After sorting out the death certificate, I got a black-and-white memorial photo of Jim developed on the side.

When I returned to the Johnson estate, I bumped into Jim escorting Tracy home.

Trailing behind them were two children with cheeks like apples, the picture-perfect family.

The bashful look Tracy gave me when she saw me felt like a slap in the face. "Elias can't bear to be apart from me. He hates the hospital, so we're home for his recovery."

They were all googly-eyed until I nearly gagged. Only then did they finally think to ask, "Where did you run off to?"

I waved the black-and-white photo in my hand, grinning from ear to ear. "Just getting some photos of Jim."

Their expressions cycled through a whole slideshow of emotions when they saw the picture.

Jim's scowl was so intense it could scare a ghost. "Dorothy! What is this all about? Lately, you're either at the doctor's or confiding in a priest, and now you're fussing with old photos."

"Elias, Jim's gone. They can't possibly refuse us a funeral, can they?"

"When is Jim's funeral? When do we get the ashes?" I peppered him with questions.

He was speechless.

Just then, my son, who had been lurking behind me, lunged forward with a burst of energy. He shoved me to the ground, grabbed the photo, and ripped it to shreds, sobbing, "I can't look at Daddy's picture. I just can't!"

Jim, witnessing the scene, wrapped his son in a tight embrace and said icily, "Dorothy, this is the last time I will put up with your drama. One more stunt, and you will be packing your bags and leaving the Johnsons for good."

The boy in his arms shot Jim a triumphant glance, which he returned with a nod of approval.

Little did they know, from where I stood, I caught every detail of their silent conspiracy.

Like father, like son, they were a perfect pair in their deceitful performance.

However, I was done with the Johnsons too.

Ignoring the sting of the scrapes on my hands, I stumbled back to my room, turned it upside down, and found an old phone card hidden in a compartment of my suitcase.

I swapped the card, powered up the phone, and was instantly flooded by a deluge of messages.

I called the only number saved. "Yves, I want to come home."

The voice on the other end was raspy, tinged with disbelief. "Dorothy?"

"You have gotten so daring, vanishing without a word. I have been worried sick, searching for you all these years, terrified—"

I cut him off. "Yves, I am in Twilight City. Come get me. I am ready to come home."

"All right. I will swing by Twilight City to get you in three days."

I ended the call and sat there on the bed, staring into space for what felt like forever.

The only thing hanging on the wall was our wedding photo, the only one of Jim and me together.

For seven years, I could not figure it out.

Why had the boy I saved, the one who used to sit by the river with me, sharing drinks and laughter, turned so icy?

The photo frame suddenly came apart, and a piece of photo paper slipped out.

I picked it up. It was Tracy's half of the wedding photo.

Her smile was radiant. Shaking, I laid her picture over mine.

It was a perfect match. So that was why he had wanted that photo developed.

On the back, it read:

In this life, there is no one else who deserves to stand by my side but you.

My tears fell freely.

I gripped the photo, desperate to confront Jim and demand the truth.

Without thinking, I stormed into the prayer room.

The emptiness caught me off guard.

That was when it hit me. He was no longer the devout believer he once was.

I tore through the prayer room in a frenzy, and when I lifted the kneeling pad, I found a hidden stash of Tracy's photos.

"Tsk."

"You found out."

Tracy stood behind me, her gaze mocking.

"You knew all this time." I stared at her, stunned.

She let out a scornful laugh. "What are you talking about? Jim acting as Elias, or these photos?"

She gloated, "He went to great lengths to get these photos, but I was the one who took them for him."

"His mark is on every single one."

She looked down at me as if I were a joke.

A joke who, for years, dressed in all kinds of seductive outfits for the prayer room, only to be heartlessly kicked out every single time.

"Every time you flirt and walk away, he turns on the photos to release it."

My stomach churned.

She was all smiles. I finally snapped, charging at her to throw a punch, but she knocked me down with a swift shove.

Twirling a lighter in her hand, she teased, "So, if the prayer room goes up in flames, do you think Jim will come save you, or…"

"And what about these pictures?"

With those words, she flicked the lighter, set the handkerchief ablaze, tossed it at my feet, then spun around and slammed the door shut.

The prayer room was a wooden annex of the mansion, and the fire took hold fast.

I scrambled to my feet, yanking at the door, but it was locked tight from the outside.

Smoke billowed, stinging my eyes shut, and I stumbled back to a corner untouched by flames.

Just when I was sure I was a goner, the door burst open, and Tracy and Jim barreled in.

I looked at him, begging with my eyes, but when Jim saw me crumpled on the floor, his gaze flickered.

The kneeling pad was nearly swallowed by fire, and without a second thought, he turned his back on me. Watching him walk away, my hope shattered.

Tracy yelled out, "Elias, save Dorothy!"

She stamped her foot, frustration clear, and dove back into the inferno.

As she got close, I caught her sneer. Then she slapped herself hard across the face.

The sound of the slap rang out, and she hit the floor. I could not believe my eyes.

Jim heard the commotion, spun around, scooped up Tracy, and shot me a poisonous look. "If you're so keen on staying in the fire, be my guest!"

He then calmly instructed the servants, who were scrambling with buckets, "Forget the fire. She'll let you know when she's ready to come out. Then you can save her."

I closed my eyes with a wry smile.

Seven years together, and it was nothing compared to a handful of photos.

…

However, I did not die.

When I opened my eyes again, the sharp scent of disinfectant stung my nose.

I locked eyes with my son, his gaze red and raw. A mix of relief and regret washed over me.

"Dorothy, if you're going to die, do it somewhere quiet, on your own. Don't take anyone else down with you!"

Jim's eyes were laced with red veins, betraying his weariness.

"Tracy tried to save you out of the goodness of her heart, and you nearly got her killed. Do you get that?"

I could not help but let out a mocking laugh.

"What's so funny? She's still out cold from the shock, right over there. You're going to owe her an apology!"

My son's voice wavered with tears. "Mom, you were playing with danger, and when Aunt tried to save you, she got knocked down. You really need to say sorry."

I burst into laughter, unable to contain it any longer. "Elias, Alan, were you really just waiting by my bed to lecture me about apologies?"

He paused, caught off guard. Just as he was about to reply, the nurse announced that Tracy had come to.

Father and son dashed to the next room as if their lives depended on it.

I closed my eyes slowly, tears trailing down my face.

Three days can feel like an eternity, I mused.

Before I could open my eyes again, Jim was lifting me up. "Tracy's in tears, blaming herself for your injuries. Go and clear things up!"

As the fire raged, timbers tumbled down, and I instinctively reached out to shield myself.

He grabbed my burned arm tightly, and I winced, recoiling from the pain.

He scowled. "What's your problem?"

I looked up at him, my eyes filled with sorrow. "Elias, I'm not causing trouble. I just wanted to go where Jim went. Is that too much to ask?"

His grip softened, a flicker of compassion in his eyes.

Then we heard Tracy's daughter, her voice laced with panic. "It's awful. Mom's passed out from crying."

He started pulling me frantically, not caring as the bandages unraveled and my wounds scraped against the ground.

He dragged me to Tracy's bedside, where they commanded me to stand. "If Tracy doesn't wake up, you're going to stand there until she sees you and forgives you."

The burns on my hands and feet stung fiercely, but that pain was nothing compared to the ache in my heart.

Tracy lay on the bed, unconscious, her eyelids fluttering.

I bent over and yelled with a heavy heart, "Tracy, I'm sorry!"

My voice echoed so loudly that onlookers in the hallway gathered to see what was happening. Tracy woke up, more out of necessity than desire.

I looked up numbly. "Can I go back to my bed for treatment now, Elias?"

He just stared at the bloodstains on the floor, his brow furrowed, silent. My son had already been giving me looks of disdain.

With Tracy's smug eyes on me, I used all my strength to leave the room.

At the doorway, I could still hear her whining to him, "Dorothy's injuries look so bad. They're scaring me."

Because of her act, I ended up in the general ward downstairs, since there were no beds left.

They put me in the hallway of the ward.

All through the night, I lay there, listening to the coughs echoing down the corridor, enduring the searing pain, waiting for the morning light.

On the third day, Jim was set on giving Tracy a proposal to remember.

Tracy implored him, "We cannot do this without Dorothy's blessing. We are family, are we not?"

Despite my burns, I was pushed to leave the hospital early.

As I was about to climb into the car, Tracy's daughter slammed the door shut, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Mom, I do not want to sit with Aunt. She smells weird."

"Sorry, Dorothy," Tracy said, feigning concern, but she did not even pretend to open the door for me.

Alan looked uneasy, but after a moment's hesitation, he turned away.

I said, my voice flat and emotionless, "I will catch a cab."

When I got back to the Johnsons', the staff steered clear of me like I was contagious.

Running on fumes, I made it to my room, pulled out my phone, and saw Yves' text:

[Be ready at 2 PM. I will pick you up.]

There was a video attached to his message.

"Do not be a pushover, Smith girl."

I checked the time. Three hours left.

I added the old man's son, who had been in the hospital bed next to mine, on Messenger.

I sent him the fee we had agreed on, telling him to drop off the package at the police station by 1:30 PM.

With that done, I sat quietly, listening to the sounds of the bustling house below me.

That was when Tracy showed up with a dress. "Dorothy, this is for you."

I barely glanced at the so-called dress. The fabric was laughably cheap and skimpy. Even barmaids dressed better.

I gave her a half-smile, and she glared back, furious. "How can you be so bold at a time like this?"

When Jim arrived, Tracy's tune changed to one of self-pity. "I tried to give Dorothy her dress, but she does not seem to like it. My arms are aching from holding it, and she will not even take it."

Jim scowled at me, clearly annoyed.

He called over a servant named Marina. "Marina, redesign Mrs. Johnson's outfit into something proper. If she does not like what Tracy brought, you will take care of it."

The staff had never really taken me seriously.

Marina, following orders, came at me with scissors in hand. As she cut, the fresh wounds mingled with yesterday's burns, and blood began to seep through. I groaned in pain, unable to do anything but watch my clothes fall apart.

Jim snapped, "That is enough."

Tracy jumped, startled, as she was whisked away. She threw me a mocking look over her shoulder before she disappeared.

I sat curled up on the ground, my arms wrapped around myself, my eyes glued to my phone.

Then, that familiar ringtone cut through the silence, and I answered with urgency, "Meet me in the garden. Now."

I followed the roar of the helicopter to the Johnsons' lush garden.

It was packed with guests. Tracy stood there, her smile perfect and poised, flanked by two children straight out of a storybook.

Jim, dapper in his suit, chose the music's crescendo to drop to one knee.

At that moment, the helicopter swooped in, scattering the onlookers, and touched down in the heart of the garden.

I pushed through the crowd, my body heavy with fatigue, reached for the hand of the person across from me, and collapsed into their embrace.

As darkness closed in, I heard a soft whisper, "Oh… what have you done to yourself?"

Just then, the doorbell rang at the Johnsons'.

The butler swung the door open to reveal the police. "I am sorry, Ms. Baker, but you are under suspicion for intentional arson resulting in injury."

Jim, still dazed by the helicopter's dramatic entrance and exit, seized the officer. "What are you saying? The real arsonist is Dorothy!"

He turned and shouted for Marina, "Get Dorothy down here!"

Marina was speechless.

A servant piped up nervously, "Mrs. Johnson might have just left on the helicopter."