Chapter 2: The Scent of Goodbye

2

I forced myself to ignore the storm in my heart and the barrage before my eyes, and finally managed to calm Arjun’s rut.

As the sun started to rise behind the clouds and the first calls of the newspaper vendor drifted in from the street, I tucked the sheet around him and curled up at the edge of the bed. Every bone in my body ached. Sleep came only after I listened to the city come alive—the distant call of the milkman, the faint clatter of a pressure cooker somewhere upstairs.

Exhausted, as I drifted off to sleep, I recalled what the barrage had said:

[Just wait for the heroine to appear. With just a little scent, she’ll completely calm the hero.]

Honestly, I never cared about compatibility. I just wanted to live peacefully with Arjun.

But now, the barrage had shattered all my illusions.

It was as if every hope I’d ever whispered into the darkness had been overheard and mocked by strangers. The world always finds a way to remind women of their place, and now even the air I breathed felt borrowed.

The next morning when I woke up, Arjun, having passed the worst of his rut, was back to his usual cold and distant self.

He was a workaholic. While I was still asleep, he’d already washed up and dressed.

Vaguely, I felt something soft brush my lips, and I caught the cool, tranquil scent of sandalwood—his scent.

After a night together, his sandalwood scent was mixed with the sweet, cloying smell of peaches.

Yes, as a low-grade, utterly ordinary Omega, my scent was the most common peach fragrance.

The kind you find in every market, every by-lane—a scent so familiar, it’s almost invisible. Not rare like mogra, not striking like jasmine. Just... peach. Sometimes I wondered if Arjun even noticed it.

Breathing it in, I drifted back to sleep. When I woke again, it was already afternoon.

The flat was empty. Arjun hadn’t returned; only the maid moved quietly about, cleaning and wiping the marble floor.

The pressure cooker hissed somewhere upstairs, and the maid’s anklets jingled as she swept the marble floor. The faint aroma of phenyl and yesterday’s masala hung in the air. It was just another day in the Sharma house, but everything felt slightly out of place—as if the walls themselves were waiting for news.

But the WhatsApp group was scrolling wildly:

[Ahhhh, the hero finally met our heroine!]

[Oh my god, at their first meeting, the heroine accidentally released a bit of scent, and the hero immediately went into rut again!]

[Wow, so exciting! As expected of one hundred percent compatible scents—perfect fit.]

I caught the key words: Arjun had entered rut again.

Whenever an Alpha is in rut, he’s irritable and hypersensitive to the world.

Worried, I immediately called him to make sure he was alright.

But the phone rang and rang, and no one answered.

The trilling ringtone seemed to echo in the empty hall. I bit my lip, tapping my fingers on the dining table, the one we’d never really used for family meals. Anxiety made my throat dry, but I forced myself to keep dialing.

Unwilling to give up, I called again—still no answer.

The group chat was still celebrating:

[The heroine and hero have been taken to the hospital. The hero will soon learn the heroine is one hundred percent compatible!]

[Great, the supporting girl will soon be kicked out, and the hero and heroine can finally begin their sweet romance!]

I held the silent phone, my heart tightening, watching the barrage in front of me in silence.

It wasn’t until evening that Arjun’s assistant called.

I answered quickly. "Hello, may I ask, my husband—"

The assistant interrupted, apologetic and urgent: "Madam, Sir said he won’t be coming home tonight. You don’t need to wait for him."

His voice was polite but nervous, as if worried I’d break down or start questioning him. The tone was all too familiar—formal distance, the kind you reserve for employers or distant relatives.

I gripped the phone tightly, finally replying in a small voice, "...Okay."

A lump rose in my throat, the kind that only comes when you know you’ll have to explain everything to your Ma without breaking down. The barrage was still saying something, but I didn’t have the energy to look.

It was as if all the strength had left my body. I slumped onto the sofa, letting the TV play some mindless saas-bahu drama in the background. Even the laughter track couldn’t break the heaviness inside me.

I scanned the flat, bit by bit. Everywhere were traces of the life I’d shared with Arjun.

The fridge still held the achar his mother had sent last Diwali. The shoe rack by the door had my old slippers and his muddy sports shoes. On the balcony, the little money plant I’d brought from my parents’ home drooped, leaves yellowing with neglect.

Three years of secret love, plus three years of marriage.

Six whole years, and only tonight did I finally realise:

A compatibility of just 9%.

Arjun and I really aren’t meant to be.

Somewhere outside, a stray dog barked, and the city lights twinkled as if mocking my foolish hope. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, closing my eyes.