New Year's Eve. The whole city was waiting for the firework show called Phoenix Courtship.

Oscar Delgado had spent three hundred million dollars commissioning it—a celebration of our fifth wedding anniversary, designed entirely by my hand.

I'd planned to tell him about the pregnancy at the exact moment the sky caught fire.

But when the fireworks launched and the heavens erupted in color, the drones spelled out something else entirely:

[Wishing Summer peace, year after year.]

The crowd roared. The pregnancy test in my hand bent under the pressure of my grip.

Oscar's arm was around my waist, his fingers gently brushing the snow from my hair—while his mouth delivered the cruelest words I'd ever heard:

"Summer just got back to the country. Think of it as a welcome-home gift. You're an artist too, Dora Henson—surely you're not that petty?"

I stared into those deep, tender eyes of his, and a single thought crystallized.

All those fireworks blazing across the sky looked exactly like a funeral arranged just for me.

——

The wind off the river cut like a blade.

I stood on the best viewing platform in the city, draped in Oscar Delgado's expensive cashmere coat. It still carried his signature scent—cold cedar, clean and sharp.

Once, that smell had meant safety.

Now all I could detect beneath it was a cloying sweetness that didn't belong to me.

Summer Fox's favorite perfume. Mon Paris.

"Cold?"

Oscar's hands were warm. They slid around my waist from behind, his chin settling into the curve of my shoulder.

To everyone watching, we were the most enviable couple in the elite circle. Oscar Delgado, head of the Delgado Group, a man who worshipped his wife.

To pamper me—and to promote the art of heritage pyrotechnics—he'd spent a fortune reserving the entire riverfront.

I said nothing. I just stared at the dark sky in the distance.

"Dora, why so quiet?"

His warm lips grazed my earlobe, coaxing. "Tonight's Phoenix Courtship is the formula you spent six months perfecting. It's about to start. Be happy."

Happy?

The corner of my mouth twitched. My hands were buried in the coat pockets, fingernails digging into the pregnancy test with its two unmistakable red lines.

"Oscar."

My voice came out hoarse. "These fireworks—are they really for me?"

He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then let out a low chuckle. He turned me around to face him. His dark eyes reflected my face back at me.

"Don't be silly. If not for you, then who?"

One long finger traced down the bridge of my nose. "You're Mrs. Delgado. You're the finest firework designer in the world. Tonight, you're the star."

The words had barely left his lips.

Boom.

The first shell rocketed skyward.

Golden flame split the darkness wide open—a phoenix spreading its wings, savage and magnificent.

The crowd gasped as one.

Oscar pulled me closer, tighter, like he was showing off his most prized possession.

Then hundreds of drones rose into the air. The grand finale. The crowning moment.

According to the final design I'd approved, they were supposed to form our initials—mine and Oscar's—along with the words Happy 5th Anniversary.

I looked up. My breath stopped.

The drones shifted formation beneath the phoenix's blazing wings and slowly, deliberately, spelled out seven words:

The cheering around us swelled even louder. Someone squealed about how romantic it was.

Only I felt every drop of blood in my body turn to ice.

I could even feel it—Oscar's body, pressed against mine, going rigid for one telling instant.

But he didn't let go. If anything, he held on tighter. As if afraid I'd bolt. As if afraid I'd make a scene.

"Oscar!"

A bright, girlish voice shattered the silence between us.

Summer Fox appeared at the top of the viewing platform in a white designer puffer, a sparkler clutched in her hand, breathless and doe-eyed—like a fawn that had wandered into the mortal world by mistake.

Her eyes lit up with delight, and she blew right past me, rushing straight to Oscar.

"Is this the surprise you were talking about? It's gorgeous! I knew you were the best to me, Oscar!"

She didn't even wait for his response before whipping out her phone, snapping selfies against the sky. The backdrop was that massive "Peace for Years to Come" display—and me, standing in the shadows.

Oscar watched her, a flicker of indulgence crossing his gaze before guilt crept in and his eyes darted to me.

"Dora, let me explain."

His voice dropped low, carrying that signature blend of unquestionable tenderness and authority.

"Summer just got back to the country. She hasn't found her footing in the entertainment industry yet. Tonight's trending topic could help her build name recognition. You know she's a traditional opera inheritor too—practically in the same field as you. Helping each other out is a win-win."

Win-win.

What a beautiful phrase.

Using my blood and sweat to dress her up for the spotlight. Using our wedding anniversary to pave her road.

I looked at him, and the light in my eyes dimmed, bit by bit.

"Oscar, do you even know what 'Phoenix Seeks His Mate' means?" I asked.

His brow furrowed slightly, as if he thought I was being unreasonable.

"Dora, don't throw a tantrum right now. Summer's been in poor health since she was a child. You're the elder here—what's wrong with giving her a little leeway? Besides, I'm right here with you. It's just a name on a post. Since when did you become so vain?"

Vain.

In his eyes, defending my own dignity was vanity.

Summer finished her photos and seemed to finally notice me. She crept over timidly, clutching the edge of Oscar's sleeve, teeth pressed into her lower lip, eyes rimmed with red.

"Dora, please don't blame Oscar. It's all my fault. I just casually mentioned that I envied people who got to see fireworks, and I never expected him to actually remember. If you're upset, I'll have them take the trending post down right now."

She looked like she was about to cry.

Oscar's heart softened instantly. He turned his hand to grip her wrist, then shot me a look, his tone dropping several degrees.

"Dora, why are you scaring her?"

I laughed.

I hadn't said a single word, and I'd already scared her?

The pregnancy test in my pocket dug into my palm, sharp and unforgiving.

I drew a deep breath and crushed the gift I'd never gotten to give—along with the lab report—in my fist.

"I'm not upset."

I looked at the man and woman standing before me, and my voice came out so calm it frightened even me.

"Oscar, you're right. I'm an artist. I shouldn't be so petty."

"Consider these fireworks a funeral offering for Miss Fox... oh, pardon me—a first lesson for her."

"After all, only things that are fleeting and short-lived are worthy of a relationship that can't stand the light of day."

"Dora!" Oscar's voice came out in a low snarl, his face ashen.

But I had already turned away. I shrugged off the coat still warm from his body and tossed it into a nearby trash can.

"It's dirty. I don't want it."

Oscar came after me.

In the parking garage, he seized my wrist, his grip so brutal it felt like he was trying to grind my bones to dust.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He pinned me hard against the car door, those striking eyes blazing with fury—yet threaded with a barely perceptible flicker of panic.

"You threw that coat in front of all those people—who was that little performance for? Do you have any idea how many cameras were out there tonight?"

I stared back at him, ice in my gaze. "Isn't Mr. Delgado the master of PR? What's the matter—can't handle something this small?"

"Dora!"

He sucked in a breath, visibly fighting to keep his rage in check.

The next second, his tone softened abruptly. He reached out to touch my face, but I turned away before his fingers could land.

His hand froze in midair, then withdrew awkwardly.

"Babe, come on. Don't be like this."

There it was again—that practiced tenderness, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic murmur laced with coaxing warmth.

"I know tonight was unfair to you. But Summer really has had it rough. Her father was injured saving me years ago. The Delgado family owes her. I only think of her as a little sister."

"Besides, I got you a gift."

He pulled a velvet box from his pocket and opened it.

A pink diamond ring. Five carats, at least.

"I won this at an auction not long ago. It's called The Eternal Heart. I was planning to put it on your finger after the fireworks."

He took my hand and began to slide it toward my ring finger.

This was how it always went after a fight.

A slap, then a sweet.

All he had to do was lower his head a little, offer some trinket, whisper a few soft words, and I'd cave.

Because I loved him.

I'd loved him for seven whole years—from college to the wedding aisle.

I couldn't bear to let go.

But this time, staring at that glittering diamond, all I felt was a sharp, blinding sting.

"Oscar."

I didn't pull my hand away. I just looked at him, perfectly still. "Did Summer try this ring on?"

Oscar's hand gave a violent tremor.

That split second of hesitation was all the answer I needed.

Something twisted inside my chest—a blade carving straight through, until the pain went numb.

I laughed. Laughed until my eyes burned with tears threatening to spill.

"So she did."

"Let me guess—she probably said something like, 'Dora's fingers are so slender. This ring would be way too loose on me.' Am I close?"

Oscar's expression turned ugly. "Don't be snide. She was curious. She picked it up to look at it. She never even put it on."

"Is that so?"

I yanked my hand free. "Well, since someone else has already touched it, I don't want it."

"Oscar, let's get a divorce."

It was the first time I'd ever said those words.

In this marriage, I had always been the one who endured, who accommodated, who behaved. I told myself that if I was good enough, if I loved him hard enough, he'd eventually come around.

But I was wrong.

A man like that never turns back. He just finds your bottom line and grinds it to dust beneath his heel.

Oscar clearly hadn't expected those words to leave my mouth.

He stared, stunned—then his expression shifted, as if he'd just heard a joke.

"Dora, it's New Year's Eve. That's not funny."

His fingers caught my chin, forcing my face up to meet his gaze. His eyes held a mixture of contempt and absolute certainty.

"Divorce? Without me, who's going to fund your heritage projects? Who's going to bankroll your lofty artistic dreams? And your mother—the one in the care facility—who's going to cover her medical bills?"

"Dora. Be good."

He pressed his lips to mine—hard, punishing.

"Let's go home tonight. I'll make dumplings for you. You love my three-delicacy filling, remember?"

"Stop saying things you don't mean. I don't want to hear it."

Before I could respond, he guided me into the passenger seat and locked the door.

The engine hummed to life, and the car pulled toward our penthouse in the city center.

Outside the window, fireworks still crackled in scattered bursts.

I stared at my own pale reflection in the glass and pressed a hand to my flat stomach.

Baby, I'm sorry.

Mommy might not be able to give you a home after all.

Back at the house, Oscar actually started making dumplings.

He shrugged off his suit jacket, rolled his dress shirt to the elbows—revealing taut, muscular forearms—and set to work kneading dough and mincing filling with practiced ease.