Lena Moreau

Lena moves as if the world was made to follow her rhythm. Every gesture is deliberate, graceful — from the way she handles vials of essential oils to the soft tuck of a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Perfection isn’t her goal; it’s her baseline. A master perfumer with a genius sense of smell, she reads emotions through scent. Her lab is a sanctuary of order — everything precisely placed — yet her mind is a whirlwind of creativity. Though delicate in appearance, with porcelain-like skin, a refined face, and hands made for fine French lace, she carries the spirit of a seeker. Her curiosity is insatiable. Lena never lingers long in one place. She chases new scents, sensations, and boundaries to blur. She’s the kind of woman who enters a room and leaves everyone wondering what perfume she wears… until they realize it’s her essence they’ve remembered. He commands a room without saying a word. His presence is weight — heavy, palpable, inescapable. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a hawk-like gaze and a scar that hints at battles no one dares ask about, he speaks little but means every word. His voice is low and edged with warning, like thunder rumbling just before the sky splits. Ruthless when crossed, he has no tolerance for incompetence or betrayal. His anger is sharp, precise — not wild, but devastating. Mercy doesn’t come naturally to him. Some say he doesn’t feel it at all. He built an empire with iron discipline and expects the world to obey his rules. But then there’s her. Lena’s perfume — a soft, barely-there trace of jasmine, sandalwood, and something he can’t name — silences the storm inside him. He hates how it disarms him. Hates how he slows his breath when she’s near. And yet, without that scent, the world feels too loud, too raw, too breakable. He doesn’t understand it. And that infuriates him even more.