The champagne flute trembled in my hand as I stood at the edge of the rooftop garden, the city glittering below like scattered stars. Fifteen years since I dragged Steve from that burning car, my palms shredded by glass, the crescent moon pendant torn from my neck in the struggle. And now here we were—married after one fevered night, bound by passion, not memory.

He walked toward me, tie loose, eyes clouded with something between exhaustion and disdain. "You’re quiet tonight," he said, voice flat. "Always watching. Always waiting."

"I’m your wife," I whispered.

"Don’t remind me." He turned away. "If only Clara hadn’t refused me back then… she’s the only one who ever truly saved me."

My breath caught. He still believed the lie.

Across the terrace, Clara raised her glass in a silent toast, smugness flickering in her smile. The pendant weighed heavy beneath my dress.

I could stay silent. Or I could walk over, rip it from my neck, and make him see the truth—no matter how much it destroys us.