Chapter 3

The landfill. My babies. Not even a grave, just... trash. The thought was a fresh wave of nausea. Ethan' s cruelty knew no bounds. He hadn' t just killed them; he' d desecrated their very memory, their symbolic resting place. How could anyone be so vile?

The next day, he wheeled me out to the hospital garden, to the "children's rosebush." I touched a petal, soft and pink.

I cried, not for the lie the bush represented, but for the truth of my loss, for the babies who never had a chance, whose supposed ashes were mingling with garbage.

My performance of grief was flawless. He wouldn' t suspect a thing.

Ethan put his arm around me, his touch making my skin crawl. "They' re at peace now, Elara," he murmured, his voice a low thrum of false comfort.

"I hope so, Ethan," I whispered, my voice choked with real tears for a fake memorial.

That evening, back in my room, he pointed out the window. "Look, Elara. The Lyrid meteor shower. They say it' s going to be spectacular tonight. We watched it together once, remember? The year we met."

I remembered. We' d lain on a blanket in Central Park, his arm around me, whispering dreams under a canopy of shooting stars. Another manufactured memory, another layer of his intricate deceit.

"It' s beautiful," I said, my voice flat.

As a meteor streaked across the inky sky, I made a silent wish. Not for happiness, not for love. I wished for an ending. For his ending. For my escape. For the day I would never see his face again.

Ethan watched me, a strange expression on his face. "You seem... distant, Elara. Is it the medication? Or just... everything?" He sounded almost... concerned. But it was a fleeting thing, quickly masked. He was probably just worried his "broken toy" wasn't reacting as expected.

"Just tired," I said.

The next morning, he brought in a sleek, expensive tablet. "For you, my love. I know how much you miss your art. I' ve loaded it with the best design software. You can sketch, plan your new pieces. We' ll get your studio rebuilt, better than ever, as soon as you' re stronger."

My glassblowing studio. My sanctuary. He probably planned to burn that down too, eventually. But his gift was an opportunity.

"Thank you, Ethan," I said, injecting a hint of enthusiasm into my voice. "This is... thoughtful." I needed to appear engaged, grateful. It was all part of the plan.

He beamed, pleased with himself. "Anything for my brilliant artist."

Later that day, I saw him looking at the preliminary sketches I' d made on the tablet for my "Phoenix Rising" series. He nodded slowly. "This is powerful, Elara. Dark, but powerful. Your best work yet, I think."

There was a flicker of something in his eyes – admiration? Or was he just pleased that my suffering was producing such "good art"?

He fussed over me while I worked, bringing me water, adjusting my pillows. "Don' t overdo it, darling." His attentiveness was suffocating.

The day before my scheduled "kidney donation," he was overseeing the setup for a small, private dinner in my hospital suite.

He paused, looking out the window, a brief, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow before it smoothed away. Was it a flicker of doubt? A moment of conscience? No, impossible.

The next morning, the nurses came to prep me for surgery. As they wheeled me out, Ethan kissed my forehead. "I' ll see you soon, my brave girl."

I closed my eyes. This was it.

No. This wasn't it. This was just the beginning of my it.

I never made it to the operating room for the kidney donation.

Earlier, I' d complained of severe eye pain, a "reaction" to one of the medications. It was a lie, of course, but it bought me a delay, a consultation with an ophthalmologist.

During that "consultation," facilitated by the one nurse who seemed to genuinely care and who I' d managed to slip a large sum of cash to, I was instead wheeled to a service exit.

The art collective. They were waiting.

My real "special gift" for Ethan was already in motion.

A timed email, set to arrive at his account in three days. It contained the photo of Chloe Sanders, laughing in Santorini, under the Lyrid meteor shower – the very same shower he' d pointed out to me. A recent photo, timestamped.

And a final text message, sent from a burner phone just as I was leaving the hospital grounds:

"You wanted me to pay for Chloe. Now I have, just like our children. I'm joining them. This is my gift to you, Ethan."

My old glassblowing studio. I' d visited it once, briefly, under escort, to "retrieve personal items." I' d done more than that. The gas lines... a simple timer.

As the car carrying me to a private airfield sped away, I heard the distant sound of sirens.

The explosion would be spectacular.

My old life, Elara Vance, consumed by fire.

Aurora Hayes was about to be born.