My wedding dress was burning, my fists were bloody from pounding on a locked door, and the man who had promised to protect me carried his mistress out first. Then, three days later, he was handed my death certificate—and I watched him collapse from behind a hospital window.

Three weeks after the fire, the memorial service for Tara Bennett was held at the historic Grace Cathedral in downtown Denver.

It was the society event of the season. The local news stations broadcasted live trucks parked outside the grand stone steps. Hundreds of people dressed in somber, elegant black filled the pews, murmuring softly about the tragic bride who had perished on her wedding day.

At the front of the cathedral rested a polished mahogany casket—filled with bricks and heavy sandbags to simulate my weight, as Dr. Sterling and Wyatt had quietly arranged to keep my actual body off the books.

And right at the head of the aisle, standing tall in a crisp, immaculate dress uniform adorned with his fire captain medals, was Preston Hale.

He played the grieving widower with terrifying perfection. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression carved from stone and sorrow. Every few moments, he would press a white handkerchief to his eyes, bowing his head in theatrical despair.

Sitting directly beside him, wearing an expensive black mourning veil and clutching Preston’s arm with possessive intimacy, was Khloe.

She wore diamond drop earrings—earrings that had belonged to my grandmother, which she had evidently looted from my jewelry box while I was trapped behind the burning door. She didn't look like a grieving friend; she looked like a queen taking her rightful throne.

Through a secure livestream feed playing on a encrypted tablet in a secluded motel room across town, Wyatt and I watched the entire broadcast.

“Look at her,” Wyatt muttered, shaking his head in disgust as the camera zoomed in on Khloe whispering into Preston’s ear, a faint, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. “She’s practically wearing your skin.”

“Let them enjoy the spotlight while it lasts,” I said, sipping my coffee as I watched the screen. “The higher they climb up that stage of lies, the harder they’re going to fall.”

According to Wyatt’s inside sources within the department, Preston was already celebrating behind closed doors. With my "death" officially logged, he had initiated the transfer of my $2.5 million commercial real estate trust into his personal holding account. He had even scheduled a press conference for the end of the week to announce the Tara Bennett Memorial Foundation, a charitable front designed to funnel my remaining assets directly into his failing tech investments.

“He thinks he’s untouchable,” I whispered, typing a command into my laptop. “He thinks he’s beaten the system.”

“What’s our next move?” Wyatt asked, leaning over my shoulder.

“We strike at his foundation launch,” I said calmly, pulling up a document on my screen. “Preston invited every high-ranking city official, fire commissioner, and corporate sponsor in Colorado to the gala at the Brown Palace Hotel. He wants a grand public spectacle to cement his status as a heroic captain and a devoted, heartbroken widower.”