Jackson and Candida burst into the room at the sound of the boy's screams. Their faces were masks of alarm.

Jackson immediately rushed to Joey's side, scooping him up into his arms. He didn't even glance at me.

"What's wrong, Joey? What happened?" he asked, his voice frantic.

"She burned me!" the boy sobbed, pointing a trembling, uninjured finger at me. "She did it on purpose! She hates me!"

Jackson's head snapped toward me. His eyes, moments ago filled with fake concern for me, were now blazing with cold fury.

"Elena, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "He's just a child. How could you?"

"I didn't-" I started, but he cut me off.

"He's our son now," Jackson snarled. "I brought him here for you, to give you a family, and this is how you treat him? Because you can't have one of your own, you're going to hurt an innocent boy?"

The words were a slap in the face. He was using my pain, the sacrifice I made for him, as a weapon against me.

He turned his back on me, his attention focused solely on the crying child. "It's okay, Joey. Daddy's here. I'll get the doctor. We'll take care of you."

He carried the boy out of the room, Candida following close behind. Before she left, she shot me a look over her shoulder. It was a look of pure, triumphant hatred.

I was left alone in the room, the smell of chicken soup thick in the air. The broken bowl lay on the floor, a symbol of my shattered life. My hand throbbed with a searing pain.

Jackson had never even looked at my burn.

I laughed, a bitter, broken sound that echoed in the empty room. What a fool I had been.

I went into the bathroom and ran cold water over my hand. The skin was blistering. I found the first-aid kit and clumsily wrapped the burn, the pain a sharp, physical reminder of the deeper, invisible wounds he had inflicted.

I remembered a time, years ago, when I had cut my finger while cooking. It was a tiny cut, barely bleeding. Jackson had rushed me to the emergency room, his face pale with worry. He had held my hand the entire time, whispering that he couldn't bear to see me in any pain.

That man was gone. Or maybe he had never existed at all.

Love, I realized with a chilling certainty, was not eternal. It could die. It could be killed.

The door opened, and Jackson walked in. He saw my bandaged hand and had the decency to look guilty.

"Elena, I..." he began. "I'm sorry for what I said. I was just worried about Joey."

He came closer, his voice softening. "He's just a little boy. He didn't mean to cause trouble. Can you find it in your heart to forgive him?"

I stared at him, my heart a frozen lump in my chest. He was asking me to forgive the child who had deliberately hurt me, while he had accused me of malice.

I said nothing.

He sighed, a sound of weary patience. "Look, Joey is very shaken. I'm going to sleep in his room tonight, to make sure he's okay."

It was another excuse to be with her. I knew it. But I no longer cared.

"Fine," I said, my voice flat.

He seemed surprised by my easy agreement. He had expected a fight, tears, accusations. He didn't know that the woman who would have done those things was already dead.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, a brief, cool touch. "Get some rest."

Then he was gone.

I lay in our massive, empty bed, staring into the darkness. I was an outsider in my own home, a stranger in my own life.

Later, I heard it.

The sound came from the room next door, the one Jackson was supposedly sharing with the child. It was a soft sound at first, a muffled cry.

Then, a low moan. Jackson's voice, thick with a pleasure I knew so well.

And then another sound. A woman's gasp, a mix of pain and ecstasy. Candida.

"You animal," she whimpered. "I hate you."

"You love it," Jackson growled back, his voice a low thrum of passion. "Say my name, Candida. Say it."

"Never," she sobbed.

His response was a low laugh, followed by the rhythmic, unmistakable sounds of two bodies moving together.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists. I pressed my face into the pillow to stifle the scream that rose in my throat.

He was in the next room, with the woman who had stabbed me, who had taken my future from me. He was making love to her, while I lay here, broken and alone.

My mind flashed back to a time when his parents had objected to our marriage because of my family's lower social standing. Jackson had stood up to them, his voice ringing with conviction. "I love Elena," he had declared. "I will marry her, with or without your blessing. She is the only one I will ever love."

He had been so fierce, so loyal. My rock. My protector.

That loyalty was now a joke. His love, a lie.

I lay there for hours, listening to the sounds of his betrayal, until the house finally fell silent. I didn't sleep. I just stared into the darkness, my heart completely and utterly dead.

The next morning, Jackson was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. He was humming as he flipped pancakes. It was a grotesque parody of a happy domestic scene.

"Good morning, darling," he said, his voice bright. "I made your favorite, blueberry pancakes."

He looked at me, his eyes full of a tenderness that was now obscene. I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger.

"I thought we could go out today," he continued. "Just the two of us. A lovely drive up the coast."

"No," I said, my voice cold and empty.

He froze, the spatula hovering over the pan. He stared at me, his smile faltering. "What?"

"I don't want to go anywhere with you," I said.

He put the spatula down and walked over to me, his face a mask of concern. He crouched down, taking my uninjured hand in his. His touch felt repulsive.

"Elena, I know you're upset about yesterday," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "I am so sorry. I was out of line. Please, forgive me."

His eyes were soft, pleading. It was the same look he had given me in the hospital five years ago. This time, it made me feel nothing but disgust.

I pulled my hand away and started eating the breakfast Maria had left for me, ignoring the pancakes he had made.

He watched me for a moment, then seemed to decide I had forgiven him. His smile returned, relieved.

"Come on," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Let's go shopping. I'll buy you anything you want."

He practically dragged me to the car.

Candida and Joey were already sitting in the back seat.

My heart sank. Of course.

"Joey was feeling a little down," Jackson explained, not meeting my eyes. "And Miss Camacho needed to pick up a few things for him. I thought we could all go together. A family outing."

His gaze flickered to Candida in the rearview mirror for a split second, a look of longing and possession that he tried to hide.

I said nothing. I got into the car, a silent, unwilling passenger in the charade of my own life.

At the mall, Jackson was a whirlwind of activity, pulling me into the most expensive stores. He bought me dresses, shoes, a diamond watch. The sales clerks fawned over him.

"Mrs. Parks, you are so lucky," one of them gushed. "Your husband adores you."

I managed a tight, painful smile. Adored me. If only she knew.

My eyes drifted over to Candida. She was standing by a jewelry counter, her gaze fixed on a sapphire necklace, a look of raw longing on her face. She had come from a wealthy family, but Jackson had taken everything from them. Now she was a kept woman, dependent on the man she claimed to hate.

Jackson followed my gaze. He saw the look on her face.

A few minutes later, he came back with a small, velvet box. Not for me.

He walked over to Candida. "Here," he said, his tone clipped and impatient, as if he were annoyed. "Try this on. I need to see if it would suit a client's wife."

He put the sapphire necklace around her neck, his fingers brushing against her skin. It was a lie, a thin, pathetic excuse to give a gift to his mistress in front of his wife.

I felt a cold laugh bubble up inside me. It was all so ridiculous, so insulting.

I turned and walked out of the store. I couldn't breathe in there anymore.

I was standing on the curb, waiting for the valet to bring the car, when it happened.

A white sports car, its engine roaring, screeched around the corner. It was out of control, heading straight for the sidewalk.

Straight for Candida, who had just stepped out of the store.

Jackson's face went white with terror.

"CANDIDA!" he screamed.

In that split second, he did something that sealed my fate. He was standing next to me. He shoved me, hard. I stumbled backwards, falling against the wall of the building.

He didn't do it to save me. He did it to get me out of his way.

He lunged towards Candida, pushing her out of the car's path.

He wasn't fast enough.

The car hit him, the sound a sickening thud of metal against flesh. He flew through the air, landing in a crumpled heap on the pavement.

The world erupted into chaos. People were screaming. The sports car sped off.

I looked at Jackson, lying on the ground, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide with pain and fear.

But he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me, at Candida, who stood frozen in shock.

"Candida," he gasped, his voice a pained whisper. "Are you... are you okay?"

My blood turned to ice. My heart stopped beating. In that moment, watching him lie broken on the ground, caring only for her, I knew.

Any last, lingering ember of love I had for him died. It turned to cold, hard ash.

I didn't go to the hospital. I didn't call an ambulance.

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the man who had destroyed my life.

Then, I turned and walked away.

The phantoms of a past life echoed through my own. I looked at the dark mark on my hand, the new skin still tender.

But the real pain was in my chest, a deep, hollow ache that was far worse than any burn.

Elena POV:

I dragged my torn dress across the wet asphalt and slid into the backseat of the Maybach.

The jagged shards of glass embedded in the fabric sliced into my calves. My muscles screamed as they tore against the movement, sending sharp, electric shocks up my spine.

I bit down hard on my lower lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth, but I didn't make a sound. Five years in the Parks family had trained me well. Screaming only invited more cruelty. I had learned to swallow my pain until it became a physical weight in my stomach.

Hamilton sat beside me. He picked up a cashmere blanket that smelled of soothing lavender and cedar. He reached out to drape it over me.

I flinched, my shoulders pulling back as my body instinctively pressed against the cold leather door.

Hamilton paused. His eyes softened, but he didn’t push. He simply let the blanket fall gently over my trembling shoulders. The heavy fabric trapped my body heat, but I still felt freezing.

I rolled the window down halfway and looked out at the winding mountain road.

In the distance, the flashing red and blue lights of the ambulances pierced the dark night. The strobing colors burned my retinas.

Paramedics were lifting a bloodied stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Jackson was on it. His chest was barely moving.

I watched him with dead eyes.

When the paramedic moved to slam the ambulance doors shut, Jackson’s hand slipped off the side of the stretcher and dangled in the air. That was the same hand that had pushed me away countless times. The hand that had held Candida while I stood in the shadows.

I pulled my gaze away and stared straight ahead.

Hamilton opened the small refrigerated compartment between the seats. He pulled out a syringe filled with clear liquid. The silver needle caught the dim cabin light, making the air in the car suddenly feel thin.

He unbuttoned the cuff of my torn sleeve and pushed it up. "Painkiller," he said, his voice low and elegant.

He slid the needle into my arm with practiced gentleness.

The cold liquid rushed into my veins. Within seconds, my ragged breathing began to slow. The sharp, stabbing pain in my legs dulled into a heavy throb.

But my hands were still balled into tight fists. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. A single drop of cold sweat rolled down my temple.

Hamilton snapped open the center console and pulled out a black velvet box.

The small combination lock clicked sharply in the quiet car. He pushed the open box across the leather armrest toward me.

My fingers trembled as I reached for it.

Inside sat a brand-new European Union passport. The gold crest gleamed under the reading light. I picked it up and opened the thick pages.

The photo was me, but the name printed next to it was *Aria*.

"Do you want one last look?" Hamilton asked softly. The low hum of the Maybach's engine almost masked his heavy sigh.

I looked at the passport, then at the distant ambulance lights. I shook my head once.

I looked down at my left hand. The diamond ring on my ring finger felt like a shackle. Jackson had shoved it onto my finger three years ago, a cold business transaction disguised as a marriage. Now, it just looked ridiculous.

I grabbed the diamond and pulled. It was stuck on my swollen knuckle. I yanked it hard.

The metal scraped a layer of skin off my joint. A bead of dark red blood welled up on my finger, but I didn't care.

I tossed the ring out the open window. It vanished into the tall, wet grass by the cliff edge.

Hamilton snapped his fingers.

The bodyguard in the front passenger seat immediately reached back and handed Hamilton a heavy black remote. A small red light blinked steadily on its surface.

Hamilton placed the remote directly into my palm.

The freezing metal sent a violent shiver down my arms. Hamilton wrapped his large, warm hand over mine, pressing my fingers around the device.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Behind my eyelids, I saw the exact moment the truck had hit us. I saw Jackson unbuckle his seatbelt and throw his body over Candida to shield her, leaving me exposed to the crushing metal.

My eyes snapped open.

I pressed my thumb down on the red button. The resistance was heavy, requiring real force. I pushed until it gave way with a loud, mechanical click.

A muffled boom echoed from the cliffside behind us.

The shockwave hit a second later, violently rocking the heavy Maybach on its suspension. The night sky lit up in a blinding flash of orange and yellow.

Through the rearview mirror, I watched the sedan registered in my name turn into a massive fireball. Thick, black smoke billowed into the clouds. The flames were hot enough to melt the chassis. They would easily incinerate the blood-soaked clothes I had left in the driver's seat.

The orange glow washed over my pale face. Even through the bulletproof glass, I could feel the faint warmth of the blast.

The corners of my mouth twitched. A cold, relieved smile broke across my face.

Hamilton picked up a crystal glass of warm water and handed it to me. The water sloshed over the rim as my hands shook, but I brought it to my lips and drank the entire glass in one breath.

"Airport, sir?" the bodyguard asked from the front. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, wide with a new, distinct fear.

Hamilton nodded.

The Maybach pulled smoothly onto the dark highway. The raging fire grew smaller and smaller behind us until it was swallowed by the night. I pressed the new passport tightly against my chest, feeling my own heartbeat against the thick paper.

The television screen embedded in the seatback flickered on. An automated female AI voice began to read the local traffic report. *"Warning. Major explosion reported on Route 9..."*

Hamilton reached forward and hit the mute button.

I leaned my head back against the soft leather headrest and closed my eyes. Memories of the last five years clawed at the inside of my skull like trapped animals. I forced myself to breathe through my nose, pushing the images away until my mind was entirely blank.

Hamilton shrugged off his suit jacket and draped it over my blanket. The fabric rustled quietly.

This time, I didn't pull away.

Thirty minutes later, the convoy rolled onto the tarmac of a private airfield. The deafening roar of jet engines vibrated in my chest. A sleek Gulfstream jet stood waiting, its stairs already lowered.

The bodyguard opened my door. The smell of jet fuel and cold night wind hit my face.

My legs wobbled as I stepped out, but Hamilton caught my elbow, supporting my weight.

The bright lights lining the boarding stairs made me squint. I didn't look back. I put my foot on the first metal step and climbed.

At the top of the stairs, a flight attendant in a sharp uniform bowed deeply.

"Welcome aboard, Mademoiselle Aria," she said in perfect French.

"Merci," I replied, my own French flawless and smooth.

I stepped into the cabin. The heavy door hissed and sealed shut behind me, completely cutting off the wind, the noise, and my entire past.

The plane immediately began to taxi down the runway.

I sat down on the white leather sofa. Hamilton sat across from me. He picked up two crystal flutes and poured the champagne. The bubbles rushed to the surface in a frantic fizz.

He held his glass out toward me. A slow, genuine smile touched his lips.

"Welcome to your new life, Aria."