He Set the Trap, I Lit the Match

"How long did you think you could keep this from me?"

I slammed the stack of printed photos down on the counter.

The images captured the backs of a man and a woman, locked in a fervent embrace in a hotel hallway. Even from just a glimpse of a profile, I’d know that man anywhere. It was Vance, my husband of five years.

And the woman... was my half-sister, Gemma.

Gemma sat frozen on the barstool, all the color draining from her face.

"Daphne... let me explain, it’s a misunderstanding." Her fingers gripped the rim of her coffee mug for dear life.

"A misunderstanding?" I let out a cold laugh. Planting both hands heavily on the countertop, I leaned in. "You’re wearing my dress, sleeping with my husband, and you have the nerve to call it a misunderstanding?"

My heart was pounding furiously against my ribs.

Memories from last night flooded my mind like a surging tide.

Eleven o'clock. Seattle was caught in a torrential downpour. I had tailed Vance’s car all the way to that abandoned cabin by Black Pine Lake on the outskirts of the city. I knew it was his secret go-to spot. I saw his car parked out front, and I saw the faint glow of light bleeding through the cabin's dusty windows.

In that moment, the years of suppressed humiliation and betrayal completely shattered my sanity.

I hauled a half-empty jerrycan of gasoline from my trunk, crept around to the back door, and doused the dry wooden panels and steps in the foul-smelling liquid.

I struck a match.

With a loud whoosh, the flames erupted into the night sky.

Miraculously, the rain stopped.

I watched the inferno swallow the cabin whole, listening to the sharp, satisfying crackle of splintering wood. I didn't hear a single scream. Maybe he was fast asleep. Maybe the smoke had already suffocated him. All I knew was that in that moment, a profound, unprecedented peace washed over me.

I had killed him. I had personally ended this hypocritical sham of a marriage.

"Sis, please," Gemma sobbed, jolting me back to the present.

She stood up, reaching out to grasp my hand. "Vance told me he fell out of love with you a long time ago. Your marriage is nothing but a hollow shell..."

"Shut up!" I snapped, yanking my hand away.

Right then, the electronic keypad at the front door beeped in a familiar sequence.

"Daphne? What's Gemma doing here so early?"

That achingly familiar male voice echoed from the end of the hallway.

My body went completely rigid as I turned back.

Vance. He was wearing his dark gray cashmere overcoat, carrying a briefcase in one hand, loosening his tie with the other as he strolled into the kitchen. His hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep.

But he was perfectly intact.

He was alive. He was completely, impossibly alive.

I stared at him, my eyes dragging from his face down to his chest, and then to his shoes.

No burns. No soot. Not a single trace of smoke. He was the picture of an ordinary husband, just getting home after pulling an all-nighter at the office.

"What’s wrong with you? You look awful."

Vance walked over and reached out, trying to touch my cheek.

I recoiled violently, as if electrocuted, my back slamming hard against the refrigerator door.

"Where... where were you last night?" I heard my own voice trembling.

"I texted you, didn't I? We had a last-minute M&A deal. I was stuck at the office all night." He frowned, his gaze drifting over the spread of photos on the kitchen island.

His eyes flickered for a fraction of a second, but he instantly regained his composure. He tipped his chin toward Gemma, his tone freezing over. "What are you doing here?"

Gemma shot him a look, then looked at me. Covering her face with her hands, she snatched up her purse and bolted for the door.

And then, it was just the two of us in the kitchen.

Vance let out a heavy sigh, methodically swept the photos together, and tossed them into the trash can.

"Daphne, we can talk about this. But first, I need a shower."

He turned and headed up the stairs.

I slumped against the fridge, my legs turning to jelly. A cold sweat plastered my silk nightgown to my spine.

If Vance was at the office last night... If he was never at that cabin...

Then who exactly had I burned to ashes with my own hands?