Ashes to Phoenix: A Love Reborn

I pulled my fiancé from a car wreck just seconds before it exploded. The fire left my back covered in hideous scars, but I saved his life. For the four years he was in a coma, I gave up everything to be his caretaker.

Six months after he woke up, he stood on stage at his comeback press conference. He was supposed to thank me. Instead, he made a grand, romantic declaration to Estelle, his childhood sweetheart, who was smiling from the audience.

His family and Estelle then made my life a living hell. They humiliated me at a gala, ripping my dress to expose my scars. When I was beaten in an alley by thugs Estelle hired, Julian accused me of making it up to get attention.

I lay in a hospital bed, bruised and broken, while he rushed to Estelle's side because she was "scared." I overheard him tell her he loved her and that I, his fiancée, didn't matter.

All my sacrifice, my pain, my unwavering love-it meant nothing. To him, I was just a debt he had to repay out of pity.

On our wedding day, he kicked me out of the limo and left me on the side of the highway, still in my gown, because Estelle faked a stomach ache.

I watched his car disappear. Then I hailed a taxi.

"The airport," I said. "And step on it."

Chapter 1

Ember' s hand rested on Julian' s arm, a small, steady pressure in the vibrating darkness of the car.

"You don' t have to do this, Julian."

He stared straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel of his custom McLaren. The city lights streaked past them, a blur of neon and ambition.

"I have to, Em. Everyone' s watching."

His voice was tight. This wasn' t about the thrill of the race. It was about reclaiming his throne. Julian Copeland, the heir to New York' s financial empire, had to prove he was back.

The engine roared, a deep-throated promise of power. Up ahead, another car, a sleek, black Ferrari, idled at the informal starting line. Estelle Murphy was behind the wheel. She revved her engine, a direct challenge, and shot him a look through her open window-a mix of seduction and mockery.

That look was all it took.

Julian floored it. The McLaren leaped forward, pressing Ember back into her leather seat. The world dissolved into a tunnel of speed and noise. He was a brilliant driver, reckless but skilled.

Then, Estelle' s Ferrari swerved, a sharp, deliberate move. It clipped their rear wheel.

The world spun. Metal shrieked against asphalt. Ember' s side of the car slammed into a concrete barrier, the sound a deafening finality.

She watched, in slow motion, as the engine block caught fire. Flames licked at the crumpled hood. Julian was unconscious, slumped over the wheel, blood trickling from his temple.

Panic gave way to a cold, single-minded purpose. Her own body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. She unbuckled him, then herself. The fire was getting hotter, the smell of burning fuel thick in the air.

She dragged him, a dead weight, out of the driver' s side. Just as they cleared the wreckage, the car exploded. The force threw them forward, and a wave of heat washed over her back. The pain was immediate, searing, a fire that consumed her skin and her future.

Her last thought before she blacked out was his name.

Julian.

For four years, that name was her entire world. He was in a coma, a beautiful, broken doll in a sterile white room. The Copeland family paid for the best care, but it was Ember who was there day and night.

She gave up everything. Her promising art career, her friends, her inheritance from her "new money" family that the Copelands so despised. She learned to change his IV drips, to talk to him for hours about a world he couldn't see, to ignore the pitying stares at the disfiguring burn scars that snaked across her back and up her neck, a permanent reminder of her sacrifice.

Then, one day, he woke up.

And now, six months later, he was standing on a stage, back in a tailored suit, the king returned to his kingdom. A live broadcast was streaming his first public address since his recovery.

Ember stood at the side of the stage, her heart pounding. She wore a high-collared dress to hide the worst of the scars. This was supposed to be her moment, too. The moment he officially thanked the woman who saved him, the woman he promised to marry.

Julian was magnetic, holding the audience of reporters and investors in his palm. "My return wouldn' t have been possible without the unwavering support of one person," he said, his voice resonating with emotion.

He paused, and his eyes scanned the crowd. For a second, Ember thought he was looking for her. But his gaze went past her, settling on someone in the back.

Estelle Murphy. Standing there in a dazzling red dress, a picture of perfect, undamaged beauty.

"There was a promise made a long time ago, under a sky full of stars at the Hamptons. A promise to always come back, no matter what."

The words hit Ember with the force of a physical blow. That wasn't their memory. It was his and Estelle' s. A story he' d once told her about his first love.

She understood. This grand, public declaration wasn't for her. It was for Estelle.

A wave of nausea washed over her. Her four years of devotion, of pain, of sacrifice...what was she? A placeholder? A nurse he felt indebted to?

The crowd erupted in applause, misinterpreting his words as a romantic tribute to his dedicated fiancée. They turned to smile at her, their faces full of admiration. Their congratulations felt like acid.

Her vision blurred. The bright lights of the stage seemed to mock her, illuminating her scars, her foolishness. She could feel the rough texture of the scar tissue under her dress, a permanent brand of her one-sided love.

Four years. Four years she had held his hand, whispering encouragement, believing his silent presence was a promise. She' d sold her own company shares to pay for experimental treatments when the Copeland family' s doctors had given up. She' d fought with his father, Carlo, a cold man who saw her only as a necessary investment to save his heir.

When Julian woke up, his first words to her were, "I' ll marry you, Ember. I owe you my life."

He owed her. He never said he loved her.

The realization was a cold, sharp clarity that cut through the fog of her devotion. He had never loved her. It was all gratitude, a debt he felt obligated to pay.

The room started to spin. She had to get out. She turned and stumbled toward the exit, her legs unsteady.

Julian saw her leaving. He finished his speech, his brow furrowed in confusion. He found her in the hallway, leaning against a wall for support.

"Ember? Are you okay? I was just coming to find you."

She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not the man she loved, but a stranger. An emotionally blind boy in a man' s body.

"Why did you say that? About the Hamptons?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I... it just came out. Estelle was there. I felt..."

He didn' t finish. He didn' t have to.

Just then, Estelle herself glided over, her expression a mask of innocent concern. "Julian, darling. That was a beautiful speech. And Ember, you look... tired. All this must be so overwhelming for you."

Julian' s attention snapped to Estelle, his body physically turning away from Ember.

"Are you okay, Stel?"

"I... I don' t know," Estelle whispered, her eyes welling up with tears. "My driver... he just left me. I don' t know how I' m going to get home. My apartment has a gas leak, I can' t stay there tonight."

It was so obviously fake, so transparently manipulative. But Julian bought it completely.

"Don' t worry. I' ll take you. I' ll get you a suite at The Plaza." He turned to Ember, his tone dismissive. "Ember, you take the car home. I have to handle this."

He didn' t even wait for her reply. He put his arm around Estelle' s shoulders and guided her down the hall, leaving Ember standing there alone.

The pain she expected didn't come. In its place was a strange, hollow calm. A sense of release.

It was over. The hope she had clung to for four years had finally, mercifully, died.

She didn't take the car. She walked home, the cold night air a balm on her hot cheeks. In her apartment, she opened her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing "humanitarian medical missions Africa."

She filled out an application for Doctors Without Borders, listing her old pre-med qualifications and her experience as a long-term caretaker.

An hour later, an email landed in her inbox. It was an acceptance.

Her departure date was set for three weeks from now. The same day she was supposed to marry Julian Copeland.