Olivia POV

I woke to the sharp sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic, mechanical beep of machines. My left arm felt heavy, encased in layers of gauze. The pain was a dull throb now, a distant beast muffled by drugs, but it was waiting.

I kept my eyes closed, feigning sleep. I heard voices.

"You have to save the baby," Marcus's voice cut through the haze. Frantic. "She's pregnant. She didn't tell me, but I know."

"Sir, please calm down," a nurse said, her tone professional but strained.

"I need that child," Marcus hissed. "It's my legacy."

Not *our* child. *His* legacy.

I opened my eyes. The nurse was adjusting my IV, checking the drip rate. She looked at my chart, then down at my stomach. Her brow furrowed.

She leaned in close. "Mrs. Vance?"

"Hayes," I croaked, my throat feeling like it was filled with broken glass. "Ms. Hayes."

She glanced at Marcus, who was pacing in the hallway, his back turned to us as he barked into his phone.

"The doctor needs to clean the burns," she whispered. "We can't use strong anesthesia because of the pregnancy. It’s going to hurt."

"Do it," I said.

"And... about the baby," she hesitated, her eyes darting toward the door. "Your husband seems to think..."

I grabbed her wrist. My fingers fluttered against her skin, weak but frantic. My eyes were pleading.

"He thinks I lost it," I whispered. "Please. Let him think I lost it."

The nurse looked shocked. "Ma'am, I can't lie on medical records."

"Just don't correct him," I begged, tears pricking my eyes. "If he asks, just say there were complications. Please. I need to get away from him."

She looked at me, really looked at me. She didn't see just a burn victim; she saw the terror of a trapped animal. She nodded slowly.

The doctor came in. He began the debridement—scrubbing the dead skin off the burn.

It felt like being set on fire all over again. Agony, white-hot and purifying.

I bit down on a towel until my jaw ached. I didn't scream. I focused on the pain. I let it burn away the last shreds of my love for Marcus. Every scrape of the scalpel was the severing of a tie.

When it was over, I was drenched in sweat, shivering despite the heat.

Marcus came in. He looked disheveled, his usually perfect hair askew.

"Liv," he said. He sat on the edge of the bed and tried to take my hand.

I pulled it away.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't know you were hurt that bad. I thought..."

"You thought Izzy was more important," I said, my voice hollow.

"No," he insisted. "It was instinct. I just..."

His phone rang.

He looked at the screen. *Izzy.*

He didn't reject it. He didn't send it to voicemail.

"I have to take this," he said, already standing up. "She's... she's shaken up."

He walked into the hallway. He didn't close the door fully. Careless.

I strained to listen, ignoring the throbbing in my arm.

"I know, Izzy. I know. I'm here. I'm coming back to the hotel. Yes, she's fine. Just a burn. No, the baby... looks like we lost it."

Silence. Then, a sigh of relief from him. Audible even from here.

"Yeah. Maybe it's for the best. It complicates things less."

*Maybe it's for the best.*

My hand went to my stomach, covering the secret life growing there. I felt a fierce, protective rage. He was relieved his child was dead because it made his affair easier.

He walked back in. He looked composed, the mask back in place.

"I have to go check on some business," he lied smoothly. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Okay," I said.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He looked at my bandaged arm with detached curiosity. "Does it hurt?"

"I'm fine," I said.

"Good girl," he said. He patted my leg like one would a well-behaved dog. "We'll talk when I get back. About... everything."

He left.

I waited five minutes. I watched the clock on the wall, counting every second.

I pressed the call button.

The nurse came in.

"I need to leave," I said.

"You can't," she said. "You need observation."

"I am leaving Against Medical Advice," I stated, pushing myself upright despite the dizziness. "Bring me the papers."

She looked at me. She saw the desperation. She brought the papers.

I signed them with my good hand, my signature shaky but determined.

I walked out of the hospital, every step a battle. I hailed a cab.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"The airport," I said.

I didn't go home to pack. I had a bag in the trunk of my car at the memorial site, but that life was gone now. I couldn't go back there. I had my passport and wallet in my purse. That was all I needed.

At the terminal, I bought a ticket to the first place I saw on the departure board.

Montana.

I turned off my phone. I took out the SIM card and snapped it in half.

I dropped the pieces into a trash can near the gate.

Goodbye, Marcus. Goodbye, Olivia Vance.

I boarded the plane. As the wheels lifted off the tarmac, I didn't look down at New York. I looked forward.

I was burned. I was pregnant. I was alone.

But for the first time in three years, I was finally free.

Olivia POV

My father’s house was a fortress of silence.

For two weeks, I existed within its walls, lying in the guest bedroom and staring at the pristine white ceiling. The burns on my arm were healing, knitting themselves into jagged, pink maps of pain.

My father, David, hired a private nurse. He wanted to hover, to fix what had been broken, but I wouldn't let him. I didn't want soup. I didn't want comfort.

I wanted to be numb.

Every morning, a delivery truck arrived. Roses. Lilies. Orchids.

Marcus sent them.

They filled the hallway downstairs, turning the air cloying and sweet, suffocating the house like a funeral parlor. He never came inside. He dropped off the extravagant arrangements like penance, and then drove straight to the hospital.

To be with Izzy.

I sat by the window, a statue in my own life, and watched his car retreat.

"He called again," my father said, standing in the doorway. He looked older, his features etched with a new, weary grey. "He wants to know when you're coming home."

"I am home," I said.

But I wasn't. My things were still at the mansion. My paints. My clothes. The last shreds of my dignity.

I waited until the calendar on my phone confirmed Marcus was trapped in a board meeting. Then, I drove back to the house we used to share.

It was quiet. The staff made themselves scarce, ghosts in the periphery. I walked up the stairs, my footsteps echoing on the cold marble.

I didn't go to our bedroom. I went to the guest wing to pack the rest of my art supplies.

The door to Marcus’s study was ajar.

I heard the crackle of a fire.

It was mid-July. The central air conditioning was humming, battling a heat that shouldn't have been there.

I stopped. Through the sliver of space between the door and the frame, I saw her.

Izzy.

She was out of the hospital, standing in front of the fireplace. She held a stack of photographs. Her hands were shaking so violently the images blurred.

She looked at one. It was a polaroid. I couldn't see the faces, but I saw the way she caressed the glossy paper. She brought it to her lips, kissed it, and then ripped it in half.

She threw the pieces into the flames.

"Goodbye," she whispered. Her voice was thick with tears. "I have to let you go."

She reached for another. Rip. Burn. Rip. Burn.

It was a ritual. A violent purging.

Then, the front door slammed downstairs. Heavy footsteps took the stairs two at a time.

Marcus.

He burst into the study. I pressed myself against the wall, holding my breath, rendering myself invisible.

"What are you doing?" Marcus roared.

He rushed forward, grabbing Izzy’s wrist. He looked at the fire, at the curling edges of the photos. His face went pale.

"These are us," he said, his voice trembling. "Milan. The lake house. Why are you burning them?"

"Because it hurts!" Izzy screamed. She shoved him away. "I can't look at them anymore, Marcus! I can't look at you playing house with her!"

"I am not playing house," Marcus said. "I am doing what is necessary."

"Are you?" Izzy challenged. "You bought her that dress. The blue one. The one I wore the night we met."

"I bought it because it reminded me of you," Marcus said. "Everything reminds me of you."

He stepped closer, backing her against the desk. The heat coming off him was palpable. It wasn't anger. It was desperation.

"I would give it all up," Marcus said, his voice raw. "The company. The reputation. The marriage. If you just said the word, Izzy, I would burn it all down for you."

Izzy stared at him. Then she ran. She pushed past him and fled the room, sobbing.

I stood in the hallway, a ghost haunting my own marriage.

Marcus didn't chase her. He turned to the fireplace.

He fell to his knees. He didn't care about the soot or the heat. He reached into the flames with his bare hands.

He pulled out a half-burnt scrap of a photo. He batted out the embers, scorching his own skin, desperate to save a picture of her smile.

He cradled the charred paper against his chest and curled into a ball.

I walked away. I didn't feel sick anymore. I didn't feel sad.

I felt nothing.

And that was the most dangerous feeling of all.