Before the Osmanthus Blooms

1 The afternoon Garrett Hayes signed the executive offer making Chelsea Ward his special assistant, I shattered the glass conference table. I tore her onboarding agreement in half, right down the middle of her pristine signature, and hurled a ceramic mug of scalding Americano across the mahogany wood. The dark coffee splattered across her cream silk blouse and dripped from her chin. Garrett didn't hesitate; he signaled corporate security to pin my wrists behind my back against the carpet while he stood over me, his voice tight with disgust, telling the room that my jealousy had turned pathological. From that day on, every time he bumped her pay grade or slipped her name onto a high-profile pitch, I filed a formal whistleblower complaint with the board. I hired billboard trucks to circle corporate headquarters, blocked the executive garage with my car, and burned every industry bridge I had spent ten years building. I didn't care if I was blacklisted across Manhattan. Then came the rainy Tuesday when my younger brother, Toby, was caught in a hit-and-run on his way home from campus. His pelvis was shattered, internal bleeding severe, but the real nightmare was the acute aplastic anemia triggered by the trauma. His bone marrow had failed. We needed an emergency transplant, and the national registry turned up exactly one viable match—an out-of-state donor who had already cleared pre-op screenings. Garrett found out. With a single phone call to his hospital network connections, he had the donor’s travel authorization pulled and the transplant team grounded. "Issue a full, public apology to Chelsea in the papers," Garrett told me, standing in the hospital corridor smelling of cedarwood and crisp linen. "Admit you fabricated the allegations against her. The moment the retraction runs, the donor gets on the plane." That was the moment I finally broke. I stopped filing ethics complaints. I stopped calling security desks. I stopped fighting for the senior vice president title Garrett had promised me before our marriage began to rot. I sat at my laptop and drafted the confession. On the morning Toby was scheduled for surgery, Chelsea texted Garrett saying she had woken from a nightmare with chest tightness and couldn't bear to be alone. Garrett canceled the donor’s charter flight a second time. I found them in the private lounge on the ground floor. Garrett was stroking Chelsea’s hair while she wept softly against his shoulder, his thumb tracing the nape of her neck. When he looked up at me, his eyes were cold, flat slates of gray. "Toby is young," he said, the dismissal effortless. "His vitals are stable. Two more days won't kill him." An hour later, he chartered a seventy-foot yacht out of Chelsea Piers to take her sailing up the Sound to clear her head. Three hours after that, Chelsea’s Instagram grid updated. A sun-drenched photo on the teak deck, the Manhattan skyline blurring into hazy blue behind her. Garrett was half-turned in the frame, pouring chamomile tea into a porcelain cup for her. Her caption read: Some people spend their whole lives trying to heal from their childhoods. I just needed my boss. That midnight, I sat on a vinyl stool in the basement morgue beside Toby’s body. The sheet was pulled up to his collarbones, his skin the color of skim milk. I took the pen from the attending physician, signed the divorce papers I had drafted three weeks earlier, and booked a one-way ticket out of the country. "Mrs. Hayes, Mr. Hayes has already retained the regional hematology chief," Garrett’s executive assistant, Derek, said over the phone, his voice strained through the speaker. "If you would just stop making a scene, the donor can be cleared to fly back tomorrow morning." "The donor doesn't need to come," I said. "Mrs. Hayes, please don't let your pride get in the way. Mr. Hayes was clear: the moment you make the public statement clearing Miss Ward, this entire matter is resolved." "Tell Garrett to expect the divorce decree from my attorney." The line went silent for three beats. "Is this really necessary?" Derek sighed, the exhaustion palpable. "Mr. Hayes is only doing this to protect Miss Ward's reputation after everything you've put her through." I closed the blue leather portfolio containing the signed papers. "He doesn't need to do anything for me ever again." When the orderly wheeled the gurney toward the steel double doors, Toby’s limp fingers slipped from my wrist. The skin was already cool to the touch, like damp river stone. I walked out into the subterranean parking garage beneath the hospital. On the passenger seat of my sedan sat a cardboard box containing a half-finished thousand-piece puzzle of the Oregon coastline. Toby had left it spread across his bed the week before the accident, grinning up at me with that ridiculous, lopsided smile of his. Leave that half for me, Nora, he had said, tossing a handful of sky pieces into the lid. I’ll finish the ocean the day they discharge me. He never made it out of the ward. I packed the loose cardboard pieces into the box, taped down the flaps, and sat behind the steering wheel in the dim amber light of the garage for an hour without turning the key. Before starting the engine, my thumb hovered over my phone screen. Chelsea had posted a second photo from the water. Garrett stood at the galley counter, the steam rising between his hands. Healed, her caption said. When Garrett and I first met six years ago, he had poured tea for me, too. It was the night Toby had spiked a hundred-and-four fever during his freshman year of college. Garrett had sat in the emergency room waiting area beside me, unmoving, drinking cup after paper cup of bitter diner tea, refusing to leave my side until dawn broke through the glass doors. When I married him, I convinced myself that as long as I clung to the marriage, my family still existed. That the fractured pieces of my life were glued together under his roof. Sitting in the cold dark of the garage, I finally understood: the home had been dead for years. I opened my messages and texted my real estate broker. List the pre-marital brownstone on 12th Street. Price it five percent below market. I want a clean, cash close as fast as possible. The broker replied within three minutes. Nora? That property isn’t registered under your name. My thumbs froze over the glass. What are you talking about? The deed was updated eight months ago. The sole titleholder of record is Chelsea Ward. You don't have the legal authority to list it. The words seemed to detach from the screen. A low ringing started in the back of my skull. That brownstone was the only asset my mother had left to Toby and me before she died. A year ago, Garrett had insisted the brickwork was deteriorating and the plumbing needed a complete overhaul. Hand over the original title and permits, he had said, kissing my forehead as he slipped the manila folder into his briefcase. I’ll handle the city filings and the contractors. You have enough on your plate with Toby’s treatments. I had trusted him. And he had quietly deeded my mother’s legacy to the girl who destroyed her. I dialed Garrett’s private line. It rang five times before he picked up, the background noise filled with the gentle lapping of waves against a hull and the low hum of an outboard engine. "What is it, Nora?" he asked, his tone clipped. "You have dozens of investment properties in this city," I said, my voice shaking so hard the words felt jagged in my throat. "Why did you give my family’s house to Chelsea?" "The place was sitting empty while Toby was in the clinic," he said evenly. "Chelsea mentioned she liked the quiet block, and her lease was up. So I transferred the deed." "That was Toby’s house." A brief pause. His tone remained perfectly level, the practiced composure of a CEO managing a difficult vendor. "What’s yours is mine, Nora. By extension, whatever belongs to your brother falls under our household. It’s an asset. Stop splitting hairs." "Garrett, you have no right to touch that house." "Don't escalate this," he said, a warning threading through the calm. "The moment you issue the statement and apologize to Chelsea, I’ll clear the medical team to take Toby into the OR. Do the right thing for once." I ended the call. The screen showed the call had lasted exactly eleven seconds. I blocked his number. Then I went through my contact list, deleting every direct extension, his corporate email, and his assistant’s line. By sunrise, the paperwork at the crematorium was complete. The cedar urn felt unnaturally dense in the crook of my arm, an ache settling deep into my bicep. The boy who had held my hand through our mother’s funeral, who had shared cold takeout with me on the floor of cheap rental apartments, was reduced to five pounds of gray ash inside a polished wooden box. At nine in the morning, carrying a manila folder containing my formal resignation and the signed divorce agreement, I walked through the glass lobby of Hayes Capital and took the elevator to the legal floor. The general counsel wouldn't even extend his hand to take the folder. "Nora," he said softly, looking past my shoulder toward the security desk. "Mr. Hayes left explicit instructions. We are barred from processing any filings, resignations, or asset disclosures originating from you." "This is my employment termination notice." "Unless you speak directly with Garrett and resolve the personal situation with Miss Ward, our hands are tied." "Tell him yourself, then." "Please, Nora," the counsel said, lowering his voice. "He just wants you to make things right with Chelsea. Give her the public acknowledgment she’s asking for, and he’ll wipe the slate clean." I laid the folder on the reception counter. "If he wants an acknowledgment, he can come get it." Heavy footsteps echoed across the marble behind me. Garrett and Chelsea had just stepped off the executive elevator, straight from the marina. He wore a navy cashmere sweater over an open collar, looking rested, his skin sun-kissed. Chelsea walked a half-step behind him, her linen sundress pristine, her small hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. When she caught sight of me, her shoulders curled inward, leaning heavily into Garrett’s side as if bracing for an assault. Garrett’s eyes dropped to the folder on the counter. A faint, condescending smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "I see you finally came to your senses, Nora." Behind him, the legal team quietly dispersed into the adjoining conference rooms. I picked up the paperwork and extended it toward him. "The divorce settlement, and my immediate resignation. Sign them." 2 "Nora, this performance is getting pathetic," Garrett said, not even glancing at the documents. "You think threatening divorce is going to force my hand?" He didn't touch the folder. Instead, he pulled a folded piece of heavy cream cardstock from his breast pocket and pressed it into my palm. "I had communications draft the copy," he said smoothly. "Read it at the press conference tomorrow. Word for word." I looked down. The statement claimed that Garrett and Chelsea had shared a private, longstanding romantic relationship before our marriage, and that I had used manipulative tactics and corporate leverage to tear them apart. It painted me as an obsessive, unstable interloper who had spent the last three years waging a malicious smear campaign to punish an innocent woman. A sickening chill crept from my fingertips up into my chest. "I tore you two apart?" I asked, looking up into his face. "You're rewriting the entire history of our lives just to scrub her clean?" Garrett’s expression didn't flicker. "Chelsea hasn't slept a full night in months because of your accusations. The rumors you spread on the board level almost cost her a career before it even started. You created this mess. You’re going to fix it." "To fix her reputation, I have to destroy mine? And let Toby die in the process?" "Stop conflating the two," he snapped. "You grounded the bone marrow transport flight for her, Garrett! How dare you stand there and tell me they aren't connected?" His jaw set, his voice dropping an octave. "I gave you a way out, Nora. The second you read that statement to the press, the donor boards the plane." "He doesn't need to board anything." I gripped the cream cardstock between both thumbs. Garrett reached out to grab my wrist, but I twisted away, tearing the cardstock down the center, then across, ripping the thick paper into twenty ragged pieces. I threw the handful straight into his face. The white shreds fluttered against his cashmere sweater and drifted to the polished floor. "You're out of your mind," I said. "I will never apologize to her." Chelsea immediately shrank behind Garrett’s broad frame, her fingers bunching the fabric of his sweater, her breath hitching in a theatrical sob. "Garrett, please, stop," she whispered, her voice trembling just loud enough for the security guards to hear. "It’s fine. I can take the blame. Don't fight with Nora because of me... I’m used to being treated like this." The same voice. The exact same tremor. In our junior year of high school, she had cornered me in the hallway with red-rimmed eyes, telling me her mother was sick and her father had abandoned them before she was born. I felt so sorry for her that I brought her home every Friday night for dinner. She sat at our kitchen table, complimenting my mother’s roast chicken, calling my father "Mr. Mercer," until one day she started calling him "Dad Richard" with a sweet, deferential tilt of her head. I thought I was saving a broken girl. I had no idea her mother had been sleeping with my father in roadside motels for two years. The day my parents’ divorce was finalized, Chelsea stood on the courthouse steps holding my father’s hand, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. I didn't mean to hurt your family, Nora, she had whispered in the corridor. I just always wanted a real dad. The following week, my mother jumped from the fourteenth-floor balcony of our apartment. I slapped Chelsea across the face the next morning by the school lockers. Within forty-eight hours, Chelsea had mobilized the entire student body, painting herself as the grieving, saintly peacemaker who had been violently attacked by an unstable bully. For two years, my locker was vandalized with red paint, my textbooks dumped in toilets, my name dragged through every social circle until I stopped speaking altogether. Garrett stepped forward, shielding Chelsea entirely from my view. "Nora, stop gambling with your brother’s life." "He doesn't need you anymore," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "What is that supposed to mean?" I didn't answer. I turned on my heel and pushed through the heavy glass revolving door into the street. The heavy glass swept around in circles, muffling Garrett’s voice behind me. Think carefully, Nora! This is your absolute last chance! When the door released me onto the sidewalk, his voice was swallowed by the blare of midtown traffic. I drove straight to the small two-bedroom apartment near Columbia University where Toby had lived. A year ago, Garrett had insisted Toby move out of student housing and into this building. It’s two blocks from the medical center, Garrett had told me back then, leaning over the kitchen counter with an architectural floor plan. It’ll make his outpatient rounds so much easier. Let me handle the lease. Now, the lease had been terminated early. The locks had been changed. The apartment was gone. Toby was gone. I set the moving box on the kitchen island and walked into Toby’s bedroom. His bed was stripped down to the blue mattress pad. I lifted the corner of the pillow and found a single folded white document resting underneath. It was a standard hospital form: Informed Refusal of Life-Sustaining Treatment and Release of Liability. The signature at the bottom was Toby’s, the ink slightly smeared where his thumb had rested. Patient: Toby Mercer. Declaration: I hereby refuse all further interventions, transfers, and aggressive medical procedures. I release the hospital, attending physicians, and all related parties from liability. I sank onto the edge of the bare mattress, the paper slipping from my fingers onto the hardwood floor. The room was utterly quiet. No monitor beeps. No rattling breaths. I doubled over, pressing my face into my knees, sobbing so hard that no sound came out—just a dry, violent convulsion in my chest that left me gasping for air. On the floor, face up, the final handwritten line on the bottom of Toby’s form stared back at me: Nora, stop begging him for me. Please. Up on the sixty-second floor of Hayes Capital, Garrett sat behind his desk. Derek entered quietly, placing Nora’s resignation letter and an operations transfer memo on the blotter. "Mrs. Hayes transferred the complete asset portfolio and three years of proprietary research for the bio-tech acquisition directly to our primary competitor's division," Derek murmured. Garrett glanced at the signature page, the corner of his lip twitching with cold amusement. "Still throwing tantrums." "Sir, she didn't request a severance package. She signed over all intellectual property rights without demanding a dollar." "Let her play her games," Garrett said, closing the leather binder. "Deactivate her security keycards. Freeze all corporate cards and the primary checking account." Derek hesitated. "And her resignation, Mr. Hayes?" "Hold it in processing. When she runs out of money and comes back to apologize to Chelsea, we'll discuss her employment." The keycards were tossed into the top drawer of his desk. Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was the director of the private memorial park in Westchester where my mother was buried. "Mrs. Mercer? I’m calling regarding the family plot reservation you confirmed last week." "Yes?" I said, clearing my throat. "Is the plot ready for my brother's urn?" "I’m afraid there’s been a complication," the director said, his tone hesitant, deeply uncomfortable. "The adjoining parcel—and the existing deed covering your mother’s resting place—was purchased outright this morning. The original reservation has been canceled." My fingernails dug into the palm of my hand until I broke the skin. "Purchased by whom?" A long silence hung over the line. "A Miss Chelsea Ward. She presented an executive authorization signed personally by Mr. Hayes." "Why would she buy my mother’s grave?" The director swallowed audibly. "She... she filed an application for an expedited private interment. For an emotional support animal. A canine." I hung up the phone, grabbed the cedar box holding Toby’s ashes, and ran down the stairs to my car. The Westchester cemetery was shrouded in low gray fog when I pulled past the iron gates. The grounds manager rushed toward my car, his hands raised in apology, stammering explanations about corporate overrides and legal documentation. I didn't even look at him. I followed the gravel road up to the shaded hillside where my mother’s granite headstone stood under the weeping willows. Two groundskeepers were already there, their boots coated in dark, wet loam. A small mechanical backhoe was idling on the grass. Chelsea stood by the path, wearing an oversized black wool coat, directing the men with small gestures of her gloved hand. When she saw me storming up the hill, she took a deliberate step backward, her chin tucking down. "Nora," she said softly. "You shouldn't be here." I looked at the freshly turned earth at her feet. "Drop the shovels." 3 My mother’s grave was already halfway open. Mounds of damp brown soil were piled on either side of the trench. The granite headstone had been pried loose, tilted at a grotesque angle, and the brass urn containing my mother’s ashes was partially exposed among the crushed gravel, its lid knocked askew. A few feet away, resting on an emerald velvet cloth on the grass, sat a polished cherrywood pet casket with a brass nameplate engraved: Barnaby. I walked forward and kicked the wooden box as hard as I could. It tumbled across the wet grass, the brass latch snapping open. There was no dog inside. The velvet interior held nothing but a silver collar with a tiny bell. Chelsea looked up at me, gasped, and instantly covered her face with both hands, letting out a sharp, theatrical wail. Tires screeched on the gravel road behind us. Garrett’s black SUV came to an abrupt halt, and he leaped out, slamming the door so hard the glass vibrated. He sprinted up the slope and pulled Chelsea behind him into the crook of his shoulder. "Nora, are you out of your goddamn mind?" he shouted. "You're attacking her over a dead pet?" "She dug up my mother's grave!" I screamed, pointing at the open pit. Garrett didn't even turn his head to look at the trench. He pulled a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped a speck of damp earth from Chelsea’s cheek. "It’s an excavation plot, Nora," he said, his voice laced with venomous irritation. "I can buy your mother an estate plot anywhere in the country. A mausoleum, if you want. It's just dirt. What difference does it make where she's buried?" "It matters because this is where she rests! Why does Chelsea have to bury a metal collar on top of my mother's bones?" Chelsea peered out from behind his shoulder, her eyes shining with well-placed tears. "Nora, I didn't want to disturb your mother," she sniffled, her voice small and broken. "Barnaby was with me for five years. He was the only family I had when everything fell apart. The psychic told me his soul could only find peace on this specific ridge..." She stepped out from behind Garrett, closing the distance between us until she was inches away. Garrett reached out to steady her, thinking she was trying to apologize. Chelsea leaned in close, her mouth grazing my ear. Her voice dropped so low, so venomous, that it felt like an ice pick driving into my skull. "I did it on purpose, Nora," she whispered, her lips curling into a tight, vicious grin. "Even dead, your mother doesn't get to rest in peace. I’m going to grind her bones to dust, just like I did to you." The blood rushed to my ears in a deafening roar. My right hand came up before my mind could register the movement. The crack of my palm against her cheekbone echoed across the silent hillside. Her head whipped sideways. Before she could recover, I grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her forward, and struck her across the other cheek with the back of my hand. Chelsea shrieked, a high, piercing sound that cut through the fog. Garrett lunged forward, grabbing my forearms, but my grip on her hair didn't break until the two cemetery workers rushed in, pinning my shoulders and wrenching me backward by force. Chelsea collapsed into Garrett’s chest, her whole body shaking violently. "Garrett, I’m scared... she’s going to kill me..." A heavy palm struck the left side of my face. The force of Garrett’s slap spun my head around, my teeth catching the inside of my cheek, filling my mouth with the hot, metallic taste of copper. He raised his hand to strike me again. I looked up and locked eyes with him. The raw, undiluted hatred in my stare stopped his hand mid-air. His fingers twitched, hovering three inches from my face, his eyes flashing with disgust and a flicker of something unsettled. "You are completely unhinged," he breathed, his chest heaving. "Giving up this plot was supposed to be your penance." My ears were ringing. "My penance? For what?" He clamped a hand around my wrist, his grip like an iron shackle, and dragged me down the muddy slope toward his SUV. He yanked open the passenger door and shoved me violently inside. The central locks engaged with a heavy, mechanical clunk. He leaned through the driver’s window, glaring down at me. "You tormented Chelsea for two years in high school. She still wakes up screaming from nightmares about what you did to her. Everything I’ve done—every title I’ve given her, every asset I’ve transferred—was to help you balance the scales. To atone for what you broke." My back was pressed hard against the passenger window. The cold glass bit into my shoulder blades. "You believe every single lie that comes out of her mouth," I whispered, blood leaking from the corner of my lip. "I was the one who was bullied, Garrett. She ruined my life." Garrett pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a ragged breath of pure exhaustion. "She finally built up the courage to live a normal life, Nora, and all you do is terrorize her. Vacate the plot. Let her bury her dog in peace. The second she calms down, I’ll clear the marrow donor's flight, and I’ll book Toby into the best isolation suite at Mount Sinai." My fingernails bit deeper into my palms. "I can take my mother's ashes," I said, my voice dead and flat. "I can leave the plot to her." His shoulders lowered an inch, his features relaxing slightly. "Good. That’s all I—" "Before you drove out here to play the hero," I interrupted, staring straight ahead through the windshield, "did you even bother checking Toby’s hospital bed?" Garrett frowned, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about?" Outside the car, a sharp gasp cut through the air. Chelsea suddenly dropped to her knees on the gravel, clutching her chest, her breathing shallow and ragged as if she were suffocating. Garrett’s pupils contracted. Without a second thought, he ripped open the SUV door, abandoned me, and sprinted back up the hill. He scooped Chelsea into his arms, carrying her down the gravel path toward the vehicle. He yanked my door open, his eyes burning with fury. "Get out!" he snarled. I stepped down onto the muddy grass. He loaded Chelsea into the reclining passenger seat, threw the vehicle into reverse, and tore down the driveway, the red taillights disappearing into the Westchester fog. Behind me, the mechanical backhoe revved its engine. The steel bucket swung toward my mother’s grave, the metal teeth scraping against the concrete vault. I ran toward the machine, slamming my palms against the glass of the cab, shouting over the engine roar. The foreman stepped in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. "Miss Ward gave strict instructions before she left, ma'am. Everything in the trench is to be cleared and hauled away. We have an auspicious burial window for the pet, and Mr. Hayes signed the work order. Take it up with him." 4 In the trench below, the excavator's steel bucket nudged the side of the stone vault. The lid of my mother's brass urn cracked under the pressure, the metal creaking. There was no time to argue. I scrambled down the loose dirt bank, dropping to my knees in the gravel, my bare fingers clawing at the brass rim of the urn to pull it free. Above me, a worker shouted a warning, but the roar of the diesel engine drowned him out. The shadow of the steel bucket descended. Without thinking, I threw myself across the trench, covering the brass urn with my chest and stomach, tucking my head into my collarbones. A heavy shudder rattled through the earth as the bucket struck the edge of the pit. Simultaneously, a violent, tearing cramp twisted through my lower abdomen, sharp as a serrated knife. The light at the edges of my vision narrowed to a gray tunnel. I heard voices shouting somewhere above me, muffled and far away, like someone screaming underwater. Then everything went black.