Part 1Ashes of My Life

I was five months pregnant when my husband’s old flame set my house on fire.

I didn't call him. I just wet a towel, pressed it over my nose and mouth, and waited.

I didn't call him, because in my last life, I did. I screamed for him to save me.

He was a fire captain. He came. He got me out, and the baby was saved. But Chloe—his "one that got away"—was still inside. By the time he went back for her, it was too late. She burned to death.

He told me it wasn't my fault. He told me to rest, to focus on the baby. He even took a leave of absence to take care of me.

Then, the day I gave birth, he took me to Chloe's grave.

And right there, in the dirt, he cut our newborn son's throat.

The blood splattered his face.

"Do you know what it feels like to burn alive, Elara?" he'd hissed, his eyes red. "I want you to feel everything she felt."

He doused me and the baby in gasoline and lit the match.

As the flames ate me, I saw his face. "You set that fire," he screamed. "You thought you could play the victim? You're paying for what you did!"

Now, I opened my eyes.

The smoke was thick, and I was back.