1 A midnight emergency call came in, and as a firefighter, I was among the first to arrive on the scene. It turned out to be a couple playing bedroom games. The man was locked in a pair of steel handcuffs, and they had lost the key. Following standard protocol, I asked the young woman if there were any other hazards in the room. She shook her head with a playful, amused smirk. I felt a sudden unease. When I looked down at the bed, the man had his face completely covered with a dark towel. But the inner side of his exposed thigh bore a very distinct tattoo: a black-and-gold butterfly, identical to the one on my husband, a rising actor who was supposedly away on a shoot. I froze. The woman arched an eyebrow, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "Is something wrong? I'm so sorry to drag you out in the middle of the night. My guy just couldn't wait. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know? We got a little carried away." I tightened my grip on the hydraulic rescue cutters and sheared through the metal links. So, his coldness was reserved only for me. If that was the case, I was more than happy to set him free. The handcuffs snapped with a sharp metallic crack. I forced my voice to remain entirely professional. "All set. Sir, try to move your wrists and let me know if you feel any discomfort." The man on the bed gave a muffled, low response. "No." My heart plummeted into a bottomless pit. Even with a single, garbled word, I recognized that voice instantly. It was Austin, my husband. The woman, Giselle, suddenly stepped between me and the bed, blocking my view. "I'm so sorry, but my husband is a bit of a public figure. He needs his privacy, so no faces. I'm sure you understand." I turned toward the door. "Understood. The call is resolved. I'll be leaving now." Giselle blocked my path, pressing a paper cup into my hand. "It's freezing outside. Have a cup of water before you go. It's the least we can do." "No, thank you." I looked down to decline, but my eyes caught the diamond ring on her left ring finger. My brain went entirely numb. I knew that ring. I had saved my salary for two years to have it custom-made for our wedding, a completely unique design. A year ago, the famous designer who crafted it passed away, turning that ring into a rare masterpiece worth a fortune, often called the Ring of True Love. Right around that time, my own ring had gone missing. I thought I had lost it during a fire rescue and had been desperate to search the station or call the police. Austin had been unusually gentle that night, telling me it didn't matter. He said as long as he kept wearing his, our love was proven. His rare warmth had made me believe that despite his cold demeanor, he truly loved me. Now, I realized the sickening truth: he had simply stolen it to give to another woman. While I stood there in shock, Giselle shoved the cup against my lips. "Oh, don't be polite. Just drink it." Caught off guard, I swallowed a mouthful. Almost immediately, I realized something was horribly wrong. My vision blurred, my limbs grew heavy, and I collapsed sideways onto their living room sofa, completely blacking out. When I drifted back into a hazy consciousness, the faint sound of rustling sheets and soft whispers echoed from the bedroom. Giselle was giggling. "She's sleeping right out there on the couch. Isn't this incredibly thrilling?" Then came Austin's voice, laced with mild annoyance but heavy with arousal. "Why did you drug her?" "What, you don't like it?" Giselle purred. "Then why is your heart racing so fast?" My chest tightened painfully. I forced my eyelids open a crack, looking through the gap in the doorway. Austin was pressing Giselle down onto the bed, his face flushed, his eyes half-closed with a passion I had never once seen him show me. "I love it," Austin groaned. "You're the only one who can give me what I really want. If Amber hadn't been decorated for bravery during that major fire when my career was in the gutter, I would never have married her just to salvage my public image." I began to tremble, fighting the residual fog of the drug with sheer willpower. "But she really is a gullible idiot," Austin chuckled, a smug arrogance in his voice. "As long as I say I'm too depressed and heartbroken over her miscarriage, she doesn't dare touch me." Giselle moved against him, and Austin gasped. "Jealous? Come on, I've barely touched her. I can count on one hand the number of times we've actually slept together." A invisible blade seemed to pierce my chest. Our baby. The child I thought I had lost to a tragic, unavoidable miscarriage. Had his own father played a role in ending his life? How could he be so monstrous? A sharp gasp caught in my throat, and I let out a violent cough. The sounds in the bedroom stopped instantly. "Don't worry, she probably just woke up," Giselle whispered. Wrapped in a bedsheet, Giselle strolled out of the bedroom, looking down at me with an innocent smile. "You slept like a rock, sweetie. I couldn't even shake you awake. You must be completely exhausted from your job." I struggled to my feet, my fists clenching with an overwhelming rage. But before I could swing at her face, my emergency pager began to blare a high-pitched alarm. Without a word, I pushed past her and bolted out of the apartment. Outside, the morning sun was already high in the sky. They had used me as a spectator for their twisted games all night. Biting through the excruciating pain in my chest, I rushed to the scene of the fire. By the time our shift ended and the last flames were extinguished, a text message from Austin popped up on my screen. It was characteristically cold and brief: I'll be home tonight. Have a hot bath ready for me. I took a deep breath, forcing my hands to stop shaking as I typed back: We need to talk. Sitting in the back of the fire truck, I stared at my phone. The air was warm, but my body felt ice-cold. Our chat background was the only photo we had ever taken together. Scrolling up, his messages were always single words or brief commands, while mine were long paragraphs of worry and care, usually left on read. A younger firefighter patted my shoulder with a grin. "Writing another novel to your mysterious husband, Captain?" In the past, I would have made excuses for him, saying he was just a private, quiet person. But today, the words tasted like ash. He wasn't quiet. He possessed a wild, burning passion, he had just chosen to give it all to someone else. The young firefighter chuckled. "Just teasing. We all know your guy is just shy. I actually saw him on social media yesterday. He was buying a bunch of luxury men's items, like high-end massagers and designer leather belts. It's so sweet that he still spoils you after all these years of marriage." He showed me his screen, playing a short video of Austin's shopping vlog. My chest thudded painfully. Those exact luxury items, along with their expensive packaging, had been scattered all over Giselle's living room floor last night. The truck came to a halt. I leaped down, ignoring the calls of my crew behind me, and walked into my apartment. Standing in the entryway, I stared at the wall for a long time. Directly ahead hung our massive wedding portrait. That was the only thing in this apartment I had chosen. Every other piece of furniture, the cold gray walls, the minimalist decor, had been selected by Austin. It made the space feel like a sterile hotel room. I used to think he just preferred a modern aesthetic. Now, I realized he simply never viewed this place as a home. I sat in the silence for hours until the lock clicked. Austin walked in, ignoring me as usual. He headed straight to the bathroom, poking his head out a moment later. "I thought I told you to have a bath ready." In the past, even if I had just pulled a seventy-two-hour shift, I would have had his bath drawn, the fridge stocked with his favorite foods, and his clothes laid out neatly. Now, I simply rubbed my temples. "I forgot." Austin paused, glancing at my dusty uniform. "Fine. I'll let it slide this time." A moment later, he walked out of the bathroom, tossing a cheap plastic keychain onto the counter. "Brought you a souvenir from my trip." I let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Just the one?" Austin blinked, a look of smug satisfaction crossing his face. "Did you watch my vlog again?" "The other stuff was for my staff. My new show is airing soon, and I have to keep my team happy." He sat down beside me, and after a brief hesitation, he leaned in and pressed a dry kiss against the corner of my mouth. I stiffened. In public, Austin would occasionally put an arm around my shoulder for the cameras. But in private, he detested even holding my hand. The last time he had kissed me was months ago. "A new reality show wants us as guests," he said casually, though my heart only sank lower. "The producers want to capture our daily life. Especially your work as a decorated firefighter." Of course. He only touched me when he needed something. I tried to pull away from him, but he kept leaning closer, trying to play the doting husband. I took a deep breath, firmly pushing him back, and turned my face away. "I can't do the show. Austin, I want a div..." Before I could finish the word, Austin stood up abruptly, his face darkening. "Another shift call? I swear, rescuing stray cats and putting out grease fires is always more important to you than your own husband." He grabbed his jacket and marched toward the door. "Don't bother looking for me tonight. You won't be touching me anytime soon." The door slammed shut, shaking the walls, leaving the apartment entirely silent. In the past, I would have chased after him, begging for his forgiveness until he finally decided to stop punishing me. But today, I simply sat in the dark. I pulled out my phone, found his agent's contact, and sent a message: These are the divorce papers. Have him sign them. Austin had long since muted my notifications, but his agent always replied instantly. I walked through the apartment, realizing I had almost nothing of my own to pack. Finally, I stepped into the small room we had set aside as a nursery. It was the only room in the house that had any warmth, decorated during my brief pregnancy. After sitting there for a while, I grabbed my gear, threw our wedding portrait into the trash chute, and moved into the fire station barracks. Two days later, my Chief called me into his office and pushed a transfer file across the desk. "The position in the capital we talked about. I want you to seriously consider it." Shortly after I left his office, Austin's agent called me, his voice frantic. "Amber, please. You know how Austin is. He doesn't say much, but he cares about you. He actually has a private social media account where he documents your entire relationship. Just look at it, please." Curious, I hung up and opened the link he had sent. The moment the page loaded, my hands began to shake. The very first photo was taken on our bed. A woman was lying there, wearing my spare firefighter uniform. It wasn't me. I remembered when that uniform had gone missing. I had searched everywhere, eventually receiving a disciplinary write-up and a six-month reassignment to a remote station as punishment. With trembling fingers, I scrolled down. Every post was a beautiful landscape, accompanied by sweet, loving captions. In our seven years of marriage, we had never taken a single vacation together. I kept scrolling, each image a fresh knife to my chest. On our second anniversary, he was at a beach resort with Giselle. He had told me he was on set, claiming he didn't even have a signal to take my calls. On my last birthday, he was at a mountain cabin bonfire with Giselle. He had texted me that the mountains had no reception, failing to send even a simple birthday wish. And then there was New Year's Eve, the day after my miscarriage. I had sat alone in our empty apartment, finally letting myself scream and cry. I had forced myself to stay strong at the hospital because I thought he was grieving just as deeply as I was. But the photo on his private account showed him and Giselle in a luxury hotel room that very night, clinking champagne glasses. I leaned against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor of the barracks, my entire body shaking with violent, silent sobs. Every single photograph was a venomous mockery of my grief. I called his agent back. "You've changed your mind, right?" the agent asked, sounding relieved. "I haven't shown him the papers yet." "Put him on the phone," I said, my voice hoarse and raw. After a brief hesitation, Austin's voice came through the line. "I knew you'd come to your senses. This reality show is going to be great for your career too..." "Sign the papers, Austin," I cut him off, speaking slowly and deliberately. "I am completely done with you." "What are you—" I hung up, refusing to listen to another word of his voice. An instant later, the station alarm blared. "We have a structure fire! Move, move, move!" I bolted to my feet, throwing on my turnout gear. The fire engine sped through the streets, sirens wailing. When we arrived, my heart stopped. It was Giselle's apartment building. I took a deep breath, tightening my grip on my halogen tool. "Let's go," I barked to my crew. The smoke was thick and black. We navigated the burning hallway, eventually finding Giselle collapsed near a bedroom doorway. I hoisted her onto my shoulders and carried her down the smoke-filled stairwell, bursting out into the fresh air. While the crew worked to contain the flames, the safety officer reported the cause of the fire. "It started in the bedroom. A basket of adult toys left on cheap chargers overheated and ignited the mattress." I closed my eyes. Suddenly, Giselle began to scream hysterically, holding onto a paramedic. "My baby! My baby is still in there!" The crowd gasped. A sleek sports car suddenly blew past the police barricade, screeching to a halt. Austin scrambled out of the driver's seat, completely frantic. He threw himself by Giselle's side, weeping and clutching her hand with a raw agony he had never shown on any stage. I pulled my heavy visor down, blocking out the sight. My teammate turned to me. "Captain, did she say there's a child inside? The fire is spreading fast." "If there's even a slight chance, we don't leave them behind," I said. "Let's move." We charged back into the burning building. The heat was immense, searing my skin even through my heavy gear, but we searched every room. My radio crackled with the incident commander's voice: "Amber, the victim says the child is trapped under the coffee table." The coffee table? I crawled through the thick smoke to the living room, reaching under the table. My hand wrapped around something soft. It was a plush stuffed bear. "I have the target. It's just a stuffed animal," I reported into my radio. Giselle's voice shrieked through the channel: "That is our baby!" My teammate swore over the comms. "Are you kidding me?!" Before we could retreat, a massive backdraft tore through the apartment. A deafening explosion ripped through the walls, the force of the blast throwing us straight through the third-story window. I slammed onto the safety cushion below, my vision fading fast. Through my cracked visor, I saw Austin running toward me. But he didn't look at my face. He reached down, violently prying the scorched stuffed bear from my burned, blistered fingers, and ran back to comfort a weeping Giselle. "It's okay, sweetie! I have our baby!" I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me. When I finally woke up in the hospital, the muffled voice of a police officer drifted from the hallway. "Because of your false emergency report, a firefighter is currently in critical condition. You are both under investigation." Giselle's voice was defiant. "After my miscarriage, my husband and I treated that bear as our child. Is it a crime to love our baby?" Then came Austin's voice. "We were legally married abroad. She signed my medical consent forms as my wife. It was a stressful situation, officer." My mind reeled. Seven years ago, on the day we were supposed to get our marriage license, an emergency call had pulled me away. Austin had gone alone, bringing back two marriage certificates that he kept locked in his desk, claiming they were safe. Our marriage was a lie. It had been fake from the very beginning. I drifted back into unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes again, Austin was sitting by my bed, his brow furrowed. "You're finally awake. You've been out for three days." An elderly patient in the neighboring bed smiled. "Your husband is so sweet, dear. He's been here every day, watching over you." Austin didn't correct her, reaching out to adjust my pillows. I turned my head away, avoiding his touch. His hand froze in midair. The doctor walked in, checking my vitals and asking how I felt. "How is my teammate?" I managed to ask, my throat burning. "He's stable," the doctor said, "but he has a long road of physical therapy ahead." Austin frowned, his tone annoyed. "You should worry about yourself first, Amber. Stop focusing on people who don't matter." "You're right," I whispered, my voice flat. "Because of people who don't matter, my friend almost lost his life." Austin stared at me, speechless. Over the next few days, he came to the hospital every afternoon. But no matter what he said, I simply closed my eyes and ignored him. On the day of my release, I snatched my bag from his hand. He finally snapped, his frustration boiling over. "I made one thoughtless comment, and you've been giving me the cold shoulder for days? And what is this nonsense about divorce papers? Just because of some stupid argument?" "You've got it wrong," I said coldly. Before he could respond, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then looked back at me, trying to appear charming. "Go home and wait for me, okay? I'll make it up to you tonight. I promise." He gave me a wink and rushed out to answer his call. I carried my bag down to the lobby and got into my Chief's waiting car. "Have you sorted things out with your family about the promotion to the capital?" the Chief asked gently. I pulled out an envelope containing my savings card and handed it to him. "I don't have a family anymore." "Please give this to my teammate's wife to help cover his physical therapy." I pulled out my phone and opened a chat with a investigative journalist who had been trying to interview me for months. I attached a compressed folder. Inside was a screen recording of Austin's private account, the station's call logs, and the complete, unedited footage from my helmet camera on the night of the lock assist. Firefighters' body cams record everything. It captured the entire sequence: Giselle drugging me, their conversations in the bedroom, and their confessions in the hospital corridor. As the car pulled into the airport terminal, my finger pressed send. By the time my flight took off, the internet was already beginning to burn.
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