Ava took a deep breath. A very long and painfully dramatic breath—one of those deep inhales you do when you're about to dive into freezing water or accidentally walk into a room where someone microwaved fish.
Because if there's one thing she wanted to avoid more than Shen Wang's smug little smirk, it was his perfume. Oh, not just any perfume—this was the kind of cologne that screamed "I have money, and I want your nose to suffer for it."
It was a violent assault of musky leather, overly aggressive sandalwood, and something suspiciously spicy, like expired cinnamon.
In fact, the moment she stepped into the same room as him, she subtly took a step back, pretending to fix her blazer. She wasn't fixing anything. She was bracing for impact. The scent hit her like an invisible punch in the lungs, and her soul briefly left her body.
