Chapter 3

Jocelyn's POV

I moved into my Brooklyn studio the morning after Ryan took Sloane to our anniversary dinner.

Two suitcases, my drafting tools, and the twelve notebooks my mother had left behind.

Everything else could stay in the apartment.

For the first two days, Ryan called every few hours. I didn't answer.

At first, his messages sounded worried.

Where are you?

Jocelyn, please call me.

By the second day, the concern had curdled.

Are you seriously doing this because I missed one dinner?

Stop being childish.

Call me before I come find you.

I read every message and put my phone face-down.

Ryan had always been good at making his cruelty sound reasonable. If he left me alone in a hospital, I was too independent. If he abandoned our anniversary, I was too sensitive. If he brought Sloane into our home, I was too jealous.

Every time he hurt me, he found a way to make me the problem.

This time, I had nothing left to explain.

My studio occupied the third floor of an old industrial building in Brooklyn. It was cramped and drafty, with the smell of sawdust, glue, and rain caught permanently in the walls.

But it was mine.

That mattered more than comfort.

On Wednesday night, I stayed late to finish the final model for the International Architecture Biennale. The project was built around my mother's philosophy: every support visible, every weakness acknowledged.

She had written those principles in the margins of her notebooks.

After she died, those twelve volumes became the only part of her I still possessed.

Outside, rain hammered the windows. Thunder shook the glass as I adjusted one of the model's load-bearing columns.

My phone rang.

Ryan.

I let it ring.

Then a message appeared.

I'm outside.

A second followed.

Open the door, Jocelyn.

Someone knocked.

I kept working.

The knock came again, harder.

"Jocelyn!" Ryan shouted through the door. "Open up."

I put down my tools and walked over.

Ryan stood beneath a dripping umbrella. Sloane was beside him, clinging to his arm. Her hair was damp, her eyes red, and one hand pressed dramatically against her chest.

Ryan looked past me into the studio.

"So this is where you've been hiding."

"I haven't been hiding."

"Then why haven't you answered?"

"Because I didn't want to talk to you."

His jaw tightened. "You moved out without telling me."

"You had my location. You knew exactly where I was."

"I thought you'd come to your senses."

Sloane tugged his sleeve. "Ryan, maybe we should go. She clearly doesn't want us here."

Her voice was soft. Her eyes were not.

They traveled over the studio, lingering on the shelves and the model on my desk.

Ryan turned to her immediately. "You didn't do anything wrong, Sloane."

I almost smiled.

She never did.

"The power went out near her building," he said, lowering his voice. "She's scared of storms. I brought her here to wait it out."

"This is my workplace."

"It's still better than leaving her alone."

"Then take her to a hotel."

Sloane's eyes filled with tears. "I knew I shouldn't have come. I didn't want to cause trouble between you."

"You're not causing anything," Ryan said quickly.

Then he looked at me.

"Jocelyn, can you stop punishing everyone over one missed dinner?"

"One dinner?"

"Yes. One dinner. I explained the situation."

"You took her to the restaurant I waited three months to get into."

"Her cat died."

"And apparently that made her more important than our fifth anniversary."

Sloane flinched. "I said I was sorry."

"No. You posted a picture."

The color drained from her face.

Ryan stepped between us. "That's enough."

"You came here to apologize?"

"I came to bring you home."

"Why?"

"Because you're my fiancée."

"You remembered that?"

His eyes flashed. "You're being cruel."

"To Sloane?"

"To me."

For a second, I saw the man I had loved. The man who once promised I would never have to face anything alone.

Then Sloane coughed softly and leaned against his shoulder.

Ryan turned away from me at once.

"She needs to sit down."

"Fine," I said. "Stay. I'm working. Don't touch anything."

I put on my headphones and returned to the model.

Behind me, Ryan's voice dropped low and soothing. Comforting her, probably.

I didn't care enough to listen.

Thirty minutes later, a sharp smell cut through the headphones.

Burning plastic.

I spun around.

The kitchenette was engulfed in flames. Fire raced from the microwave to the curtains and climbed the dry wooden beams.

Smoke rolled across the ceiling in thick black waves.

Sloane screamed. "Ryan!"

She stumbled backward and hit the floor.

"My ankle! I can't stand!"

"Jesus Christ!" Ryan lunged toward her. "Sloane, get up!"

"I can't! Don't leave me!"

I was already running for the shelves.

"My mother's notebooks!"

Ryan whipped around. "Jocelyn, forget them! Get out now!"

"They're all I have left of her!"

"God damn it, move!"

The ceiling cracked.

A burning beam crashed down. Its edge caught my left arm and threw me to the floor.

Pain exploded through me.

I looked up at Ryan.

"Help me."

He took one step forward.

Then Sloane sobbed behind him.

"Ryan, please! I'm scared! I can't move!"

He stopped.

His eyes moved from my bleeding arm to her face. I watched him make the calculation.

She couldn't walk.

I still could.

"You can crawl out!" he shouted over the roar of the fire. "The beam hasn't blocked the door!"

"My arm is crushed!"

"It's not crushed! You can move it! Go!"

"Ryan, please—"

Sloane screamed again.

That was all it took.

"She can't walk," he said. "I have to get her out first. Follow us."

He turned away, scooped Sloane into his arms, and carried her toward the door.

She wrapped herself around his neck and pressed her face to his shoulder.

Just before the smoke swallowed them, she looked back at me.

Her tears were gone.

A faint smile curved her lips.

Then they disappeared.

The flames reached the shelves.

One notebook caught fire.

Then another.

My mother's handwriting curled black at the edges and vanished. Twelve volumes. Twenty years of her thoughts.

Gone in less than a minute.

Something inside me went with them.

Not broken.

Finished.

I crawled through the smoke, past the beam and toward the exit. I dragged my injured arm behind me, forcing myself forward each time the heat made my body want to stop.

I don't remember reaching the street.

Rain struck my face as I collapsed in the mud. Sirens tore through the dark.

Across the street, Ryan had draped his jacket over Sloane. He was shouting at the paramedics.

"Her ankle may be broken! She was trapped inside! Please, check her first!"

He never turned around.

A firefighter found me near the entrance.

"Another victim!" he yelled. "Serious burn!"

The paramedics carried me into a second ambulance. The doors swung shut behind me.

Through the rain-streaked window, I could see Ryan crouched beside Sloane, holding her hand.

His entire body was angled toward her.

Terrified for her.

He never looked back.

"Miss, stay with me." The paramedic's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. "Your arm needs treatment right now."

"I'm fine."

With my right hand, I worked the Cartier ring off my finger.

Blood and ash covered the diamond.

I lowered the window and dropped it into the gutter.

Then I reached for the paramedic's phone.

Ethan picked up on the second ring.

"It's Jocelyn," I said. "The Seattle project. I'm taking it."

There was a brief pause.

"When?"

I watched Ryan's figure blur in the rain until it disappeared completely.

"As soon as possible."