chapter 1

The night before my wedding to Joshua Harvey, the wedding dress he designed for me went up in flames.

The fire spread through the studio with terrifying speed, swallowing bolts of silk, sketches, and ribbons in a wave of red and gold.

Amid the roar of the flames, Joshua threw himself over his trembling protégé, Carley Walsh, shielding her with his own body as if she were the one worth saving.

He didn't care that I had been thrown to the ground by the blast—my arm slamming through the glass display case, shards slicing deep until the pain exploded up to my shoulder.

I could barely breathe, the air thick with smoke and burning fabric, but I still heard his voice. Low. Tender. Meant only for her. "Don't be scared," he whispered. "It's just a dress. Let it burn." And he never once looked back at me.

Even now, when I trace my fingers over the twisted scar along my arm, I can still feel the heat on my skin and smell the acrid sweetness of melted lace.

On what should have been the morning of my wedding, I packed a single suitcase, booked a one-way ticket to the southern hemisphere, and left behind the ashes of everything we built.

Joshua, we loved each other for ten long years. You spun a dream for me—a beautiful illusion made of silk, laughter, and promises—only to set it ablaze at the very end.

This time, I'm done with you.

The wound on my arm had been deep, the kind that should have made me scream, but I didn't make a sound while the doctor stitched me up. The needle pulled through my skin again and again, and I stared at the ceiling, numb and silent.

When the anesthesia wore off, the pain came sharp and merciless, but it still paled next to the hollow ache twisting inside my chest.

Joshua didn't show up until dawn. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his shirt wrinkled, hair tousled, dark circles shadowing the eyes I once thought I knew so well.

He carried a thermos and a small paper bag, the faint scent of warm porridge cutting through the antiseptic air. Setting it gently on the bedside table, he sat down beside me, his voice low and cautious. There was a subtle trace of appeasement in his voice, so faint it might have gone unnoticed—if not for the way his words softened at the edges. "Natasha," he said, "please… eat something."

I didn't move. I just looked at him, letting the silence stretch between us until it became unbearable.

He shifted, fidgeting, the weight of my stare making him uneasy. Then, almost as if by instinct, he reached out and tried to touch my forehead, but I turned away. His hand froze midair, fingers trembling, and a flicker of hurt flashed across his face.

"I know you're angry," he murmured finally. "Carley didn't mean it. She just… accidentally knocked over the candle."

I almost laughed. The sound that came out of me was dry, bitter, stripped of humor. "Accidentally?" I repeated, each syllable sharp as glass, "Joshua, did you even read the fire report? The blaze started in the storage room—you know, the one filled with alcohol and flammable fabrics. The candle she supposedly knocked over was 164 feet away. On your desk."

He froze. The color drained from his face, and for a long moment, he couldn't find a single word.

I saw it in his eyes — the dawning realization that I'd gone to the fire department myself, that I hadn't just sat here waiting for his version of the story.

"She did it on purpose," I said, voice quiet but steady. "She was jealous. She couldn't stand to see me wear the dress you made for me, so she destroyed it. She almost destroyed me, too."

Joshua's throat worked as he swallowed, avoiding my gaze, guilt flashing across his features. "She knows she messed up," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was terrified last night, crying nonstop. I already yelled at her. This whole thing—"

"You want to just let it go?" I cut him off. My tone was soft, but the words landed like a blade.

He said nothing. I stared at him for a long moment, then laughed — a hollow sound that scraped at the quiet room. "Joshua," I said, almost gently, "you spent an entire year designing and making that dress. You called it your masterpiece, the most precious gift you could ever give me. And now it's gone, and to you, it's just a piece of clothing?"

"That's not what I meant…" he began, voice faltering.

"Then what did you mean?" I demanded, "Is Carley more important than the dress? Or am I worth less than her tears?"

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His silence told me everything.

Ten years of love, eroded slowly by his endless excuses and blind devotion to someone else, had been hanging by a thread long before the fire. The flames didn't just consume silk and tulle — they devoured the trust, the warmth, the fragile bond that once tied us together. And when the last ember died, all that was left was ash and a woman who had finally stopped waiting to be chosen.