Burned By Him, Reborn A Star

The first thing Evelyn registered was the smell. Acrid, chemical, choking. It was the scent of her own life burning down.

She gasped, her lungs seizing against the intrusion of oxygen. A plastic mask was pressed tight against her face, the rubber seal digging into her cheekbones. Her eyes flew open, but the world was a blur of flashing red lights and the sterile, metallic ceiling of an ambulance.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?"

The voice was loud, too close. A face swam into view-an EMT, young, with sweat beading on his forehead. He was checking Evelyn's pupils with a penlight that felt like a needle stabbing into her brain.

"Ma'am, try to stay calm. You've inhaled a lot of smoke. We're taking you to Mount Sinai."

Evelyn tried to speak, to ask the question that was screaming in her chest, but her throat was raw, stripped of its lining. All that came out was a dry, hacking cough that tasted like ash.

"Name?" the EMT asked, his pen hovering over a clipboard. "We need a name and an emergency contact."

Evelyn lifted a trembling hand. Her skin looked gray under the harsh lights, smeared with soot. She pointed to the side table where her phone lay. Ideally, it should have been melted, destroyed like everything else in the penthouse. But there it was, the screen spiderwebbed with cracks, yet still glowing with a faint, mocking light.

The EMT picked it up. "Is this your husband? Julian?"

Evelyn nodded once. The movement sent a spike of pain down her neck.

He hit the call button. Evelyn watched his face. She counted the seconds in the rhythm of her own erratic heartbeat. One. Two. Three.

The EMT pulled the phone away from his ear, frowning. "Voicemail."

He tried again. "This is Emergency Services calling for Evelyn Vance," he said into the recorder, his voice urgent. "Please call back immediately."

Evelyn closed her eyes. She knew he wouldn't answer unknown numbers, and he rarely checked voicemails unless they were flagged by his assistant.

"Look at the TV," the driver shouted from the front.

Evelyn turned her head. Mounted on the wall of the ambulance was a small monitor, tuned to the local news. The banner at the bottom was bright red: BREAKING NEWS: FIRE AT VANCE TOWER PENTHOUSE.

The camera panned over the smoke billowing from the top of the building-her home, her prison-before cutting to a live feed from Hollywood Boulevard.

Evelyn's heart stopped. The monitor beeped erratically, a high-pitched warning that made the EMT look at her with concern.

On the screen, thousands of miles away in Los Angeles, was Julian.

He wasn't frantic. He wasn't checking his phone. He was shielding a woman from the paparazzi, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, his face twisted in a snarl at a cameraman who got too close.

Serena Holloway.

She looked fragile, her eyes wide and teary, clutching the lapels of Julian's jacket. The headline changed: Julian Vance Comforts Serena Holloway After Panic Attack at Premiere.

Evelyn stared at his hand. That large, capable hand that she had held during their wedding vows, the hand that had signed their prenup with a flourish, was now stroking Serena's hair, tucking her face into his chest to hide her from the flashbulbs.

He was protecting her from lights.

While Evelyn was burning in his house.

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, cutting a clean track through the soot on her cheek. It was hot, acidic.

"We need to sedate her," the EMT said urgently. "Heart rate is one-eighty. She's going into shock."

Evelyn felt the prick of a needle in her unburned arm. The cold rush of the sedative moved up her veins, freezing the fire in her lungs. As the darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, the image of Julian holding Serena burned itself onto the back of her eyelids.

Three years, she thought, the words floating in the black void. I gave you three years of silence. Three years of being the perfect, invisible wife. And you let me burn.

When Evelyn woke up, the silence was louder than the sirens.

She was in a private room. The walls were a pale, offensive beige. Outside the window, the New York skyline was bleeding into a gray dawn. She was alone.

No flowers. No husband pacing the floor. Just the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of the IV bag.

A nurse bustled in, checking a chart. She paused when she saw Evelyn's eyes were open. There was a flicker of pity in her gaze-that specific, condescending pity reserved for women whose husbands are publicly humiliating them.

"Mrs. Vance," she said softly. "You're awake. We treated the burns on your neck, arm, and leg. They're second-degree, but they should heal with minimal scarring if you're careful."

"My husband?" Evelyn's voice was a whisper, sounding like dragging sandpaper over concrete.

The nurse hesitated. She looked at the TV mounted on the wall, which was currently off, then back at Evelyn. "We... we haven't been able to reach him directly yet. It seems he's still dealing with the press in Los Angeles. The news said..." She trailed off, not wanting to say it.

The news said he's with her.

Evelyn looked at her reflection in the darkened window. Her hair was matted with soot. There was a bandage on her neck. She looked like a ghost. Or maybe a corpse that had forgotten to die.

"I see," Evelyn said.

The nurse adjusted Evelyn's blanket. "You need rest. The doctor said you should stay for observation for at least twenty-four hours."

Evelyn looked at the IV in her hand. It was a tether. A leash. Just like the ring on her finger.

"No," Evelyn said.

She reached over and ripped the tape off her hand.

"Mrs. Vance! What are you doing?" The nurse rushed forward, her hands fluttering.

Evelyn pulled the needle out. A droplet of bright red blood welled up, sliding down her skin. She didn't feel it. She didn't feel anything physical anymore. The fire had cauterized the nerve endings of her heart.

"I'm checking out," Evelyn said. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her hospital gown was thin, and the floor was freezing against her bare feet.

"You can't," the nurse protested. "You have smoke inhalation. You need-"

"I need a lot of things," Evelyn interrupted, standing up. The room spun for a second, then steadied. "But none of them are in this hospital."

She walked to the small closet where they had stored her belongings-the few things that had survived on her person. Her ruined clothes, her cracked phone.

Evelyn dressed in the smoky, stiff jeans and the t-shirt that had a hole burned near the collar. She didn't care.

She picked up her phone. A notification flashed across the screen.

Daily Mail: "My Guardian Angel," says Serena Holloway of Julian Vance. "He's the only one who can calm my storms."

Evelyn laughed. It was a dry, broken sound.

She opened a secure app on her phone, one hidden deep within a folder labeled 'Recipes.' It required a fingerprint and a twenty-character password.

The screen loaded. Bank of the Cayman Islands.

Account Holder: The Architect.

Balance: $24,500,000.00.

Evelyn stared at the number. For three years, she had let the Vance family treat her like a pauper, a gold-digger who should be grateful for the crumbs from their table. She had let Julian pay for her clothes, her food, holding it over her head like a debt she could never repay.

But Evelyn was The Architect. Hollywood's most sought-after ghostwriter. The woman who had penned three Oscar-winning screenplays under a pseudonym because the Vance family didn't allow their wives to "work."

She locked the phone.

"Mrs. Vance, please, let me call your driver," the nurse pleaded, following her into the hallway. "Or Mr. Vance's assistant?"

Evelyn stopped at the elevator. She turned to her, her eyes dry and hard.

"Don't call anyone," she said. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire."

She walked out of the hospital doors into the biting cold of the morning. She didn't look for the black town car that usually ferried her around like a prisoner transport.

She raised her hand and hailed a yellow cab.

The driver, a heavyset man with a kind face, looked at Evelyn in the rearview mirror. She must have looked like a maniac-soot-stained, smelling of smoke, bleeding slightly from the hand.

"Where to, lady?"

Evelyn looked down at the diamond ring on her left hand. Five carats. Flawless clarity. Cold as ice. She double-tapped the side button of her phone to bring up her wallet. It still worked.

"Midtown," Evelyn said, her voice gaining strength. "Sterling & Hale Law Firm."

The leather of the couch in Sarah Miller's office was cool against Evelyn's skin, a stark contrast to the burning sensation that still throbbed beneath the bandages on her neck. Sarah sat opposite her, her usually immaculate bob slightly mussed, her knuckles white as she gripped a pen.

"He left you," Sarah hissed, her voice trembling with a rage Evelyn was too exhausted to feel. "The apartment was on fire, Evelyn. On fire. And he was in L.A. playing knight in shining armor to that... that siren."

"He didn't know about the fire when the alarm first went off," Evelyn said, her voice flat. She wasn't defending him. She was just stating facts. Facts were all she had left.

"He knew when the news broke," Sarah countered, slamming the pen onto her glass desk. "He knew when the EMT left that voicemail. It's been twelve hours, Evelyn. Has he called? Has he even texted?"

Evelyn looked at her phone on the table. It was silent.

"Draft the papers, Sarah."

Sarah blinked, her anger pausing for a moment of stunned silence. "You mean it? Finally? You're actually going to do it?"

"I want a clean break," Evelyn said, leaning forward. The movement pulled at the burns on her leg, but she ignored it. "I don't want spousal support. I don't want the Hamptons house. I don't want a single cent of Vance money."

"Evelyn, you're entitled to-"

"I have money," Evelyn cut in. She unlocked her phone and slid it across the desk, showing her the Architect account balance.

Sarah looked at the screen, her eyes widening. She let out a low whistle. "Okay. So the 'poor, helpless trophy wife' act is officially over?"

"It was never an act for me, Sarah. It was a cage. And I'm done being the bird. Also... I need a doctor. A discreet one. I walked out of Sinai against advice."

Sarah nodded immediately, reaching for her landline. "I'll call Dr. Evans. He does concierge visits. He can meet you at the apartment or a hotel to check those burns properly."

Suddenly, the phone on the desk buzzed. A picture of Julian filled the cracked screen.

Sarah reached for it, her face twisting, but Evelyn held up a hand. "Put it on speaker."

Evelyn tapped the green icon.

"Evelyn?"

His voice was deep, familiar. It used to make her stomach flutter. Now, it just made her stomach churn. He sounded tired, irritated. Not worried.

"I'm here," Evelyn said.

"I saw the news," he said. "Harrison tells me the penthouse is a mess. Are you handling the insurance adjusters?"

Evelyn stared at the phone. Are you handling the insurance? Not Are you okay? Not Did you get burned?

"I'm not at the apartment, Julian."

"Well, go back. You need to oversee the cleanup. I can't deal with this right now. The press is swarming."

"Where are you?" Evelyn asked, though she suspected the answer.

"I just landed at Teterboro," he said, the lie slipping out smoothly. "I'm heading to the Pierre. I can't come home with the paparazzi following me, and I need to get Serena settled. She's shaken up."

Then, faintly, in the background, a voice Evelyn knew better than her own nightmares.

"Julian? Baby, this hotel water pressure is awful. Can you call the front desk?"

The air in Sarah's office seemed to vanish. Sarah looked like she was about to vomit. He wasn't just landing. He was already at the hotel with her.

Julian covered the receiver instantly. There was a muffled sound, a harsh whisper, and then he was back.

"I'm in a meeting," he lied. Smoothly. Effortlessly. "I'll be home tonight to check on the damage. Don't be dramatic about the fire, Evelyn. It was just a kitchen accident, right? Harrison said the structure is fine. You always were careless with the stove."

Evelyn felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. It was a terrifying feeling.

"Careless," Evelyn repeated. "Yes. I suppose I was careless to think you were working."

"Excuse me?" His tone dropped, turning icy. "Don't start with your jealousy. Serena had a panic attack. She needed a friend. I know that concept is foreign to you since you don't have any."

"Enjoy your meeting, Julian," Evelyn said. "And tell Serena to try the spa shower on the second floor."

She hung up.

Sarah was staring at Evelyn with her mouth open. "You... you just hung up on Julian Vance."

"I did."

"And he was... she was there? In New York?" Sarah stood up, pacing the room. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to find where he is and stab him with a stiletto."

"Sit down, Sarah," Evelyn said, standing up. She felt strangely light. The anchor that had been dragging her down for three years had just been cut. "We have work to do. I'm not just divorcing him. I'm taking back my name."

"You want to write again?"

"No," Evelyn said, walking to the window and looking out at the city that had chewed her up and spit her out. "I've been writing everyone else's stories for years. Hiding behind the name 'The Architect' because Julian thought screenwriting was 'common.' Now? I want to be seen."

She turned back to her. "I want to act, Sarah. Book me auditions. Under Evelyn Reed. No connections. No favors."

"But your face..." Sarah gestured vaguely to Evelyn's neck.

Evelyn touched the bandage. "It's a story. It's character. Cover it with makeup or let it show. I don't care. Just get me in the room."

Evelyn left the law firm an hour later with an appointment card for Dr. Evans and a plan codenamed 'Rebirth.'

She stopped at a pharmacy on the way back to the penthouse to pick up some painkillers Dr. Evans had called in. Above the counter, a TV was replaying the footage. Julian lifting Serena into the SUV. His hand on her waist. The intimacy of it was nauseating.

"He's so romantic," the cashier sighed, popping her gum. "Wish my boyfriend looked at me like that."

Evelyn adjusted her sunglasses. "Trust me," she muttered, "you don't."

She arrived at the Vance Tower. The smell of smoke still lingered in the lobby, faint but persistent. The elevator ride to the penthouse took forty seconds. She spent them breathing, steadying the tremors in her hands.

Evelyn walked into the foyer. The damage was mostly in the kitchen and the living room, where the walls were blackened. But the air was heavy with the scent of disaster.

She went straight to the master bedroom. She pulled her suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.

She didn't pack the gowns he bought her for galas. She didn't pack the jewelry he gave her as apologies for missed anniversaries. She packed her jeans. Her old sweaters. Her laptop. And the hard drive from the safe-the one containing the scripts for The Gilded Cage, Silent Echo, and Glass Walls.

Evelyn was zipping the bag shut when she heard the elevator ding.

Her spine stiffened.

Footsteps. Heavy, hurried.

Julian appeared in the doorway. He was still wearing the suit from the TV footage, but his tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked exhausted.

He stopped when he saw the suitcase. His brows knitted together, confusion marring his handsome features.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

He walked into the room, bringing with him the scent of airplane air and... underneath it, distinct and sweet... gardenias. Serena's perfume. And beneath that, the clean, soapy scent of the Pierre Hotel's signature verbena body wash.

Evelyn's stomach rolled.

"Yes," she said.

He scoffed, kicking the suitcase lightly with the toe of his Italian leather shoe. "Put it away, Evelyn. You're overreacting. Harrison arranged for the cleaners. We'll stay at the Pierre until it's fixed."

He walked past her toward the bathroom, loosening his cufflinks. "God, I'm tired. Draw me a bath, would you?"

Evelyn stared at his back. The audacity was breathtaking.

"Draw it yourself," she said.

Julian froze. His hands stilled on his cufflinks. He turned around slowly, as if he hadn't heard Evelyn correctly.

"What did you say?"

Evelyn grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "I said, draw it yourself. I'm not your maid, Julian."

She tried to walk past him, but he shot out a hand and grabbed her forearm to stop her. His grip was tight, landing directly on the patch of skin where the fire had licked her, right beneath the edge of her sleeve.

"Ah!" Evelyn gasped, the pain sharp and blinding. She yanked her arm back, cradling it against her chest.

Julian looked at his hand, then at Evelyn's wrist. She pulled up her sleeve, revealing the angry red skin, blistering at the edges of the gauze she had applied earlier. His eyes widened.

"What is that?" He reached out again, but stopped short of touching her. "How did you get that?"

"The fire," Evelyn said, stepping back. "The one you called a 'kitchen accident.'"

"I didn't know you were hurt," he said, his voice dropping. A flicker of something that looked like guilt passed over his face, but he blinked it away instantly. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

"You were too busy asking about the hotel water pressure for Serena."

His jaw tightened. "Stop bringing her up. She was hysterical. I couldn't just leave her alone at the hotel."

"You could have," Evelyn said quietly. "You just didn't want to."

She turned and walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She needed a minute. Her leg was throbbing, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving behind a dull, aching agony.

"Evelyn! Open the door!" Julian pounded on the wood. "We're not done talking!"

Evelyn ignored him. She turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room. She stripped off her clothes, wincing as the fabric peeled away from her skin.

She looked in the mirror. Her neck, her forearm, her thigh. Patches of angry red, welts raised like brands. She looked broken.

She stepped into the shower. The water was too hot. It hit her burns like liquid fire.

Evelyn cried out, stumbling back. Her foot slipped on the slick tiles.

She went down hard.

Her hip slammed against the marble floor. The breath was knocked out of her. A cry of pain tore from her throat before she could stop it.

CRASH.

The bathroom door burst open. The lock splintered.

Julian stood there, chest heaving. His eyes swept over the room and landed on Evelyn, curled naked on the floor, water streaming over her burns.

For a second, nobody moved.

He saw the horror in his eyes. He was seeing the extent of the damage for the first time. The raw, physical proof of his negligence.

"Evelyn..." The word was a strangled gasp.

He was on his knees in an instant, ignoring the water soaking his expensive suit pants. He reached for a towel, wrapping it around her with trembling hands.

"Don't touch me!" Evelyn screamed, pushing at his chest.

"Stop it!" He grabbed her shoulders, pinning her, but careful-so careful-not to touch the burns on her neck. "You're hurt. You're badly hurt. Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"Because you didn't ask!" Evelyn sobbed. The fight was draining out of her.

He scooped her up. He was strong, effortlessly lifting her from the wet floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, hating the fact that his arms still felt safe, even though she knew they were the most dangerous place in the world.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently. He ran to the cabinet and grabbed the first aid kit. His hands, usually so steady when signing billion-dollar deals, were shaking as he opened the antiseptic.

"I can do it," Evelyn said, trying to sit up.

"Stay still," he barked. But there was no anger in it anymore. Just panic.

He applied the ointment. He was clumsy, unsure of how much pressure to apply. He had never done this. Evelyn had nursed him through flu, through hangovers, through sports injuries. He had never so much as put a band-aid on her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes fixed on her leg. "I didn't know."

"Ignorance isn't an excuse, Julian. It's a choice."

He looked up at her. His blue eyes were storm-dark. "I am your husband. I take care of you. That's the deal."

"The deal is over."

Evelyn reached for the nightstand, where the folder Sarah had given her lay. She pulled out the document.

DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

She threw it on the bed between them.

Julian looked at it. He read the title. His face went blank. The panic vanished, replaced by a cold, hard mask. The Julian Vance of the boardroom returned.

"Is this a joke?" he asked quietly.

"Does it look like a joke?"

He stood up, towering over Evelyn. "You're divorcing me? Because of a fire? Because I helped a friend?"

"Because I am alone in this marriage, Julian. I have been alone for three years."

He laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound. He picked up the papers.

"You can't survive without me, Evelyn. You have no career. No family. No money. You think the world is kind to thirty-year-old divorcees with no resume?"

"I'll take my chances."

He stared at her, waiting for her to crack. Waiting for her to apologize and beg for forgiveness like she usually did when they fought.

When Evelyn didn't blink, his pride snapped.

He ripped the papers in half. Then in quarters.

"I'm not signing these," he said, letting the confetti rain down on the bed. "You're upset. You're traumatized. You're not thinking clearly."

"I have never been clearer."

His phone rang.

The ringtone cut through the tension like a knife. He looked at the screen.

Serena.

Evelyn looked at him. "Answer it."

"Evelyn..."

"Answer it, Julian. Show me I'm wrong."