They said Claudia was born perfect.
The papers called her "The nation's Goddess" before she was old enough to read the headlines herself. She could sell anything with one look—a dress, a diamond, a dream.
But there was one thing wrong with her, something the tabloids never knew: she had never smelled a single flower.
Doctors gave it a name she couldn't even spell as a child. Congenital anosmia. Born without a sense of smell. No perfume on her skin. No warning from a gas leak. No memory of her mother's cooking.
Her managers always said it didn't matter. Audiences don't care if you can't smell. They only care if you can lie well enough to make them feel.
So she did.
She became the perfect illusion. Every role flawless, every interview scripted. But in private, Claudia learned to watch people harder than anyone else. Without scent, she read them by breath, tremor, glance. She had to. Because danger has a scent. And she would never smell it coming.
Now, in the silence before the camera rolls, she sits with her story at the edge of her tongue. The makeup is immaculate. The lights are harsh.
Tonight, she'll tell them the truth.
The truth no one ever cared to ask.