Chapter 1

Three years.

Three years since the warehouse fire ate Mark, my Mark, and spat out nothing but ash and a hero's medal.

Our son, Leo, was just three then, now he's six, a little boy who only knew his firefighter dad from faded photos and my tear-soaked stories.

I worked shifts at the diner, the smell of stale coffee and fried food clinging to me, just to keep our small apartment, just to keep Leo in shoes that fit.

My parents, Mark's parents, they were kind, always there with a plate of food or an offer to watch Leo.

But their eyes held a constant plea, "Olivia, move on, it's time."

I couldn't, Mark was my life, his memory was all I had left of that life.

I wore his old flannel shirt to bed every night, the scent of him long gone, replaced by the faint smell of fabric softener and my own loneliness.

Today was the anniversary, the third one.

The air in town always felt heavier on this day, like a shroud.

I'd promised to stop by the Hendersons', Mark's parents.

Leo was with my mom, he didn't need to see his grandma and grandpa cry again.

I parked my beat-up sedan in their driveway, the familiar oak tree in their yard shedding its autumn leaves.

The front door was slightly ajar, I could hear voices from inside, louder than usual.

Mr. Henderson's voice, tight with anger, "It was David who had the gambling debts, David who died in that fire!"

My hand froze on the doorknob. David? Mark's twin?

Then another voice, deeper, strained, a voice I knew, a voice I'd mourned.

"I did what I had to do! For Sarah, for the baby!"

My blood turned to ice. That wasn't David's voice. David's voice was higher, softer.

That was Mark.

Mr. Henderson shouted again, his voice cracking, "You took his name, Mark, to escape those loan sharks and 'protect' Sarah, but what about Olivia? What about your own son, Leo, who thinks his father is dead?!"

Mark.

Alive.

My Mark.

The floor beneath me seemed to vanish, the world tilted, a roar filled my ears.

My husband, the hero firefighter, didn't die. He let me believe he died.

He let his own son believe he died.

He let me grieve, for three years.

He let me struggle, alone.

The man I loved, the man I mourned, had orchestrated the biggest lie of my life.

My knees buckled, I caught myself on the doorframe, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

The hero. My hero.

He was a fraud.

My grief, my loyalty, my sacrifice, all of it, a sick joke.

The life I had clung to, the memory I cherished, it was all built on his deception.

A wave of nausea hit me, bitter and hot.

I stumbled back from the door, turned, and ran.

I didn't know where I was going, I just ran, away from that house, away from that lie.

The carefully constructed world I lived in had just exploded.

I found myself back in my car, fumbling for my phone, my hands shaking so hard I could barely dial.

My parents. I needed my parents.

My mom answered on the first ring, her voice calm, "Olivia, honey, are you okay? You sound awful."

Tears streamed down my face, hot and angry.

"Mom," I choked out, "Mom, you know Captain Miller? The one you and Dad keep talking about?"

A pause. "Yes, dear. Captain Jim Miller. Why?"

"I want to meet him," I said, the words tasting like ash and newfound, bitter freedom. "Can you... can you set it up? Soon."

My three years of loyalty, my unwavering devotion to a dead man.

It was all a lie.

He chose to protect David's wife, Sarah, and her unborn child. He chose to escape debts that weren't even his.

He chose them over me, over Leo.

He erased himself from our lives, let us mourn a ghost, while he lived a new life under his dead brother's name.

The pain was a physical thing, a vise around my chest, squeezing the air out.

But beneath the pain, a cold, hard anger was forming.

He didn't die a hero. He was a coward. And a liar.

And I had wasted three years of my life on him.