To help his precious friend Claribel Quinn find her artistic inspiration, my husband, Esteban Palmer, locked me in a tiny wooden cabin.

"Clarie is a true artist," he said coldly. "Being her muse should be your honor."

But for Claribel, that wasn't enough. She wanted something more "exciting." So she struck a match and set the cabin on fire.

I screamed until my throat tore, begging for mercy, but Esteban just stared down at me as if I were dirt on his shoe.

"A little fire won't kill you. Can't you stop being so dramatic?"

My face was ruined beyond repair, my lungs scorched from the smoke.

The doctors kept calling Esteban, urging him to sign the surgery consent form, but he hung up every time.

When he finally answered, his voice was full of fury.

"Aislinn, do you have any idea how hard Clary's worked for this competition? Can you stop being unreasonable?"

He sighed impatiently. "Fine, I'll be better. You can even have the damn baby. Happy now?"

But our baby was already gone.

As the doctor carefully removed the tiny, lifeless fetus from my body, something inside me broke. That was the moment I stopped loving him.

***

It had all started because I accidentally bumped into Claribel. For that, Esteban dragged me to the small shack behind the villa.

"You ruined Clarie's inspiration," he growled. "Now you're gonna help her get it back."

Claribel's eyes welled with tears. "Oh, Banny, you're so good to me.

"It's just... Linny might have to suffer a little."

When Claribel struck the match and that twisted smile spread across her face, I finally understood—she wanted me dead.

Panic surged through me as I pleaded with Esteban, begging him to spare me for the sake of our five years of marriage.

But he kicked me aside and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked.

It's just to help Clarie find her spark," he barked. "Stop overreacting."

The straw caught instantly. Flames leapt like starving wolves, licking up my ankles, searing through fabric and flesh.

I tried to run, but my legs wouldn't move—Esteban had broken my legs when he kicked me earlier.

My hands clawed at the red-hot iron bars. Skin melted off my palms, the stench of my own burning flesh filling the air.

I didn't care. I kept banging my head against the metal, crying and choking.

"Esteban, I'm sorry, it's all my fault, please let me out...

"Esteban, it hurts so much, save me..."

My screams only made Claribel clap like a child at a circus.

"Banny, it's coming—the inspiration!

"But Linny's screaming is ruining my focus. Make her shut up, please?"

Esteban didn't even blink. He fixed me with a stare sharp enough to cut glass. "Aislinn, quit pretending. This fire can't kill you.

"If you scream one more time and disturb Clarie, I swear I'll tear out your tongue myself."

The smoke thickened. My head spun. Their voices became distant echoes.

When I collapsed, flames devoured my white dress.

My skin blistered and split open, and the pain was so deep it drowned my voice.

The fire raged out of control. Through the haze, I saw Esteban start toward me, panic flickering in his eyes.

Then a gust of smoke hit Claribel. She let out a dainty little cough.

"Oh, Banny, I can't breathe..." she cried out dramatically.

He froze, glanced back at me once, then turned and gathered her into his arms, his eyes filled with heart-wrenching concern.

The last thing I saw before blackness took me was the way they gazed into each other's eyes—like lovers in a painting, while I burned alive.

They carried what was left of me into the ambulance.

My face was destroyed; my lungs barely worked.

The doctors kept calling Esteban for consent to operate, but he ignored every call.

At last, tired of being disturbed, he picked up the phone.

"Aislinn, do you have any idea how hard Clary's worked for this competition? Can you stop being unreasonable?

"Fine, I'll be better. You can even have the damn baby. Happy now?"

His words struck me as absurdly hilarious.

My throat was too damaged to speak.

Even when the doctor explained that I was burned over seventy percent of my body, Esteban just sneered.

"God, Aislinn, how pathetic can you get? Now you've got the doctors lying for you, too?

"I'm taking Clary to her art show. Don't waste my time again."

As he hung up, I saw the nurse pull a tiny, blood-covered baby girl from my body.

My baby. Three months old.

Esteban Palmer, you will never have my love again.

After the surgery, I was transferred to the intensive care unit.

I touched my flat abdomen. Not long ago, a tiny life had been growing there.

To conceive, I'd swallowed countless pills and endured hundreds of injections, my body a battlefield of hope and pain.

But when I finally got pregnant, I failed to protect my baby girl.

The doctor's voice was laced with sympathy. "Ms. Sanchez, don't be sad. You're still young. You'll have another baby someday."

I shook my head, tears burning hotter than the flames ever did. I knew deep down that there would never be another baby.

Besides, the moment Esteban abandoned me on the brink of death, our marriage had crumbled to ashes.

Three days after my operation, no one had come to see me. Seeing that, the doctor suggested calling Esteban.

After all, I had three more reconstructive surgeries ahead, and I needed someone by my side.

I wanted him to hear the devastating news about our lost child, so I nodded in agreement.

But when the call connected, it wasn't his voice that greeted me—it was a perky, feminine one, dripping with false sweetness.

"Linny, oh, you're still alive? Well, that eases my guilt a bit.

"Banny's got to escort me to the award ceremony; no time for your little dramas, sweetie."

Before I could say a word, Claribel hung up.

Seconds later, she sent me a screenshot of her latest X post, fresh off the press.

In the photo, she beamed radiantly, clutching a gleaming trophy, while Esteban wrapped his arm intimately around her waist.

The caption read, "You're my muse of inspiration. It's because of you that I completed my ultimate masterpiece. The National Arts Award belongs to you as much as me."

When I clicked on the image of Claribel's prize-winning painting, my heart constricted so tightly I could barely draw breath.

Titled The Lowly Survivor in the Fire, it captured my grotesque, humiliated form with eerie lifelikeness—every scar, every plea etched in vivid strokes.

Claribel, the very architect of my torment, was basking in the glory and fortune born from my agony.

And Esteban had helped her every step of the way.

I closed my eyes. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. It felt like someone had torn open my chest.

Over our five years of marriage, I'd kept our home running like a well-oiled machine, pouring my soul into every detail.

At Esteban's mere suggestion, I'd quit my thriving career as a lawyer without a second thought, embracing the role of devoted homemaker.

Yet all my sacrifices had earned me nothing but indelible scars that would haunt me forever.

Before the doctor left, I asked him to dial a number for me.

"You said you'd marry me once I divorced," I whispered when the call connected. "Does that promise still stand?" I asked.

Ironically, the first person to visit me after the ordeal wasn't Esteban, but my ex-boyfriend, Coleman Anderson.

The moment I saw his tall frame in the doorway, my nose stung and tears blurred my vision.

He had always been like that—no matter what happened, no matter how long it had been, he would show up whenever I needed him.

Throughout my recovery, Coleman stayed by my side unwaveringly.

Worried that the night nurses wouldn't care for me properly, he shifted his company work to the hospital room.

He was there so often that one of the doctors mistook him for my husband and gave him a stern lecture about neglecting me.

When the scolding ended, Coleman said calmly, "I'm not her husband. Don't lump me in with that scumbag."

Not long after, my wounds worsened, landing me back in the ICU.

The doctors issued death notices time and again, but somehow, against all odds, I pulled through each crisis.

Coleman watched over me tirelessly for three days straight until I insisted he return to his hotel for rest.

No sooner had he left than Esteban stormed in with Claribel in tow.

Claribel pouted, her tone dripping with mock innocence. "Linny doesn't look like she's dying at all!

"Maybe she's just jealous of me and faking this whole thing to get your attention.

"But don't worry, Banny, I'm generous. I won't hold it against her."

Esteban's face darkened, shadows of irritation crossing his features.

"The doctors say Clarie only has four months left. You've got your whole life, Aislinn. Why can't you just let her have this?"

A bitter laugh echoed in my mind. She wielded her supposed terminal illness like a weapon, inserting herself into someone else's marriage. She acted like she had no family or friends except Esteban.

She brandished her impending death to demand constant companionship from a married man. And because of her, Esteban had locked me in that burning cabin.

I had begged desperately, sobbing and pleading for them to spare me—and the baby in my womb.

But Esteban had dismissed me with chilling detachment. "Stop the nonsense. Clarie never meant you harm."

At that point, I had nothing left to say to him. My voice rasped like sandpaper as I declared, "Esteban, let's divorce."

He froze, shock flashing across his face. He clearly hadn't expected that I'd be the one to initiate it.

In his eyes, I'd always been the one who loved more fiercely, so the idea of me walking away never crossed his mind.

My wounds were far from healed, and I had no energy for pointless arguments.

"You nearly burned me to death—don't I deserve a divorce?" I challenged.

Esteban sneered, yanking me from the bed with brutal force. My barely mended injuries tore open anew, sending shockwaves of agony through me.

A scream ripped from my throat, raw and piercing, but he only glared at me.

"Aislinn, cut the act.

"I'm a professional firefighter—that puny fire couldn't have touched you."

Sweat beaded on my forehead from the excruciating pain. For a moment, I couldn't muster a single word.

Then Claribel leaned over, examining my face with exaggerated curiosity, her laughter bubbling like champagne.

"Banny, she's quite the actress. Maybe we should get her into Hollywood—she could win Best Actress for this performance."

Esteban didn't contradict her.

And in that silence, I finally understood—he felt absolutely no remorse. While I, in my foolish clinging to our old life, had hesitated to expose him.

Gritting my teeth against the torment, I glared at him with unbridled hatred. "Esteban, we're done."

He brushed it off casually. "You always throw these tantrums—it's time you learned your lesson.

"When you're ready to behave, I'll take you home."

When they finally left, I reached for the phone and dialed his fire department.

"This is Aislinn Sanchez, Esteban Palmer's wife.

"I'm making a formal complaint. My husband stood by while his mistress set the cabin on fire with me inside. Now, I want him investigated."

I hung up the phone, slumping weakly against the hospital bed.

The earlier outburst had ripped open my wounds, leaving me drained and throbbing with pain that sapped every ounce of strength.

Once upon a time, I wouldn't have even imagined Esteban treating me like that.

Sure, his job at the fire station kept him swamped, but he'd always carve out moments for us, no matter what.

He remembered every holiday and every anniversary down to the tiniest detail. And if work truly tied him up, he'd surprise me with a thoughtful gift ahead of time.

My colleagues, after meeting him, would gush that I'd snagged the perfect husband.

But ever since Claribel waltzed into our lives, his affection for me evaporated like morning dew.

"Ms. Sanchez, your wounds haven't healed yet—you can't get out of bed," the nurse reminded me gently as she changed my bandages.

When she saw fresh blood seeping through, she frowned and warned me to be careful.

I just murmured a faint "Mm-hmm," my voice barely above a whisper.

I didn't tell her that the reopened wound was my husband's doing.

The burns were at their most torturous during healing—my entire body itched and tingled unbearably, yet I couldn't scratch without risking more damage.

I tossed and turned all night, wide awake, forcing myself to endure the relentless discomfort.

The next day at noon, Coleman brought me some light soup, blowing on each spoonful before feeding it to me gently.

"Do you need me to line up a divorce lawyer for you?" he asked, his eyes full of concern.

I shook my head. "Have you forgotten? Before switching to criminal law, I specialized in divorces. I'll handle my own justice—I'll fight for it myself."

If I hadn't given up my career for Esteban back then, I might have my own firm by now.

However, I believed it was not too late to reclaim my life.

My throat still ached fiercely, so after just a couple of bites, I pushed the bowl away.

As I sat resting in the cafeteria, Esteban burst in out of nowhere, his teammates trailing behind him like a pack.

His eyes were bloodshot with fury as he knocked over the dishes on my table, sending them crashing to the floor.

"Aislinn, you've ruined my future! What the hell is your problem?"

His buddies jumped in to defend him, their voices overlapping in indignation. "Aislinn, this is way out of line—how could you call and report Esteban like that?"

"Now he's on the verge of a promotion to captain, and your little stunt just cost him everything."

They barraged me with accusations, skillfully twisting the narrative until I was the perpetrator and he the victim.

I let out a bitter laugh, the absurdity fueling my resolve. "Esteban, you're a firefighter—your job is to save people from flames. Yet, you stood by and willfully allowed Claribel to set me on fire! Where's your sense of duty when you watch me burn?"

At my words, his teammates went silent, their faces flashing with disbelief.

Clearly, Esteban hadn't told them the truth.

His face darkened like a storm cloud, his tone laced with venom. "Yeah, I let Clarie start the fire, but look at you—you're fine!

"It's just some surface scratches, and you're wrapping yourself up like a mummy? Admit it, you are just trying to garner sympathy!"

If he'd just spoken to my doctor once, he would've known the truth.

But he didn't even care enough to ask.

Coleman, who'd been listening in silence, finally exploded. "Are you blind? Lyna's been handed three critical condition notices—how can you ignore that? How much do you despise her to spew such heartless crap?"

Esteban flushed with rage, humiliated and cornered. He drew a deep breath. "Even if that's true, she shouldn't take it out on Clarie.

"You had no right to turn the internet against her, to ruin her art award. Do you really want her to die with regrets?"

That was how I learned about the online storm. Apparently, someone disgusted by Claribel's hypocrisy had posted about what happened to me.

Netizens dug deep, pinpointing the fire to our villa's cabin, and since the fire department had responded that day, they pieced together that Claribel was on the scene.

Her callous inaction sparked a backlash; people boycotted her and reported her en masse.

I sneered coldly. "The moment she reveled in my suffering, you should've seen this coming."

Hearing the ice in my voice, Esteban softened his tone, pleading now. "Lyna, I know you've been wronged. Vent your anger on me if you must, but don't drag others into it.

"Once Clarie passes, I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

I stared at him in a daze, disbelief washing over me.

The man who once carried me over thresholds was begging on linoleum for his mistress.

With a self-deprecating smile, I grabbed his hand and pressed it to my flat belly. "I could, but only if you can bring our baby back to life.

"She murdered our baby, and you're her accomplice."