I stared at the divorce papers in my hands, the black ink blurring slightly as tears welled in my eyes. The lawyer had been kind, explaining everything in detail, but all I could think about was how quickly my life had imploded.

"Are you absolutely certain about this, Mrs. Crawford?" she'd asked, her voice gentle but professional. "Once you file, there's no going back."

"I'm certain," I'd replied, my voice steadier than I expected. "My husband left me to burn while he saved a turtle."

Now, as I clutched the papers, I heard the front door of the Crawford family home burst open. Winston's voice echoed through the hallway, followed by his mother's shrill tones.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mrs. Crawford's voice cut through the air like a knife as she stormed into the living room where I sat. Her face was contorted with rage, a vein pulsing at her temple. "Divorce papers? Have you lost your mind?"

I stood up, wincing as the movement pulled at my healing burns. "I believe I've finally found it."

"How dare you!" Mr. Crawford stepped forward, his imposing figure blocking the doorway. "After everything we've done for you? We took you in when you had nothing!"

I almost laughed. "Took me in? I gave up my career to be Winston's wife. I've cooked your meals, cleaned your house, and endured your insults for years."

"And this is how you repay us?" Mrs. Crawford spat. "By filing for divorce the moment things get difficult? You ungrateful little—"

"Mother." Winston's voice came from behind his father, but he wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the woman beside him—Reagan.

She stood there in a simple sundress, her hand tucked into the crook of Winston's arm, her eyes wide with practiced innocence. "I'm just here for support," she said softly. "For both of you."

The sight of them together made my stomach churn. "Support," I repeated, the word bitter on my tongue. "Is that what you call it?"

Winston finally met my gaze, his expression hardening. "Reagan has been there for me through all of this. She understands what I'm going through."

"And I don't?" My voice cracked. "I'm the one with third-degree burns, Winston."

"You're the one being selfish," he countered, pulling Reagan closer. "Filing divorce papers without even discussing it with me first."

Mrs. Crawford nodded approvingly at her son. "Well, if she wants to leave, let her. But she can't expect to stay here anymore."

"Actually," Mr. Crawford said, his voice suddenly businesslike, "we need to discuss living arrangements."

---

Three days later, I stood in the doorway of what had been my bedroom for five years, watching as Mrs. Crawford directed movers to remove my belongings.

"This won't do," she was saying to the decorator who stood beside her, clipboard in hand. "The walls need to be a softer color—something feminine but not too bold."

Reagan hovered nearby, her fingers trailing over the dresser that had been mine. "I was thinking maybe a pale lavender? It would match the drapes in the sitting room."

I clutched my small suitcase tighter. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"Oh, we've arranged for you to stay in the guest room above the garage," Mrs. Crawford said without looking at me. "It's quite comfortable, considering."

"Considering what?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Mrs. Crawford finally turned to me, her smile sharp as a blade. "Considering your... condition." Her eyes lingered on the visible burns on my arms and face. "We can't have guests seeing you like this. It would be upsetting for them."

Reagan stepped forward, her expression a perfect mask of sympathy. "I hope you don't mind, Olive. I just need a place to stay until I find something permanent, and your room has the best morning light."

I said nothing as I watched her run her hands over my bedspread—the one Winston and I had picked out together when we first married.

---

A week later, my phone buzzed with a notification. Then another. And another.

With trembling fingers, I opened Instagram to find dozens of messages from accounts I didn't recognize.

"Did you know your wife attacked Reagan when she found out about their relationship?"

"There are photos of it online now. Search 'Olive Crawford violent outburst.'"

"Everyone knows you're just jealous of what Winston and Reagan have."

I clicked on one of the links, and my breath caught in my throat. There I was, apparently lunging at Reagan outside a restaurant—a photo I knew instantly was manipulated. The timestamp showed last Tuesday, when I'd been at a follow-up appointment with Dr. Chen.

More notifications flooded in as I scrolled through comments on my own profile.

"Abusive wife exposed!"

"Fire wasn't enough to get rid of her?"

"Poor Winston and Reagan, having to deal with this psycho!"

I dropped the phone onto my bed, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Through the window of my cramped garage room, I could see Reagan in the backyard below, laughing with Winston and his parents as they barbecued—my replacement already complete.

But as I watched, something caught my eye. Reagan glanced up toward my window, and for just a moment, her mask slipped. The smile that replaced it wasn't sweet or innocent.

It was triumphant.

I clutched my small suitcase tighter as I approached the Crawford family home. Three days had passed since I'd been relegated to the guest room above the garage, and I'd come to collect the rest of my belongings. The house looked eerily normal—as if nothing had happened, as if my life hadn't been shattered by fire and betrayal.

I pushed open the front door, only to freeze at the threshold.

Winston stood in the entryway, his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him were three men I recognized from the fire station—Mike, Derek, and Tom. All of them wore their uniforms, as if they'd come straight from work. Their presence filled the hallway with a wall of muscle and intimidation.

"Olive." Winston's voice was cold. "What are you doing here?"

"I came for my things," I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear crawling up my spine. "The rest of my clothes, my jewelry—"

"Those aren't yours anymore," Mike said, stepping forward. His massive frame blocked my path completely. "Winston says you're not welcome here."

I swallowed hard. "Those are my personal belongings. I have every right—"

"Right?" Derek laughed, the sound harsh in the quiet house. "After what you did?"

"What I did?" I whispered, confusion mixing with my fear.

Tom moved to stand beside Derek, effectively forming a human barrier between me and the staircase. "We heard about your little online tantrum. Threatening Reagan? That wasn't very nice."

From behind them, I caught a glimpse of movement. Reagan appeared at the top of the stairs, a delicate smile playing on her lips. She was holding my grandmother's pearl necklace—the one I'd worn on my wedding day.

"Oh, Olive," she said, her voice dripping with false concern. "I was just helping Winston sort through your things. Some of these clothes are so damaged from the fire..."

She held up a blouse I recognized—one of my favorites, now with a small scorch mark along the hem.

"That's still wearable," I said, taking a step forward only to be blocked again by Mike's broad chest.

Reagan tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with triumph as she fastened my necklace around her own throat. "I think this will look better on me anyway. Don't you?"

---

"The court will not look kindly on your refusal to sign these papers, Mrs. Crawford." The Crawford family lawyer—a thin man with cold eyes—slid the documents across the polished conference table.

I stared at the papers without touching them. "These would leave me with nothing."

"Given the circumstances, that's quite generous," Mr. Crawford said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Considering you destroyed family property worth over two hundred thousand dollars."

I blinked in disbelief. "I didn't start the fire."

"The investigation is ongoing," the lawyer interjected smoothly, "but we have evidence suggesting you were negligent in maintaining a safe household."

Mrs. Crawford leaned forward, her perfectly manicured nails tapping impatiently on the table. "If you don't sign these papers today, we'll be forced to pursue additional charges."

"What charges?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Destroying family property, for one," Mr. Crawford said. "And we have witnesses who can attest to your mental instability."

The lawyer opened a folder and removed several sheets of paper. "We've collected statements from several individuals who can confirm your erratic behavior, financial irresponsibility, and history of emotional outbursts."

I scanned the documents—doctored emails, falsified bank statements, and testimonials from people I barely knew claiming to have witnessed my "unstable episodes."

"This is all fake," I whispered, my hands trembling as I pushed the papers away.

"Sign the documents, Olive," Winston said from across the table, his eyes meeting mine for the first time that day. "It's the only way this ends."

---

I sat alone in the small apartment Camille had helped me find, staring at the notes I'd been compiling about the fire. Something didn't add up.

According to the official report, the fire had started in the living room while everyone was in the kitchen. But I remembered Reagan leaving the dinner table early, claiming she needed to check on her turtle.

"She was alone in there for at least twenty minutes," I murmured to myself, writing down the timeline as I remembered it.

And there was something else—something that had been nagging at me since that night.

I flipped back through my notes to a conversation I'd overheard earlier that evening. Reagan had asked Winston about some cleaning supplies he kept in the garage.

"Are those accelerants still in the same place?" she'd asked casually, as if inquiring about dinner.

At the time, I hadn't thought anything of it. Now, I wondered.

Why had Reagan specifically asked about accelerants? And why had she been so interested in exactly where they were stored?

I stared at my notes, a chill running down my spine as the pieces began to form a disturbing picture. The fire hadn't started by accident.

Someone had planned it all along.