Ashes of My Life

1
I was five months pregnant when my husbands old flame set my house on fire.

I didn't call him. I just wet a towel, pressed it over my nose and mouth, and waited.

I didn't call him, because in my last life, I did. I screamed for him to save me.

He was a fire captain. He came. He got me out, and the baby was saved. But Chloehis "one that got away"was still inside. By the time he went back for her, it was too late. She burned to death.

He told me it wasn't my fault. He told me to rest, to focus on the baby. He even took a leave of absence to take care of me.

Then, the day I gave birth, he took me to Chloe's grave.

And right there, in the dirt, he cut our newborn son's throat.

The blood splattered his face.

"Do you know what it feels like to burn alive, Elara?" he'd hissed, his eyes red. "I want you to feel everything she felt."

He doused me and the baby in gasoline and lit the match.

As the flames ate me, I saw his face. "You set that fire," he screamed. "You thought you could play the victim? You're paying for what you did!"

Now, I opened my eyes.

The smoke was thick, and I was back.

2
The acrid smoke choked me, and the pain in my lungs snapped me back to the present.

I grabbed my phone. This time, I didn't call his personal number. I dialed 911.

I heard the sirens. I saw his truck, Engine 12. I saw him, Owen, my husband, in full gear.

He ran into the burning building. I watched as he carried Chloe out, bridal style.

Only then, when she was safe, did I crawl to the hallway and call for help.

His crew saw me. They thought I was joking.

"Seriously, Mrs. Thorne?" one of them snapped. "A little dramatic, don't you think?"

A piece of the ceiling, a heavy light fixture, broke free and slammed onto my stomach.

I spat out a mouthful of blood.

They just... watched.

I gritted my teeth, dragging myself through the smoke and debris, and collapsed on the lawn.

Every oxygen tank, every cold compress, every paramedic was focused on Chloe.

Owen didn't even look at me. "You got what you deserved," he spat.

I was soaked in sweat and blood. I could feel the baby... I could feel it slipping away.

In the last life, Chloe and I had both called him. He chose me. He chose the baby.

He went back for her, but the roof collapsed.

He'd told me he was fine. He'd comforted me.

And all of it, all that care, was just a long, slow-burning revenge.

Now, he wouldn't even give me a bottle of water.

I saw the pool of blood forming beneath me.

"Help... my baby..." I rasped. "Please..."

The firefighter closest to me, his friend, finally turned. His face was a mask of contempt.

He nudged me with his boot.

"Stop faking, Elara. Everyone at the station knows you hate Chloe. Jesus, you're pathetic. You set a fire while pregnant just to get his attention? Well, he's busy. You'd better pray she's okay, or he'll divorce your crazy ass."

I knew Owen didn't love me. I didn't know his entire crew hated me, too.

A violent contraction seized me. I couldn't breathe. My skin was blistering from the heat.

No one helped.

Finally, I heard a different voice. "Hey... that's... that's a lot of blood. Is she... is she really hurt?"

"Nah," the first guy said. "It's a prop. She's just trying to get the Captain to look at her. Fine. I'll get him."

I didn't get his concern. I got his rage.

His gloved hand cracked across my face.

"Elara! Get up! Stop pretending!"

"Are you insane?" he roared. "Setting a fire and getting yourself trapped in it? You're pathetic!"

I tried to explain. My throat was too dry. My stomach was cramping so hard I saw stars.

I just grabbed his sleeve. Help me.

He hesitated. For one second.

Then he pressed his hand, hard, down onto my pregnant stomach.

"Nice try. Chloe already told me you'd be hiding somewhere, pretending to be a victim. I believed her."

He turned to leave.

"Captain!" one of his men yelled. "She's... she's really bleeding!"

"It's fake, dumbass," Owen shouted back, not even turning. "She's five months along. You can't miscarry that easily. If she wants to play dead, let her."

The pain became a solid, black wall. I fell into it.

I dreamed of him. The cold, brilliant guest lecturer I'd had a crush on. I'd pursued him relentlessly. Flowers, coffee, basketball games.

He finally agreed. I thought it was the start of my life.

It was the start of my nightmare.

The dates he'd cancel. The "emergency calls" that pulled him away.

I found out the truth on our wedding day. An anonymous email. A ten-year email chain between him and Chloe.

He'd been with her the whole time.

I was... I was the other woman. And I'd won.

I was so afraid of losing him, I never even confronted him.

When Chloe "died" in the first life, I was... relieved.

He'd been so kind. He'd bought out every baby store in the city.

All of it... all that "love"... was just a performance. To make sure I was happy and healthy, right up until the moment he could destroy me.

3
When I woke up, I wasn't in the flames. I was in a hospital.

It wasn't Owen. It was a man I didn't know.

"You're awake? I'm your downstairs neighbor. I ran up to check the smoke, found you on the floor. I... I'm so sorry. The doctors... they said the baby..."

I managed a smile. "It's... not your fault. I know. Thank you."

A stranger. A stranger saw I was dying, and my own husband...

"What is wrong with those firefighters?" the neighbor fumed. "They just left you! I already filed a formal complaint. It's all over the neighborhood forums."

I shook my head. "My... husband... he's dead."

The look of pity on his face was all I needed.

I paid him back for the hospital fees and sent him on his way.

The "forums" were more than I expected.

#FireCaptainLetsPregnantWifeBurn.

It was on Twitter. It was on TikTok. The video my neighbor took of me, bloody and unconscious on the lawn, was everywhere.

The department was in full-blown crisis mode.

I was about to text Owen the divorce papers when a message from Chloe came through.

She was in the same hospital. Two floors down.

It was a picture of Owen, spoon-feeding her broth.

I closed the app and called him. It took five tries.

"What?" he snarled. "Do you want? To see if Chloe's dead? Sorry to disappoint you. I saved her. She's fine."

"Elara, I can't believe what you did. You tried to kill her. You have one hour to get down to her room and apologize. Or we're done."

Before I could speak, I heard her whimpering. "Owen, no... don't be mad at her. It's my fault... If she says I set the fire, just... just agree with her. A pregnant woman can't be stressed..."

"See?" he barked into the phone. "She's a saint, and you're a monster. I'm handling this."

"Fine," I said. "Let's get a divorce. I'll email the papers."

I hung up.

The texts started instantly. [Where are you? Are you crazy?] [You think I'm scared to divorce you? You're pregnant! You'll be on your knees begging me to sign that birth certificate!] [Get that shit offline, Elara. NOW. Don't make me tell the world what you really are.]

I blocked his number.

The nurses on my floor were all whispering.

"Did you see the guy in 305? So hot. And he's so devoted to his girlfriend." "I heard he's cooking for her. In the hospital cafeteria! He rented out a kitchen!"

I just stared at my IV.

That night, the doctor told me the smoke inhalation and the blunt-force trauma to my abdomen had scarred my uterus.

I would never be able to have another child.

My first reaction... was relief.

4
The backlash was so bad the Fire Commissioner had to give a press conference.

He threw me under the bus.

"This fire was the result of a tragic domestic dispute," he said, reading from a script. "The arsonist, Mrs. Elara Thorne, acted out of jealousy."

To "prove" it, Owen's personal account posted a photo of our marriage license.

The narrative flipped.

Instantly.

My name, my face, my old social media accounts were everywhere.

#ArsonistWife. #ElaraThePsycho.

My phone was just a stream of death threats.

The hospital staff started treating me like a prisoner.

I didn't say a word. I just waited.

The day I was discharged, I sent Owen one text from a new number.

"Tomorrow. 9 AM. Courthouse. Be there."

He called immediately.

"Finally," he sneered. "Decided to crawl out of your hole? I gave you a chance. You didn't take it. You want a divorce? Fine. But don't think you're getting the kid. You're an unfit, psychotic mother!"

I hung up.

I opened the home security app on my phone. And I downloaded the footage from the living room camera, two days before the fire.

The footage of Chloe, walking in with a can of gasoline.

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