The wildfire lit the sky like the end of the world, and there he was—Liam—holding her. Not just holding, but cradling, his lips brushing her ear as embers rained down like cursed snow. I froze behind the ambulance, the oxygen mask slipping from my hand. Three years of silent dinners, of sleeping in separate rooms, of signing a contract that said 'until death or divorce'—and this was his breaking point? With her, in the middle of a blaze?

I turned away before he saw me. Before he could lie to my face. Back at the house, I packed my bags, my novel manuscript clutched like a relic. Let him have his secrets. Let him burn with them.

Then the knock came. Not at the door—my phone. An unknown number. A voice: 'Your book isn’t fiction. And they’re coming to erase it. And you.'

I looked out the window. Headlights cut through the dark. No badges. No sirens. Just silence. And movement in the trees.

I had three choices: run into the night alone, call Liam—the man who betrayed me—or barricade the doors and prepare to fight.