountable, freezing distance.

Silence stretched between them. Zephyr said nothing, his long, aristocratic fingers rhythmically tappin