The west wing of my parents’ vineyard was burning. Flames were swallowing everything—rows of oak barrels, crates of bottled vintages, decades of our family’s work. Thick, bitter smoke clawed at my lungs, tasting of charred wood and spilled wine.
Workers were shouting, running, hauling hoses that seemed useless against the blaze. Some had already escaped, coughing and stumbling, but others were still inside trying to save equipment, records, the heart of our family business.
I grabbed one of them, panic twisting my voice. “How did this happen? Who started it?”
One of the cellar hands broke down, tears streaming down his soot-streaked face. “It was Daphne. She was messing with the gas stove in the tasting kitchen. Said she just wanted to scare you.”
My blood boiled, but there was no time for rage now.
“Get everyone out! I’m going back in,” I shouted, pushing through the smoke and heat.
Every step felt like walking into an oven. My lungs burned, my arms shook, but I kept going. The twins I was carrying didn’t get to live. This vineyard... the land my parents built, deserved to survive. I owed it to them.
Room after room, I hauled out people. Cellar workers, interns... faces streaked with ash, hands trembling. I couldn’t stop. Not yet.
And then I saw her.
Daphne stood in the courtyard, her face lit by the glow of the fire, not with fear, but with delight. She laughed, actually laughed, while the home and legacy our parents had poured their lives into turned to ash.
“I’ve hated this place ever since I was born,” she said, her voice sharp with venom. “Now I finally got rid of it.”
Something inside me snapped. I stormed up to her and slapped her so hard my palm stung. “This was our parents’ life’s work! Their blood, sweat, and tears are in this land, Daphne! How dare you—”
She just smirked, unfazed. “I don’t care. I hated them. And I hate you just as much.”
I stared at her, my vision trembling with rage.
Her grin widened, wicked and taunting. “Oh, and… wanna make a bet?” She tilted her head toward the flames as if admiring her own masterpiece. “Let’s see who Marshall saves first.”
A chill ran through me despite the heat raging around us.
Before I could speak, a loud crash came from inside the estate. The roof was caving in. Smoke poured out in thick black clouds. Somewhere in the chaos, I heard voices—men shouting, someone calling my name.
“Liora!”
Marshall’s voice.
For one wild, desperate second, I thought maybe he meant it. Maybe he’d come for me.
But Daphne only smiled wider, like she already knew the answer.
Before I could even spit out a reply, part of the balcony gave way with a deafening crack. The fire roared higher, heat slamming against my skin like a wall.
The smoke was getting thicker, stinging my eyes, burning my throat. I coughed so hard it made my ribs ache.
And then—
“Marshall!” Daphne screamed, dropping to her knees like some damsel in distress. “I’m choking! The baby! I can’t—”
Her voice cracked perfectly, fake enough for me to hear, but real enough for him to believe.
Marshall’s shadow appeared through the smoke. He was holding two fire masks. His eyes found me instantly.
“Liora!” he called, stepping toward me.
But then Daphne whimpered, one hand clutching her stomach, the other reaching for him like she was on the brink of death.
He froze. I saw it happen. That split-second shift.
Marshall turned away from me.
“No,” I rasped, stumbling forward, my hand half-raised for the mask he was still holding.
He yanked it back without even looking at me. “Daphne needs them more, Liora. I'll be back, promise."
The words cut cleaner than any knife.
He forced the mask over her face, scooped her up and bolted for the exit. The second mask dangled in his other hand and never even offered to me.
For a heartbeat, our eyes met through the haze. Cold. Resolved. And just before the smoke swallowed her, Daphne turned her head…her lips curling into a slow, poisonous smile, that said: I’ve won.
Then he was gone.
“M-marshall…”
The smoke pressed down on me, thick and choking. My legs gave out. I hit the floor.
“I’ve got you, Miss! Don’t move.”
Mr. Hernando. Our old estate manager.
He dragged me out of the inferno. The heat was unbearable, but he didn’t stop until we reached the safety of the gravel drive.
My chest burned with more than smoke.
I gripped Mr. Hernando’s arm. “Drive me home.”
He hesitated. “Miss Liora—”
“Now.” My voice came out raw, “Marshall won’t be there. He’ll be with her.”
We sped away from the vineyard, the burning silhouette shrinking in the rearview mirror.
At the house, I moved quickly, methodically. Suitcase. Passport. Clothes. The documents I had hidden for months, waiting for the day I’d finally stop hoping.
Fifteen minutes later, we were on the road again, this time toward the airport.
In the departure hall, the air smelled of coffee and jet fuel. I stood at the boarding gate, the weight of everything I was leaving behind pressing against my ribs, but not crushing me.
When they called my flight, I didn’t look back.
"Goodbye, Marshall. You fed me to the flames. When I return, I’ll be the fire."
