The storm had passed, but something in the air still crackled—an unnatural stillness, like the world was holding its breath.
Elena stood barefoot in the center of their matrimonial home, her silk robe clinging to her skin, damp with sweat that had nothing to do with the heat outside. The shattered vase at her feet had once held her anniversary bouquet—crimson roses now scattered like blood across the floor, trampled beneath a heel she hadn't realized had cracked.
She didn't cry.
The tears had dried long ago, replaced by a hollow ache that wrapped itself around her ribs like wire. Her fingers trembled as she held Lucas's phone, the screen still open to the last message:
"I told her I was working late. She believed me, as always."
—Serena.
Her sister.
Her blood.
The same girl she'd once given her room to during college breaks, the one she'd protected from cruel gossip and carried home drunk from rooftop parties. The one who now wore her husband's shirts and smiled into hotel mirrors with his arms wrapped around her waist.
Elena's hand dropped the phone.
It hit the floor with a dull thud, sliding across the marble until it disappeared beneath the edge of the couch. She didn't chase after it. What was the point? The truth was already carved into her memory—seared into her eyes with every photo, every message, every voice note.
"She's starting to notice."
"Then it's time."
She hadn't known what they meant at first.
Not until she tried to leave.
The front door was jammed. The security system had been shut off. The staff, usually lingering for late-night tea or casual check-ins, had all left early. Her car wouldn't start. Her phone had no signal.
Panic rose like bile in her throat. But deeper than the fear, deeper than even the betrayal, was the bone-deep certainty that this wasn't just abandonment.
It was an execution.
They didn't want a divorce.
They wanted her gone.
She stumbled backward, knocking over a side table as she moved toward the hallway. Her breath quickened. The house felt too quiet—too empty. The walls closed in, whispering secrets she hadn't been ready to hear before.
And then, she smelled it.
Smoke.
A sharp, burning scent—bitter and immediate—crawled into her lungs before her mind could catch up. Her head snapped toward the hallway, where a faint orange glow began to flicker beneath the bedroom door.
"No..." she whispered, frozen in place.
Then the flames roared.
The explosion came from the far end—subtle, but strong enough to make the windows shudder. A fire had been set. Not random. Not accidental.
Planned.
She turned to run but the hallway was already engulfed. The fire spread like a living thing, devouring wood and silk, dancing along the path she had once called home. Her lungs burned. Her skin seared. The air thickened with smoke and ash, pulling her down, down, down—
She crawled into the living room, vision blurring, her heart pounding against cracked ribs. Her fingers brushed the edge of the broken vase. Crimson petals stuck to her skin. The chandelier above—the same one that had lit every birthday, every celebration, every lie—swung with a slow, creaking rhythm.
Elena collapsed beneath it.
The world blurred into orange and black.
But her mind didn't fade.
Not yet.
As flames kissed her legs and smoke pressed against her chest like a fist, a fire far more vicious lit within her—a scream of vengeance, of agony, of purpose.
They had taken everything.
Her marriage.
Her dignity.
Her child.
Her life.
But they would not take her soul.
She clenched her jaw, teeth bloodied and breath rasping. And with the last of her strength, as her vision dimmed and her heart gave its final protest, she made a vow into the silence.
"I was loyal. I gave you everything." She shouted at the top of her lungs...
"If I ever get another chance…" she rasped, "I'll never waste it."
"This time," she whispered, voice cracking like glass,
"I will never let them win."
Then the world turned black.
And the fire took her.