Chapter 7: Tangled Vows

Eve lay in the vast bed, the silk sheets cool against her overheated skin, but sleep refused to come. Alex's hand still rested on hers, heavy with unconscious possession even in slumber. His breathing was deep and even, the steady rise and fall of a man who believed he had reclaimed what the fire had stolen. She stared at the ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

How many more nights like this before it all burns?

The locket incident replayed in her mind on an endless loop. The way Alex's golden eyes had hardened when she couldn't recall the engraving. He hadn't confronted her outright, but the distance he'd put between them tonight spoke volumes. Suspicion was a crack in the foundation, and cracks had a way of widening until the whole structure collapsed.

Her phone, hidden beneath the mattress on her side, vibrated once — a silent pulse against the box spring. Marcus. She knew it without looking. The man moved like smoke, always there when she least wanted him.

Carefully, she eased her hand from Alex's grip. He stirred but didn't wake, murmuring something low and unintelligible that sounded dangerously like *mine*. Eve slipped out of bed, grabbed a robe from the chair, and padded barefoot into the adjoining sitting room. The marble floor was ice under her feet. She welcomed the discomfort — it kept her sharp.

The message glowed on the screen: *Conservatory. 2 AM. Come alone or I send Alex the birthmark photos Sophia sent me.*

Eve's stomach clenched. She glanced at the clock — 1:47 AM. No time to think, only to act. She dressed quickly in dark leggings and a hoodie she'd smuggled in her bag, clothes that felt more like her than Sophia's designer silks.

The mansion was a sleeping beast at night. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like an accusation. She avoided the main stairs, taking the servants' passage KJ had shown her in the files. The east wing loomed at the end of the long hallway, its doors still sealed, yellow caution tape fluttering like dying moths. The smell of old smoke lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable.

The conservatory was humid and alive, ferns brushing her shoulders like reaching fingers as she slipped inside. Moonlight turned the glass walls into mirrors. Marcus waited by the central fountain, a glass of something amber in his hand. He looked every inch the predator in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal corded forearms.

"You're late," he drawled.

"I'm here. What do you want?" Eve kept her voice low, arms crossed tight over her chest.

Marcus set the glass down and circled her slowly, eyes raking over her like he was cataloging differences. "Sophia moved different. Hips swayed like she knew every man in the room wanted her. You walk like you're ready to run." He stopped inches away. "It's almost convincing. Almost."

"Get to the point."

He pulled out his phone and showed her a photo — Sophia's bare hip, the tiny crescent birthmark clear as day, Marcus's lips pressed beside it. Eve's blood turned to ice.

"I want in," he said simply. "KJ's little con has potential, but he's small time. I know Alex better than anyone. I know where the real money is hidden — offshore accounts, trusts Sophia never touched. We pressure him together. You keep warming his bed, I keep the secrets, and we all walk away rich."

Eve laughed bitterly. "You set the fire. You killed my sister. And you think I'd partner with you?"

Marcus's expression darkened. "Sophia was leaving me too. She used everyone. Including you, by the looks of it. Don't pretend you're some saint now that you're fucking her husband."

The slap came before she could stop herself. Her palm connected with his cheek, sharp in the humid silence. Marcus grabbed her wrist, yanking her close. His breath was hot against her face.

"Careful, Eve. I can end this fantasy tonight."

Footsteps. Distant, but approaching.

Marcus released her instantly, stepping back into the shadows of a palm. "Think about it. You have until the detective's little field trip tomorrow. Play nice, or I'll make sure Alex learns exactly who's been sleeping in his dead wife's place."

He vanished through a side door just as Alex's voice cut through the conservatory.

"Sophia?"

Eve spun, heart hammering. Alex stood in the entrance wearing only pajama pants, his chest bare and scarred. His golden eyes scanned the room, narrowing on her flushed face.

"What are you doing out here?"

"I couldn't sleep," she whispered, stepping toward him. "The memories — they get louder at night. I thought walking might help."

He closed the distance in three strides and pulled her against him. His skin was warm, solid. Safe, even though nothing about this was safe. "You should have woken me."

"I didn't want to bother you."

Alex tilted her chin up, studying her. "You're trembling." His thumb brushed her lower lip. "And your heart is racing."

For a terrifying second she thought he knew. Then his mouth was on hers, demanding, claiming. The kiss tasted of scotch and desperation. He backed her against a marble pillar, one hand sliding under her hoodie to palm her breast.

"Tell me what you need," he growled against her throat.

*You. Truth. A way out that doesn't destroy us both.*

Instead she said, "Make me forget again."

He did. Right there in the conservatory, surrounded by moonlit ferns and the scent of night-blooming jasmine. He took her hard and fast against the pillar, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his shoulders. Every thrust drove the lies deeper, every moan a new fracture in her soul. When she came, crying out his name — Alex, not some scripted lie — it felt dangerously real.

Afterward he carried her back to bed, whispering promises into her hair. "Whatever's coming, we face it together. I lost you once. Never again."

Eve buried her face in his chest and let the tears fall silently.

The next morning dawned gray and heavy. Detective Reyes arrived at ten sharp, accompanied by a forensics technician and a wary Lila. Alex tried one last time to stop the visit to the east wing.

"She's not ready," he said, voice edged with steel.

Reyes remained unmoved. "Memories don't wait for convenience, Mr. Voss. If there's a chance she can identify the arsonist, we need to take it."

Eve squeezed Alex's hand. "It's okay. I need to do this."

The east wing was a tomb. Charred beams, water-stained walls, the faint outline of furniture reduced to skeletons. The smell of smoke was thicker here, acrid and choking. Eve's steps faltered as they reached the master bedroom, or what remained of it.

Flashes hit her — not real memories, but vivid nightmares fed by KJ's files and her own guilt: Sophia screaming, flames climbing the curtains, a man's silhouette in the doorway.

She staggered. Alex caught her immediately.

"Enough," he snapped at Reyes. "She's done."

But Eve shook her head. "I remember arguing. With someone. Before the fire. It was bad." She looked straight at Alex. "I think I was going to leave you."

The words landed like grenades. Alex's face went pale beneath his tan. Lila sucked in a breath. Reyes watched everything with those predator eyes.

"Is that true?" Alex asked, voice dangerously quiet.

"I don't know," Eve whispered. "It's all fragments. But I felt trapped. Scared."

Marcus's words echoed in her head. *Sophia was leaving me too.*

Later, after Reyes left with more questions than answers, Alex cornered her in the library. The locket sat on the desk between them like a live grenade.

"Tell me the truth," he said. "All of it. Right now."

Eve's mind raced. Partial truth, then. The only way forward. "I'm not the same woman you married, Alex. The fire changed everything. I'm changed. And yes — Sophia, I was unhappy. The fights, the control, the way you watched me like I might disappear. I was planning to leave. But then the fire happened, and—" She let her voice break. "I don't want to leave anymore. I want this. Us. The real version."

Tears — real ones — slid down her cheeks.

Alex stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Then he crossed the room and kissed her forehead, lingering. "We start over. No more secrets. No more east wing. No more running."

But secrets had a way of multiplying.

That afternoon, KJ texted: *Meeting tonight. Bring proof of progress or I'm coming in hot.*

And Marcus sent another photo — this one of Eve and Alex in the conservatory the night before, taken from outside the glass.

*Tick tock, little impostor.*

Eve deleted both messages, but the weight of them settled in her bones. She had until tomorrow to decide whose side she was really on — KJ's, Marcus's, or the man whose bed she shared and whose heart she was breaking.

As evening fell, she stood at the window watching Alex talk to security personnel on the lawn. His broad shoulders were tense, golden eyes scanning the treeline like he could sense the wolves circling.

She loved him. God help her, she did.

And love in a house built on ashes was the most dangerous fire of all.