Reincarnated as a Perfume Mogul with a Dark Past

The very first thing I noticed was the scent; honeysuckle and decay. Sweetness masking rot.

It clung onto the air like a whisper curling into my lungs, and settling deep into the marrow of my bones. Too sweet. Too sharp. Something hidden beneath it, something chemical—like the ghost of an old laboratory, long abandoned but never quite forgotten.

I inhaled again.

And again.

The scent was familiar. The scent was wrong.

I tried to move but my body did not belong to me. My limbs were awfully heavy, distant, and numbed as if it was submerged deep in ice. Something dripped at the back of my skull… liquid thoughts uncoiling, memories slithering through the small cracks like serpents and just refusing to make sense.

Then came the pain.

A very deep and suffocating pressure. A phantom weight crushing my chest and squeezing the air right from my lungs.

I knew this pain.

I had died with it.

The memory crashed straight through me with the great force of an avalanche, gloved hands pressing right down onto my throat, the taste of blood on my tongue with the distant echo of laughter, cold and mocking. A betrayal so very intimate that it smelled like roses and poison.

Lucian Graves is dead.

But I was not Lucian anymore.

A breath rattled from my throat. Not my voice. Not quite. I forced my fingers to move to curl against silk sheets. Slowly, sluggishly, my body finally obeyed.

I slowly opened my eyes.

A ceiling stared back. The dark wood polished to a mirror sheen reflecting the dim glow of a chandelier above. Not the cold fluorescence of a hospital room. Not the marble and steel of a boardroom.

Not where I had died.

I turned my head.

A gold-framed mirror stood against the opposite wall, and within it—a stranger.

Pale skin. Sharp cheekbones. A face sculpted for high society.

But it wasn't my face.

The breath in my throat hitched. This was wrong. I pushed myself up, my muscles were trembling unfamiliar and weak. The silk of my robe slid against my skin, too fine and too light. It smelled of something floral, ylang-ylang and bergamot, with a sharp undertone of vanilla musk.

Leon von Edevane.

The name drifted through my mind, unwelcome, foreign.

I knew it, though. Knew it the way one knows a half-forgotten song, a lingering déjà vu that refused to just settle. I pressed my palm to my chest and felt the heartbeat there, steady and unfamiliar.

I had been murdered.

And yet, here I was.

Alive.

But why?

A soft creak clearly broke the silence. The scent of expensive cologne, wood and citrus, floated into the room just before the door swung open.

A man entered.

Tall. Dark-haired. Ice-blue eyes just like a scalpel's edge. He was dressed in crisp, charcoal-gray, three piece suit with not a wrinkle out of place. Everything about him spoke of precision, efficiency, control.

He stopped at the threshold, his arms were crossed and his gaze unreadable.

Then, he spoke.

"So, you've finally woken up."

I did not recognize his voice.

I should have.

Because from the way he looked at me—analysing, dissecting—I knew he had met this body before.

I knew he expected something from me.

I leaned back against the pillows, slow and deliberate, testing the strength in my limbs. "Who are you?"

A flicker of something—surprise? Amusement? Displeasure?—passed across his face. "You're not funny, Leon."

Leon.

The name scraped against my skin. It did not fit.

The man studied me for a long moment and then exhaled shaking his head. "Right. Of course. You hit your head. Convenient."

He turned away, striding straight towards the liquor cart at the distant end of the room. The cut-glass decanter caught the light as he poured himself a measure of something both dark and expensive.

"Ezra Falk," he said right over his shoulder. "Your assistant. Not by choice, I assure you."

His tone was sharp, clipped with something close to resentment. He downed the drink in one slow, measured motion.

I watched him carefully.

He knew me—no, he knew Leon von Edevane. And he hated him.

Interesting.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

Ezra set the glass down, his movements precise. "To make sure you haven't completely lost your mind."

He turned back to face me, his arms crossed once more and head tilted slightly. Assessing.

"You almost died last night," he continued on. "You were found unconscious in your private lab. Overdose, they said."

Ah.

So that was how the previous owner of this body had exited. How convenient.

Ezra's gaze flickered over me. "What do you remember?"

I smiled.

The question was dangerous. Too early. Too soon. My mind was still a fragmented puzzle my memories a tangled mess of past and present bleeding into one another.

I could really not afford to misstep.

So, I lied.

"Nothing."

Ezra's expression did not change. But the silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken calculations.

Then, after a long moment—he smiled.

It was not a kind smile.

"Of course."

He did not believe me clearly.

Good.

I exhaled, letting my gaze wander the room again and taking in the quiet luxuriousness of it. The velvet curtains. The reddish brown furniture. The rows of perfume bottles lining the shelves with each labelled in precise, elegant script.

Leon von Edevane was someone important.

A perfumer. An heir.

A man with power.

And now, a dead man wearing his skin.

I reached for the glass of water right beside my bed, curling my fingers around it. My grip was steady now.

"You should rest," Ezra said, turning toward the door. "The board expects a statement about your… condition. Try not to embarrass yourself."

With that, he was gone.

The door clicked shut.

I remained still for a moment breathing in the scents around me. Sandalwood. Amber. Bergamot.

And beneath it all—something faint.

Something I almost didn't notice.

Something… unnatural.

A scent that did not belong.

My fingers tightened around the glass.

Someone had done this to me.

And I would find out who.