The smell hits me first — sharp, chemical, wrong. I freeze in the doorway of the nursery, my hand still on the light switch. The overhead fixture flickers on, casting pale yellow light across the room I spent three months decorating. Cream walls. Hand-painted clouds. The crib my mother-in-law said was too expensive, positioned exactly where the morning sun would warm it without being too bright. And Sienna Calloway, Damian's business partner, standing in the center of the room with a red gasoline can in her hands. She doesn't startle. Doesn't drop it. Just turns her head slowly, meeting my eyes, and smiles. "Elena," she says, like we've run into each other at a coffee shop. "You're up late." The can tips. Liquid splashes across the rug — the cream-colored rug I ordered from France, the one that was supposed to be soft enough for a baby to crawl on. "What are you doing?" My voice comes out thin, breathless. "What does it look like?" She upends the can completely. Gasoline pools around the base of the crib, soaking into the wood. The fumes make my eyes water. I lunge forward. "Stop—" "I wouldn't." She pulls something from her pocket. A matchbook. Her thumb flips it open with practiced ease. "You move, I light it. You scream, I light it. You do anything I don't like—" "Damian!" I scream it anyway, because this can't be real. This is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up. Sienna strikes a match. The sound is small. Delicate. The flame catches, orange and alive, and she holds it between us like a promise. "Let's see who he saves," she says. The match falls. I don't remember moving. Don't remember thinking. One second I'm frozen in the doorway, the next I'm throwing myself toward the crib, toward the spreading fire, toward everything I spent nine months imagining— Heat explodes across my skin. Someone is screaming. Maybe me. The room is bright and hot and the smoke fills my lungs like drowning. Strong hands grab me from behind, yanking me backward. Damian's voice in my ear, rough and panicked: "Elena, stop—" "The baby—" I'm choking on smoke, on words that don't make sense. "The nursery—" "There is no baby." His arms lock around me, dragging me into the hallway. "Elena, you're not pregnant. There is no baby." The words don't land. Can't land. I claw at his grip, fighting to get back to the room, but he's too strong and the smoke is too thick and everything is spinning— The floor rushes up to meet me. Then nothing. --- Beeping. Steady, rhythmic, mechanical. I surface slowly, through layers of fog. My throat feels like I swallowed glass. My lungs burn with every breath. Hospital room. White walls. Fluorescent lights that hurt to look at. And Damian, sitting in the chair beside the bed, holding someone's hand. Not mine. Sienna's. She's in the other chair, pulled close to his, their fingers laced together. Her head rests on his shoulder. His thumb strokes across her knuckles in small, absent circles — the same way he used to touch me, in the early days, when he still pretended to care. I try to sit up. Pain lances through my chest and I gasp, the sound raw and broken. Damian's head snaps up. For a second — less than a second — something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or just surprise that I'm awake. Then it's gone, replaced by something cold and smooth as glass. "Elena." He doesn't let go of Sienna's hand. "The doctors said you'd come around soon." "What—" My voice cracks. I swallow, tasting ash. "What happened?" "You don't remember?" Sienna's voice is soft, concerned, perfect. "Oh, honey. That must be so scary." The door opens. Two people in suits — a man and a woman, both with badges clipped to their belts. Detectives. "Mrs. Hargrave," the woman says. Her face is professionally neutral. "I'm Detective Reyes. This is Detective Park. We need to ask you some questions about the fire." Fire. The nursery. Gasoline and matches and Sienna's smile in the flickering light. "She did it," I rasp, pointing at Sienna. "She started the fire. I saw her—" "Elena." Damian's voice cuts across mine, sharp and final. "Stop." Detective Park pulls out a notebook. "Mrs. Hargrave, can you explain why your fingerprints were found on the gasoline can?" The room tilts. "What? No. That's not—" I look at Damian, desperate for him to say something, to tell them the truth. "Damian, tell them. Tell them what she did—" He looks at me with eyes like a stranger's. "I found you in the nursery," he says quietly. "Alone. Holding the can. The fire was already spreading." "That's not true—" "Mr. Hargrave called 911 immediately," Detective Reyes says. "And Ms. Calloway corroborated his statement. She was downstairs when she smelled smoke. You were the only person in the room when the fire started." "No." The word comes out broken. "No, she was there. She lit the match. She said—" "What did she say?" Detective Park's pen is poised over his notebook. Let's see who he saves. But I can't say that. Can't explain it. Because they're all looking at me like I'm insane, and Damian is still holding her hand, and nothing makes sense— "Elena Hargrave," Detective Reyes says, and her voice has changed, gone formal and hard, "you're under arrest for attempted murder and arson." The room goes silent except for the beeping of the monitors. I look at Damian. At the man I married. The man whose child I thought I was carrying. The man I trusted with every piece of myself. He doesn't look away. Doesn't flinch. "I'm sorry," he says, and he almost sounds like he means it, "but I have to think about Sienna now." She leans into him, her free hand settling over her stomach in a gesture I know too well. "We have to think about the baby," Sienna says softly, and smiles.