After My Fiancé Tried to Burn Me Alive

I was in my kitchen when my phone started buzzing. It was almost seven. The private chef had just left. The table was set for two. Candles. Wine. The whole romantic setup. My birthday dinner with Declan.

The buzzing didn't stop. I picked up the phone. Dana's name flashed on the screen. Then my manager. Then Dana again. A text from my assistant: "Are you okay??"

I opened Instagram.

The reel was at the top of my feed. Declan's face filled the screen. He was sitting on a couch I recognized—Ivanna's apartment. Soft lighting. A drink in his hand. The caption read: "Truth or Dare: Who's your soulmate?"

He smiled. That easy, charming smile I used to love. "Ivanna Cox," he said. "She's the woman who actually understands me. The one who sees me for who I really am."

The video cut to Ivanna laughing. She leaned into frame and kissed his cheek. The comments were already pouring in. Thousands of them. Heart emojis. Crying faces. People tagging me.

I watched it once. Then I set the phone face-down on the marble counter.

The kitchen was quiet. The candles flickered. I could hear my own breathing.

I didn't cry. I didn't throw anything. I just stood there, completely still, while my brain clicked through every detail. The timeline. The editing. The fact that he'd posted it at six forty-five—fifteen minutes before he was supposed to walk through my door for our birthday dinner.

My phone buzzed again. Dana calling. I let it ring.

I walked to my office and opened my laptop. The screen glowed in the dim room. I logged into our shared accounts. The ones I'd set up when we got engaged. Joint checking. Joint savings. The credit cards I'd added him to because he said it was easier for booking travel.

I started scrolling.

The first charge that caught my eye was from three months ago. A wire transfer. Two million dollars. The memo said "Boat purchase—Marina del Rey."

I clicked deeper. The boat was registered to a shell company. I ran the company name through a business database I kept bookmarked. The listed owner was Ivanna Cox.

My hands didn't shake. I kept scrolling.

Designer shopping sprees at Rodeo Drive. Luxury hotel bookings in Cabo, Paris, the Maldives—places Declan told me he was going for "guys' trips." Wire transfers. Dozens of them. All flowing into accounts linked to Ivanna.

He'd been spending my money on her for over a year.

I made a spreadsheet. I logged every transaction. Every date. Every dollar. It took thirty minutes. When I finished, the total sat at the bottom of the screen in bold: $4.7 million.

I saved the file. Then I opened my contacts and called Declan.

He picked up on the second ring. "Rowan—"

"The engagement is over," I said.

Silence.

"What? Rowan, listen—"

"Every joint account is frozen effective immediately. My attorney will contact you tomorrow regarding full repayment of the four point seven million dollars you stole from me to fund your relationship with Ivanna."

"Stole? Rowan, you're being insane—"

"You have forty-eight hours to vacate my penthouse. If you're still there after that, I'll have you removed."

"This is because of the video? Babe, it was just a joke—"

I hung up.

I sat in the dark office for a moment. My birthday cake was still in the fridge. The candles were still burning in the other room. I stood up and walked back to the kitchen. I blew them out one by one.

My phone lit up again. Dana. I answered this time.

"Rowan, thank God. Are you okay? We need to talk about how to handle this—"

"I'm fine."

"The reel is everywhere. It's trending. We need to get ahead of this before—"

"I've already handled it."

"What do you mean?"

"I ended it. I froze the accounts. I'm evicting him."

A pause. "Rowan. Listen to me. I know you're upset, but we need to be strategic here. If you come out swinging, it's going to look—"

"I don't care how it looks."

"The press is going to eat this up. They're going to paint you as the scorned woman, the jealous fiancée—"

"Let them."

"Rowan—"

"I've already called Marcus. He's filing paperwork in the morning."

Another pause. Longer this time. "You called your attorney before you called me?"

"Yes."

I heard her exhale. "Okay. Okay. I'm coming over."

"You don't have to."

"I'm coming over."

She hung up.

I poured myself a glass of the wine I'd opened for dinner. I sat down at the table set for two. The city lights stretched out beyond the windows. Somewhere out there, Declan was probably calling me back. Probably texting. Probably realizing that I wasn't bluffing.

I took a sip. The wine was good. Expensive. I'd bought it myself.

Dana arrived twenty minutes later. She let herself in with the key I'd given her years ago. She found me still sitting at the table.

"Rowan."

I looked up.

She sat down across from me. Her face was tight with worry. "I need you to think about this. If you go nuclear right now, there's no walking it back."

"I'm not walking anything back."

"The optics—"

"I don't care about the optics."

"You should. This industry—"

"This industry will be fine with whatever I decide. Because I'm the one who brings in two hundred million at the box office. Not Declan."

She stared at me. Then she nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay. What do you need from me?"

"Nothing. I just need you to trust me."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I do. I'm just scared for you."

"Don't be."

I wasn't scared. I was the stillest I'd been in years.