Chapter 3

A day later, a man I didn't recognize, dressed in a sharp suit that screamed "expensive assistant," appeared at my door. He didn't bother to knock, just walked in with an air of detached importance.

"Ms. Miller," he began, not even looking at my injuries. "I'm Mr. Johnson's executive assistant. He asked me to check on you."

He made it sound like a chore.

"He's very busy ensuring Ms. Davis is comfortable," the assistant continued, his tone flat. "He said to tell you not to worry about the company. And he also wanted me to pass along a message."

He cleared his throat. "He said, and I quote, 'Tell Sarah to stop being so dramatic. A little fire isn't a reason to throw a tantrum and talk about divorce. She needs to rest and get back to her senses.'"

The words hit me. Not like a physical blow, but like a sudden, chilling drop in temperature. Dramatic. A tantrum. He thought my decision to leave him, after he left me to die, was a childish fit of pique. The sheer arrogance, the complete lack of comprehension, was staggering.

The assistant looked at me, waiting for a response.

I just stared at him, the absurdity of the situation washing over me. And then, something inside me broke. A dry, ragged sob escaped my throat, followed by another. The tears I'd been holding back finally came, hot and furious. It wasn't sadness. It was rage. A deep, bottomless well of rage at being so thoroughly dismissed, so completely devalued.

I was crying so hard I didn't hear the door open again.

"Oh, my. Look at you. Crying like a baby."

The voice was sweet, almost syrupy, but it dripped with malice. I looked up, my vision blurred with tears, to see Emily Davis standing in the doorway. She was dressed in a fluffy pink hospital robe, looking perfectly healthy and radiant. Mark's assistant bowed his head slightly to her and quietly slipped out of the room.

"I just wanted to come and see how you were doing," Emily said, gliding closer to my bed. Her eyes, which everyone else saw as innocent, were scanning my injuries with a chilling look of satisfaction. "It looks like you got the worst of it. What a shame."

"Get out," I rasped.

She smiled, a slow, deliberate curving of her lips. "Mark feels so guilty. He keeps saying it's his fault. But I told him it wasn't. I told him some people are just clumsy."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Between you and me, though," she said, her sweet facade cracking to reveal the venom beneath, "it wasn't an accident. The fire. I started it. A little short circuit in the server room. I knew he'd come running. I just didn't expect you to be so... heroic. Or so stupid."

My blood ran cold. She was admitting it. She had set the fire that nearly killed me.

"You're insane," I breathed.

Her smile widened. "Am I? Or am I just the one who gets what she wants?" She patted her stomach, a gesture so theatrical it was almost comical. "Mark and I are going to have a baby. He's so excited. He's already talking about names."

A baby. Of course. The ultimate soap-opera plot twist. The lie was so blatant, so transparent, yet I knew Mark would believe it without question.

"He'll never have to be tied to a barren, work-obsessed woman like you again," she cooed. "He'll have a real family. With me."

She then let her gaze fall on my left hand, where my wedding ring still sat. It was a custom piece, a simple platinum band intertwined with a sapphire one, a design Mark and I had sketched together.

"That's a beautiful ring," Emily said, her voice turning demanding. "Mark told me he designed it. Since you two are getting a divorce anyway, I think I should have it. It's only right. The woman he truly loves should wear the ring he designed."

She actually reached for my hand.

The audacity of it, the sheer, unadulterated greed, snapped me out of my grief-stricken haze. My tears stopped. A cold, sharp clarity took their place.

I pulled my hand back, my fingers curling into a fist.

"You will not touch me," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "And you will not have this ring."

I looked her straight in the eye, letting her see the promise of ruin there.

"You started that fire, Emily. You confessed it to me. And if you don't walk out of this room right now, I will make sure everyone in this hospital, starting with the police officer stationed at the nurses' desk, hears exactly what you just said."

Her smile faltered for the first time. A flicker of fear appeared in her wide, "innocent" eyes.

"You have no proof," she stammered.

"It will be your word against the word of the woman you left for dead," I shot back. "Let's see who they believe."