Chapter 3

"Ava! Ava, are you in there?!"

Mark' s voice cut through the roar of the flames. It was the exact same desperate cry I remembered, the one that had fooled me so completely the first time. He burst through the service doors, his face a perfect mask of heroic panic. He was playing the part of the distraught husband, searching for his beloved wife in the inferno.

Last time, I had run to him, sobbing with relief. This time, I stayed put, crouched behind the steel island, my eyes narrowed. I watched him through the shimmering heat and smoke.

"Ava! My God, answer me!" he yelled again, making a show of looking around frantically.

I saw a flicker of movement near the main dining room entrance. It was Chloe, trying to make a discreet exit as planned. She was supposed to be the "protégé trapped inside," the one Mark "couldn't save." Her feigned death was meant to add another layer of tragedy and sympathy to his story.

I didn't call out. I didn't move. I let the silence stretch, letting his feigned panic grow.

"Damn it, where is she?" I heard him mutter to himself, his tone shifting from performance to genuine annoyance. The plan was going off-script.

He took a step toward the kitchen, his eyes scanning the chaos. Chloe, seeing he was getting bogged down, hesitated near the doorway. That was my moment.

A heavy wooden ceiling beam above her, already groaning under the strain of the fire, was hanging by a thread. In my first life, it fell ten minutes later, long after they were both safely outside.

I grabbed a heavy fire extinguisher from its wall mount. It was heavier than I expected, but my adrenaline was a powerful fuel. With a guttural cry, I hurled it upwards at the weakened section of the ceiling right above Chloe.

It struck with a solid thud. The burnt wood splintered. With a horrific crack, the massive beam tore free and plunged downwards.

Chloe didn't even have time to scream.

The beam crashed down, pinning her legs to the floor. A real, piercing shriek of agony ripped through the air, a sound so different from the fake drama Mark was performing. It was raw and real and filled with shock and pain.

Mark froze. His head whipped around, the carefully constructed mask of the hero shattering into a thousand pieces.

"CHLOE!"

It wasn't a shout of concern for a colleague. It was a primal scream of terror and rage, the sound a man makes when his most prized possession is broken. All pretense vanished. He forgot about me entirely. He forgot his role.

He scrambled over debris, his movements frantic and clumsy. He reached her and fell to his knees, trying to heave the massive, smoldering beam off her.

"Chloe! Baby, are you okay? Talk to me!" he begged, his voice cracking with a genuine fear he had never, ever shown for me.

I chose that moment to emerge from the smoke, coughing weakly, playing the part of the dazed survivor.

"Mark?" I called out, my voice raspy.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, and the look in his eyes was not relief. It was pure, undiluted hatred. He was furious that I was alive and his real prize was injured.

I stumbled toward him, feigning disorientation. "Mark... what happened? I was in the walk-in cooler..."

He didn't answer. He was completely focused on Chloe, who was now sobbing hysterically, her leg bent at an unnatural angle beneath the heavy wood.

"Help me, you idiot!" he snarled at me, the words spitting out of his mouth like poison. "Don' t just stand there!"

I pretended to rush to help, but "tripped" over a piece of fallen drywall, collapsing to the floor a few feet away.

"I... I can' t," I gasped. "My... my head..."

With a roar of frustration, Mark shoved me roughly aside with his foot. It wasn't a nudge; it was a violent, dismissive push that sent me sprawling. He didn't even look to see if I was hurt. He turned his full attention back to his trapped mistress, his priorities laid bare for anyone to see.

Just then, the first firefighters burst through the main doors, their flashlights cutting through the smoke, illuminating the scene perfectly: the heroic husband ignoring his dazed wife to cradle his injured "protégé" under a fallen beam. The first act of my revenge was complete.