Her father's house was dark.
Amelia sat in her car across the street, the engine off, the folder still pressed against her chest. She'd been sitting there for twenty minutes. Maybe longer.
The house looked the same as it always had. White shutters. A porch light that flickered. The same oak tree she'd climbed as a child.
But everything felt different now.
Her father started the fire.
Her father killed Ethan's sister.
Her father was Rossi's partner.
She should go inside. Should confront him. Should demand the truth.
But her legs wouldn't move.
Coward, she thought. Like father, like daughter.
She started the car and drove away.
______
The drive back to Ethan's house was a blur.
Amelia didn't remember parking. Didn't remember walking inside. Didn't remember climbing the stairs.
She just remembered standing in the doorway of the bedroom, still wearing her jacket, the folder still in her hands.
Ethan was there.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. When he looked up, she saw relief flash across his face – followed quickly by concern.
"Where were you?" he asked.
"Driving."
"For three hours?"
"I got lost."
He stood up. Walked toward her. "Your phone was off."
"I know."
"Amelia –"
"I need to sleep." She walked past him, set the folder on the nightstand, and climbed into bed. Still wearing her clothes. Still wearing her jacket.
Ethan stood by the bed, watching her.
"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asked.
"Not tonight."
"Amelia –"
"Please." Her voice broke. "Just... let me sleep."
He was quiet for a while, then he walked around to his side of the bed – her bed, technically, though they'd stopped thinking of it that way weeks ago. Somewhere between the first kiss and the quiet mornings that followed, the line between his room and hers had blurred. Now he slept beside her every night. Not because of the marriage contract. Not because of the bond. Because neither of them wanted to wake up alone anymore.
He didn't touch her.
But he didn't leave.
And somehow, that was worse.
________
The dream came without warning.
One moment, Amelia was floating in darkness. The next, she was standing in front of a building she'd never seen before.
The warehouse.
She knew it the way you know things in dreams – without logic, without reason. She just knew.
The sky was orange. Not from the sun. From fire.
Flames licked out of the windows. Smoke poured from the roof. The air was thick and hot and she couldn't breathe.
Run.
A voice. A boy's voice.
Run!
Amelia turned.
A boy stood behind her. Young. Maybe seven or eight. Dark hair. Dark eyes. His face was streaked with soot and tears.
Ethan.
Go! he screamed. Go now!
Amelia tried to move. Tried to run. But her feet were stuck. Rooted to the ground.
The fire was getting closer.
Please, she heard herself say. Please don't leave me.
I'm not leaving, Ethan said. I'm coming back. I promise.
You promise?
I promise.
A hand reached for her.
Not Ethan's hand. Smaller. Softer.
A little girl's hand.
Wearing a yellow dress.
Sarah.
Take it, Sarah said. Take my hand.
Amelia reached out.
Their fingers touched.
And then the ceiling collapsed.
__________
Amelia woke screaming.
She sat up in bed, gasping, her hands clawing at her throat. Her skin was burning. Her lungs were on fire.
Smoke. Fire. Ash.
Sarah's hand.
Gone.
"Amelia!"
Ethan was beside her. His hands on her face. His voice urgent.
"Amelia, look at me. You're safe. You're home. You're safe."
She couldn't breathe.
Couldn't see.
Couldn't think.
Sarah.
The fire.
The hand reaching for her.
"I remember," she gasped. "I remember."
Ethan went pale. "Remember what?"
"The fire." She looked at him. Her eyes were wild. Her voice was raw. "I was there. I saw her. I saw Sarah."
Ethan's hands fell from her face.
"Your sister," Amelia whispered. "She reached for me. She tried to save me."
Ethan didn't speak. Didn't move.
"And the ceiling fell," Amelia continued. "And she was gone. And you..." She stared at him. "You told me to run. You promised you'd come back."
"I did come back."
"Not for years."
"I couldn't." His voice broke. "My father –"
"Your father?" Amelia laughed. It was hollow. Broken. "You want to talk about fathers?"
She grabbed the folder from the nightstand and threw it at him.
Pages scattered across the bed. Photographs. Newspaper clippings. The letter.
Ethan looked down at them.
His face went white.
"Where did you get these?"
"Victoria."
"Victoria?" He stood up. His hands were shaking. "You went to Victoria?"
"She came to me. In the garden. While you were at work."
"Amelia –"
"She gave me the folder. She told me about the fire. About the debt. About my father."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "What did she tell you?"
"That my father started the fire."
Silence.
"That my father killed your sister."
Ethan closed his eyes.
"That my father was Rossi's partner."
He opened his eyes. Looked at her. And didn't deny it.
Amelia's heart shattered.
"You knew," she whispered. "You knew the whole time."
"Yes."
"You married me anyway."
"Yes."
"Because of the bond?"
"Because of you."
She stared at him. At the man who had carried her inside. Who had kissed her like she was the answer to a prayer. Who had said mine like it was a vow.
He knew.
And he married her anyway.
"Get out," she said.
"Amelia –"
"Get out."
Ethan stood there for a long moment. Then he walked to the door.
He paused with his hand on the frame.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Stop saying that."
"I can't."
He left.
Amelia sat alone in the bed, surrounded by pages of her father's crimes, and tried not to fall apart.
She failed.