After My Husband Abandoned Me in the Burning Car

I woke to white.

White walls. White sheets. White curtains lifting in a breeze that smelled like salt and thyme.

My body screamed. Every breath dragged glass through my ribs. My left arm was wrapped tight, gauze from wrist to shoulder. When I tried to sit up, the room tilted and my stomach lurched.

"Easy." A hand steadied my shoulder. Gentle. Firm.

Zane Brooks sat in a chair beside the bed. He wore a plain gray shirt. His sleeves were rolled up. There were shadows under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days.

"Where am I?" My voice cracked. My throat felt raw.

"A clinic. On an island off the coast of Greece." He poured water into a cup and held it out. "You've been unconscious for three days."

I stared at the cup. At his hand. At the window behind him where sunlight poured over blue water.

"Seth," I whispered. "Does he know I'm—"

"The world thinks Lyra Bennett is dead." Zane's voice was quiet. Steady. "You're free now."

The words hit me like a fist.

Free.

I looked down at my bandaged arm. At the IV taped to the back of my hand. At the white sheets that weren't silk or Egyptian cotton, just clean and plain.

"You had no right," I said.

Zane didn't flinch. "I know."

"Take me back."

"Why?"

The question was so simple it made me want to scream.

"Because he's my husband!" My voice broke. "Because I didn't ask you to—"

"He left you in a burning car, Lyra."

I grabbed the water cup and hurled it at the wall. It shattered. Water streaked down the plaster.

Zane didn't move. He just looked at me with those steady, patient eyes.

"When you're healed enough to walk," he said quietly, "I'll take you anywhere you want."

Then he stood, walked to the door, and closed it softly behind him.

I was alone.

---

The days blurred.

Zane came in twice a day to change my bandages. He never stayed long. He never asked how I felt. He just worked in silence, his hands careful and clinical, then left.

Meals appeared outside my door. Bread. Cheese. Olives. Fruit. I ate because my body demanded it, not because I wanted to.

At night, I stared at the ceiling and counted my losses.

My baby. Gone.

My marriage. A lie.

My name. Erased.

I had nothing left. Not even a grave.

---

On the fifth night, I woke clawing at my own skin.

The fire was back. I felt it crawling up my legs, curling around my ribs, filling my lungs with smoke. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream.

I rolled out of bed and hit the floor hard. My knees cracked against the tile. I tore at the bandages on my arm, trying to rip them off, trying to get the fire out.

The door opened.

Zane was there. He didn't turn on the light. He just knelt beside me and caught my wrists.

"You're not burning," he said. His voice was low. Calm. "Lyra. You're not burning."

"I can feel it!" I sobbed. "I can feel it, I can—"

"You're safe. You're here. With me."

He didn't let go. He just held my wrists until my breathing slowed, until the phantom heat faded, until I was just a woman on a cold floor in the dark.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be."

He helped me back into bed. He pulled the blanket up to my chin. Then he sat in the chair and stayed.

I didn't ask him to. He just did.

---

Back in Seattle, Seth Montgomery stood in front of a closed casket.

The memorial was small. Private. Just family and a few board members who felt obligated to attend.

Avery stood with his hands folded. Aitana sat in a wheelchair, her legs covered with a blanket. She hadn't walked since the crash.

Seth stared at the polished wood. He knew it was empty. There had been nothing left to bury.

He thought about the last time he'd seen Lyra's face. Through the cracked windshield. Her mouth open. Her fists pounding glass.

He'd pulled Aitana out first.

He couldn't remember why.

The service ended. People filed out. Seth didn't move.

When the room was empty, he walked to the casket and pressed both palms against the wood.

"I'm sorry," he said.

The words felt hollow. Useless.

He went home to the penthouse. Lyra's things were still there. Her books. Her shoes. The cheap ring he'd bought her from a pawn shop when they had nothing.

He sat on the floor and held the ring in his fist.

Something was wrong.

The brake failure had been too clean. Too specific. And Aitana had been in the car. Why?

He pulled out his phone and made a call.

"Victor Vance," a rough voice answered.

"I need you to investigate a car accident," Seth said. "I need to know who touched that vehicle before my wife got in it."

There was a pause.

"You want the truth?" Victor asked. "Or you want to feel better?"

"I want the truth."

"Then don't call me off when you find it."

Seth closed his eyes. "I won't."

He hung up and stared at the empty penthouse.

Somewhere, in a place he couldn't name, Lyra was still alive.

He didn't know that yet.

But he would.