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

I heard you met Camille tonight.

The screen glared against the dark pavement. Against my wrist, the pocket watch pulsed, the metal retaining an unnatural heat from the vision of the glass tower. The phantom smell of smoke still lingered in the back of my throat, ash coating my tongue.

I typed a single word: Yes.

"Ma'am?" the valet asked, holding out my keys.

I shoved the phone into my clutch, snatched the keys from his hand, and drove into the night.

At ten o'clock the next morning, the front door unlocked.

Adrian walked into the kitchen, his tailored navy suit completely unwrinkled. He didn't offer a greeting. He bypassed the coffee machine, walked straight to the marble island, and pushed a single sheet of paper across the smooth surface.

"You made quite a scene last night, Sloane," he said.

I picked up the paper. It was a bank transfer receipt.

"She threw a drink at me, Adrian," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "I just introduced myself."

"You terrified her. She called me crying from the coat check." He tapped the edge of the document. "Two million dollars. Consider it an apology for the champagne. And an incentive to keep your distance from Camille."

I stared at the black ink. Two million.

The zeroes blurred together.

"Two million," I repeated. "The exact amount you owed the loan sharks six years ago."

Adrian stiffened. His hand dropped to his side. "We agreed never to bring that up."

"I stood in a warehouse with three armed men while you hid in a motel," I reminded him. "I handed them the deed to the only thing my mother left me. You pushed the foreclosure papers across this exact table. You told me I saved your life."

"And I compensated you for it," he countered, his voice rising. "Cross Aerial is a billion-dollar company now. You live in a ten-million-dollar house. You have everything you could possibly want."

"Except a husband."

"We have an arrangement," he said, smoothing his tie. "You get the lifestyle, the status, the black card. I get my freedom."

"And Camille gets the ring?" I asked.

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "She told you about Paris."

"She brags loudly." I dropped the paper back onto the island. "You're buying my silence for your mistress with the exact same price tag you put on my mother's house."

"She's young, Sloane. She got spooked. Leave her out of our arrangement."

"Why her?" I asked, looking up from the paper. "Is it the youth? The blind devotion?"

"She doesn't complicate things," he said. "She doesn't look at me like I owe her my life."

The words landed like a physical blow.

My jaw clenched. He didn't want a partner. He wanted a fan. My presence was a walking reminder of the pathetic, desperate man he used to be. He was paying me to stay out of sight so he could play the self-made billionaire for a twenty-two-year-old girl.

In the previous timeline—the one that ended with me burning alive behind glass—he offered this exact payout. I had thrown the paper in his face. I had screamed, fought, and begged him to respect our marriage. I played the hysterical wife, giving him all the ammunition he needed to lock me away.

I looked at his confident posture, the slight smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He expected me to shatter. He wanted me to yell so he could call me crazy.

Not this time.

I reached for the silver pen resting near his elbow.

I uncapped it and signed my name on the acknowledgment line. The ink flowed over the thick paper.

"Done," I said. I slid the receipt back to him.

Adrian blinked. His fingers hovered over the document. The muscles in his jaw tightened, then released.

"You're taking it?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave.

"It's two million dollars," I replied. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Just like that. No lecture about morality? No threats to expose me to the board?"

"You want me away from Camille. You paid the invoice. We're settled."

He stared at me, searching my face for a trap. He studied the set of my shoulders, the steady grip I kept on the marble counter.

"You're acting strange," he noted, his eyes scanning my expression.

"I'm acting like a woman who just got paid," I said. "Now, if you don't mind, I have errands to run."

He didn't move immediately. He looked down at my signature, tracing the curves of the letters as if looking for a hidden message.

"Good," he said finally. His tone lacked its usual arrogance, replaced by a thin layer of confusion. "See that you stick to the deal."

He turned on his heel and walked out. The front door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the sprawling, empty house.

I let out a long breath. The humiliation burned in my chest, a hot, tight knot of anger. He had priced my six years of sacrifice, my panic attacks, my loyalty, at exactly two million dollars. I was entirely at a disadvantage. I had no leverage in his company, no access to his private servers, and no immediate way to strike back.

But I had time. And I had the memory of the fire.

I walked into my home office and locked the door.

I pulled my laptop from the desk drawer and flipped it open. I logged into my private banking portal. The two million dollars already sat in my domestic checking account, a clean, untraceable wire transfer from one of his shell companies.

I didn't let it sit there for a single minute.

I opened a new tab and initiated an international wire.

Destination: The offshore account I opened nine months ago under my maiden name.

I typed in the full amount. I clicked confirm.

The screen loaded, the progress bar inching across the display.

My phone buzzed on the desk. A notification from the bank popped up on the lock screen.

Transfer complete.

I refreshed the page on my laptop. The new balance loaded in bold green numbers. The two million dollars settled neatly into the account, joining a massive sum of capital. It was the exact missing fortune Adrian had spent the last six years hunting down, completely unaware it was resting comfortably in my hands.