He Watched Me Burn — Now I'm Back to Light His

"Keep your hands off my boyfriend, you desperate bitch!"

The champagne hit me square in the face.

The chilled liquid slid down my chin and soaked into the silk neckline of my dress.

Under the glare of the Cross Aerial anniversary chandelier, the string quartet abruptly stopped playing. The low hum of corporate chatter died out, replaced by the sharp turning of heads.

I blinked the sting from my eyes and studied the girl screaming at me.

"Did you hear me?" she yelled, her voice echoing through the silent banquet hall. "Adrian doesn't want you!"

She looked about twenty-two. Ten years younger than me. Her dark hair parted straight down the middle, paired with a muted crimson lip and a vintage-cut emerald gown. A walking replica of myself from nine years ago.

I didn't reach for a napkin. I stood perfectly still.

"Security, get her out of here," a man muttered nearby.

"No, let her stay," the girl shouted, pointing a manicured finger at my chest. "Let everyone see the stalker! She's been following him all night."

"Who told you that?" I asked, keeping my tone flat.

"Adrian did," she snapped, stepping closer. "He told me about the older woman harassing him. He said you show up to his corporate events uninvited just to stare at him."

"Did he mention my name?"

"He doesn't need to." She crossed her arms, her chin jutting out. "He said you were pathetic. A psycho who can't accept rejection. Back off. Find your own man."

A few guests murmured, their eyes darting between my dripping dress and her furious posture.

I unclasped my evening bag.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Camille," she spat. "And you're making a fool of yourself."

"Camille," I repeated, tasting the syllables. "How long have you been dating him?"

"Six months," she said, lifting her chin higher. "He's taking me to Paris next week. We're looking at apartments."

"Paris," I said. "The penthouse at the George V? He likes the corner suite."

Camille faltered for a second, her eyes narrowing. "How do you know that?"

"I know a lot about his preferences." My fingers brushed against the rigid edge of a folded document inside my clutch. "I know he likes his coffee black, his suits tailored by a man named Giorgio in Milan, and his mistresses young and naive."

"Shut up," she hissed. "He told me you forge documents to trap him."

"Did he tell you he forged my signature on the company's lease agreement?" I asked, pulling the paper free. "Or that the watch he wears was a gift from my dead father?"

She blinked, confused.

"I rarely attend these events, Camille," I said, snapping the paper open under the crystal lights. "But I always bring my paperwork when I do."

"What is that?" She frowned, leaning in. "A restraining order? Because I'll gladly sign one against you."

"Read it." I held the paper inches from her painted face.

Her eyes darted to the embossed seal, then to the printed names. Her jaw dropped. The crimson color drained from her cheeks.

"Read it out loud," I instructed, my voice cutting through the silence.

She shook her head, stepping back. "No."

"Fine. I will." I turned slightly, addressing the circling crowd. "Adrian Vega. And Sloane Vega. Date of marriage: October 14th, nine years ago."

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Whispers erupted instantly.

"His wife?"

"I thought he was single."

Camille stared at the paper, her hands trembling. "No. That's a lie. It's a fake."

"It's a state-issued certificate." I folded it neatly and slipped it back into my bag.

"He said he was single," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He swore to me."

"He says a lot of things." I tilted my head, studying her terrified expression. "Thank you, by the way."

"For what?"

"For keeping my husband company." I offered her a sharp, thin smile. "Give me your phone."

She stared at me, paralyzed.

"The phone, Camille. Hand it over."

She fumbled in her purse, pulled out her device, and unlocked it. I snatched it from her grip. I typed my number into her contacts, saved it under my full name, and tossed the device back. She caught it against her chest.

"Next time he leaves his watch at your place, call me," I said. "I'll drop him off myself. Saves him the Uber fare."

I turned my back on her and walked toward the exit.

"Wait!" Camille called out, a desperate edge to her tone. "He promised me a ring! He said he was going to propose in Paris!"

I paused, looking over my shoulder. "He promises everyone a ring. Ask the receptionist on the third floor. Or the marketing director he fired last month."

"Ma'am, is there a problem here?" A burly security guard stepped through the crowd, his hand resting on his radio.

I turned to him. "No problem. Just giving a young lady some life advice."

"She threw a drink at you," the guard pointed out. "Do you want me to escort her out?"

"No, let her stay," I said, glancing back at Camille's pale face. "She needs to enjoy the party. It's her boyfriend's anniversary, after all."

I pushed through the heavy double doors into the quiet corridor, leaving her standing in the center of the whispering crowd.

My shoes struck the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing off the empty walls.

The adrenaline began to fade, leaving a hollow ache in my chest.

My fingers found the cold metal of the pocket watch strapped to my wrist. My thumb traced the worn engraving. It was the only piece of my mother's jewelry I hadn't pawned. Nine years ago, I sold the rest to hand Adrian five hundred thousand dollars to build Cross Aerial.

Six years ago, I faced three debt collectors alone in a windowless warehouse to save his life. I bought his safety with my sanity, earning a permanent panic disorder.

I had already burned alive for this man once.

I pushed through the revolving glass doors and stepped into the cool night air.

I reached the valet stand outside. The wind bit at my damp skin, drying the champagne into a sticky residue.

"Ticket, ma'am?" the valet asked, stepping forward.

Before I could answer, the pocket watch seared my wrist.

I gasped, clawing at the leather strap. The metal burned like a branding iron against my flesh.

"Ma'am? Are you alright?" the valet asked, his voice warping into a low, distorted hum.

Tick. Tick. TICK.

The sound of the internal gears amplified, drowning out the street traffic. The rhythmic ticking echoed violently inside my skull, growing louder, faster.

A blinding flash of heat swallowed my vision.

The street vanished.

I stood trapped inside a glass tower. Flames licked up the walls, eating through the floorboards, smoke choking my lungs. The heat blistered my skin, peeling it back in agonizing strips. I pounded on the reinforced pane, screaming for help, my fists leaving bloody smears on the glass. My throat burned. My eyes watered.

On the other side, untouched by the fire, stood Adrian.

He wore his tailored charcoal suit, not a single hair out of place. He looked right at me. He didn't reach for the door handle. He didn't pull out his phone to call for help.

He simply watched me burn.

He raised a crystal flute of champagne, offered me a slight nod, and took a slow sip.

The vision snapped black.

I stumbled forward, gripping the valet podium to keep from collapsing. Cold sweat drenched my spine, mixing with the spilled champagne. My chest heaved as I sucked in greedy lungfuls of oxygen.

"Do you need an ambulance?" the valet asked, gripping my elbow.

I yanked my arm away. "No. Just my car."

My phone vibrated in my palm, illuminating the dark pavement.

A new text message from Adrian glowed on the screen: I heard you met Camille tonight.