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

"Six years of marriage, and you still sit there looking like a charity case."

The silver serving tongs rested lightly in my grip. I clamped them around a thick slice of roasted duck and transferred it to Vivienne's porcelain plate. My fingers did not shake. Not a single tremor.

"Thank you for the observation, Vivienne," I replied.

"You drag the Vega name down," my mother-in-law continued. She ignored the food, fixing her cold stare on my face. "You possess no pedigree. No connections. You are entirely unworthy of the Cross Aerial legacy."

I reached for the cranberry glaze. I knew her next line. I had memorized this exact script over dozens of identical Friday dinners.

"If you had any decency," I mouthed silently as she spoke the words aloud, "you would step aside for someone who can actually elevate my son."

At my right, Adrian sliced his steak. The serrated knife scraped harshly against the ceramic. He didn't look up. He didn't offer a single word of defense.

"Did you hear me, Sloane?" Vivienne demanded.

"Loud and clear," I said, setting the crystal bowl down. "Would you like more glaze?"

Marcus, Adrian's father, scoffed from the head of the table. "She has no shame, Viv. Stop wasting your breath. Pass the potatoes."

I picked up the heavy serving dish and spooned the roasted potatoes onto Marcus's plate.

Adrian's phone buzzed against the mahogany table. The screen lit up with an unsaved number.

He dropped his napkin and pushed his chair back. "I need to take this."

"Sit down, Adrian," Marcus ordered, pointing his fork at his son. "We are discussing your future."

"It's a business emergency," Adrian said, buttoning his suit jacket. He refused to meet my eyes. "Entertain my parents, Sloane. I'll be back."

"Adrian—" I started.

He didn't wait. He turned his back on the table and walked out of the formal dining room. The heavy double doors shut firmly behind him, the brass latch clicking into place.

Silence stretched across the room, thick and suffocating.

"He can't even stand to be in the same room as you," Vivienne noted, picking up her wine glass. "How pathetic."

I picked up my fork. Before I could spear a piece of asparagus, the brass latch clicked again. The heavy oak doors swung open.

It wasn't Adrian.

Camille stepped over the threshold.

My fork clattered against the rim of my plate.

She wore a white silk halter dress. Her dark hair was pinned up rigidly on the right side, the left side falling straight past her collarbone. She wore a muted crimson lipstick.

My lungs tightened.

It was a carbon copy of the outfit I wore the night Adrian proposed to me nine years ago. Down to the exact asymmetrical hairstyle.

Vivienne lowered her glass, her eyes narrowing. "Who are you? Security is supposed to keep the gates locked."

"I'm Camille," she said. Her voice rang out, bright and arrogant, entirely lacking the terror she displayed at the anniversary party. "Adrian invited me."

"My son invited you to our private family dinner?" Vivienne asked, exchanging a sharp look with Marcus.

"He said it was time I met his parents," Camille replied.

She walked straight toward the empty chair beside me. Adrian's chair. She wrapped her manicured fingers around the mahogany backrest and looked down at me. A victorious smirk stretched across her painted lips.

"He said this seat would be opening up soon," Camille added.

I stared at the white silk halter dress. I stared at the hairstyle.

He didn't just want a young mistress. He wanted a young version of me. He dressed her in my past, parading a replica of his wife right into my home. The double objectification settled in my chest like a lead weight.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here," I said, keeping my voice dangerously low.

"Adrian bought me this dress," Camille countered, smoothing the silk over her hip. "He picked it out himself. He said white is my color."

"He lied," I said. "It washes you out."

Camille's smirk faltered. She leaned closer, dropping her voice so only I could hear. "He told me you took the two million. He said you agreed to step aside."

"I agreed to take his money," I corrected, picking my fork back up. "I never said I was leaving my dining table."

"You don't belong here," Camille hissed.

"Neither do you, little girl," Marcus barked from the head of the table. "I don't care who you are sleeping with. Are we hiring escorts for dinner entertainment now? Get out of my house."

Camille flinched. She looked toward the closed double doors, clearly expecting Adrian to burst back in and defend her honor.

The doors remained shut. He had abandoned her to the firing squad, just like he always abandoned me.

"I am not an escort!" Camille shouted, her face flushing red. "I am the woman your son actually loves! I'm taking her place."

"You are trespassing," Vivienne said, reaching for the silver bell beside her plate to summon the staff. "And you are wearing a cheap dress."

"It's custom silk!" Camille yelled.

My fingers brushed against the leather strap on my wrist. The cold metal of my mother's pocket watch rested against my pulse point.

Then, the temperature spiked.

The gears heated up, searing my flesh.

I pressed my thumb against the glass face to brace myself. The rhythmic ticking amplified, drowning out Camille's defensive stuttering and Vivienne's sharp insults.

Tick. Tick. TICK.

A sharp, violent vision from my past life sliced into my brain.

I stood in the shadows of a dimly lit dressing room. Adrian stood directly in front of me, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Camille.

She sat at a vanity mirror, wearing this exact white dress.

Adrian held a silver hairpin shaped like a crescent moon. He slid the metal into the right side of her dark hair, pinning it back.

"Hold still," Adrian murmured in the vision.

"Why does it have to be this style?" Camille asked, her reflection pouting. "It looks dated."

Adrian's eyes darkened. His grip on her shoulders tightened. "Because you need to look more like her."

The vision snapped black.

I blinked against the harsh glare of the dining room chandelier. The smell of roasted duck and red wine rushed back into my senses. The burning against my wrist faded to a dull throb.

Camille was still standing beside me, gripping Adrian's chair, arguing loudly with Marcus.

"I am his future!" Camille shouted, pointing a trembling finger at my father-in-law.

I didn't listen to the rest of her sentence.

My gaze locked onto the right side of Camille's head.

Pinned against her dark hair, catching the light of the crystal chandelier, was the exact same silver crescent moon.