Reincarnated as a Perfume Mogul with a Dark Past

The scent lingered for long, after Ezra had left the room.

Sandalwood. Bergamot. A whisper of musk.

But under the surface, carefully woven into the very air of my office, was something else. Something darker. Something rotting.

I had smelled it before.

Not here… not in this life. But once in the past, the past that did not belong to Leon von Edevane.

Lucian Graves.

The name clawed at me at the very edges of my mind threatening to surface up. I exhaled slowly quietly forcing it back down. No, now was not the time for ghosts.

I moved to the bar cart by the window, pouring myself a glass of something rich and amber-coloured. The crystal caught the dim light, refracting it across the room in sharp fragments. A mirror of myself, perhaps shattered pieces, rearranged to form something entirely new.

The drink burned as it went down my throat.

I welcomed the sting.

Across the room, my reflection watched me from the black glass of the window. A face that was mine, but not mine. The features were aristocratic, refined. High cheekbones. Sharp, silver grey eyes. Dark hair swept back in a perfect imitation of control.

A mask.

One I had worn well these past few weeks.

But Ezra was starting to see through it.

That was the problem with intelligent men. They were useful, but dangerous.

I set the glass down with a soft clink and turned my attention back to the situation at hand.

The House of Edevane had been in the perfume industry for centuries, but in the eyes of my father, I had been its greatest failure. A reckless, entitled son. A disappointment.

That was Leon's reputation, anyway.

A reputation I had no intention of upholding.

I reached for the file that Ezra left behind.

Thick, bound in leather, and also filled with careful notes in his meticulous handwriting.

A report on our latest competitors. Formulas. Market trends. Business acquisitions.

But one specific name stood out nestled among the reports like a thorn hidden right beneath silk.

The Moreau Dynasty.

Old money. Very deep roots in the fragrance industry. A family built on tradition and ruthlessness.

And according to this report, they were moving against us.

Interesting.

I traced a finger down the page reading between the lines. Ezra had already underlined a particular section, an acquisition, subtle but still intentional. A Moreau subsidiary had purchased a small failing fragrance house in the south of France. On the surface, a minor move. But Ezra had caught the true intention behind it.

The fragrance house was known for a single product. A scent.

One that should not exist.

My pulse slowed.

I closed the file, my fingers tightening against the leather binding.

Memories stirred at the very edges of my mind thick and cloying, like perfume left to ferment for way too long in the heat.

This scent. I had smelled it before.

Not in this life.

But in my past one.

The past I was supposed to have left behind.

A slow, cold smile curled at the edges of my lips.

The game had begun.

And the Moreau family?...

They had just made their first mistake.

The next evening, I arrived at the Edevane estate precisely on time.

The mansion stood tall against the night sky, its grand outline carved from wealth and legacy. The heavy iron gates made way for me, as I stepped out of the car the scent of groomed gardens and carefully polished stone greeting me.

Inside, the air was thick with power plays disguised as civility. My father's associates moved through the hall like predators dressed in silk, exchanging pleasantries as easily as they exchanged knives.

I calmly moved through the crowd, my steps measured, my mask in place.

I could feel eyes on me.

Watching. Weighing.

Whispers stirred as I passed.

Leon von Edevane has changed.

He's looks sharper now. Colder. Calculated.

Good.

I wanted them to notice.

Ezra was waiting near the staircase, his expression carefully unreadable. He inclined his head slightly as I approached.

"Your father is in the study," he murmured. "He's expecting you."

Of course, he was.

Augustus Edevane was not a man who tolerated failure.

And for the first time, he was unsure of what to make of his son.

I followed Ezra down the corridor, past gilded portraits of Edevane ancestors their painted eyes closely watching as I passed them.

The door to my father's study was heavy, solid oak, carved with the Edevane crest.

Ezra knocked once.

"Enter."

The voice was like crushed stone, ground down by years of command.

Ezra pushed the door open, and I stepped inside.

The study was a world of dark wood and aged leather, the scent of old books and brandy thick in the air. My father sat behind his desk, his gaze sharp as a whetted blade.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then—

"You've been busy."

His tone was neutral, but I caught the edge beneath it.

He was watching me. Measuring. Calculating.

I smiled, slow and deliberate. "You taught me well."

A flicker of amusement. Quite Brief. Gone in an instant.

He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."

I did.

He tapped a file against the desk. The same one Ezra had given me yesterday.

"I assume you've read this."

"Thoroughly."

His fingers steepled together. "And your thoughts?"

I leaned back, tilting my head slightly. "The Moreau family is making a move. A subtle one, but intentional. They are after something specific."

His expression did not change. "And you believe you know what it is."

It was not a question.

I considered my response carefully.

Truth was a currency best spent in measured amounts.

"They are after a formula," I said finally. "One that should not exist."

My father's gaze sharpened.

He was testing me.

Waiting to see how much I truly understood.

I let a slow breath escape, tilting my head slightly. "I will handle it."

A pause.

Then—

His lips curled at the edges.

Approval.

Minimal. But present.

"See that you do," he said. "And, Leon?"

I met his gaze.

"Do not fail."

Later that night, I stood alone on the balcony, the city stretching out beneath me like a sea of golden lights.

Ezra joined me a few moments later, silent at first.

Then—

"You're playing a dangerous game."

I did not look at him.

"I always have."

He exhaled, the sound laced with something between irritation and resignation. "If you push too hard, the Moreaus will push back."

"That is what I am counting on."

Ezra ran a hand through his hair, sighing. "You enjoy this too much."

I finally turned to face him, amusement curling at the edges of my lips.

"I do not enjoy the game, Ezra." I let my voice drop, smooth and quiet as silk. "I enjoy winning."

He held my gaze for a long moment before shaking his head. "You're impossible."

I smirked. "And yet, you are still here."

He did not deny it.

Good.

Because this was only the beginning.

And when the Moreau family realized the very true nature of their mistake—

It would already be far too late.

The scent of rot had returned.

And this time, I would not be the one buried beneath it.