La Suerte Se Convierte en Cenizas, y Las Llamas Devoran el Corazón.

Prologue: Derek

Two years ago. The night before the accident.

She is asleep beside me. Nova. My wife.

Her hair spills across my chest like dark silk. Her lips are slightly parted. Her hand rests over my heart. Even in sleep, she reaches for me. Even in sleep, she trusts me.

I don't deserve her. I have never told her that out loud. But I feel it every night when the house goes quiet and my thoughts turn black.

I met her four years ago at a charity gala I did not want to attend. She was wearing a green dress and laughing at something stupid. I walked up to her and said the first lie that came to mind: I am not usually this nervous. She smiled. She believed me. That was the beginning of every lie I have told her since.

Because the truth is ugly.

The truth is that I built my company on broken promises and buried competition. Marcus was my partner. He trusted me. I took everything from him. His share. His reputation. His will to fight. He sends me texts now, late at night, from numbers I cannot trace. You don't deserve her. She will find out what you are. They always do.

I delete them before Nova wakes up. Every time.

Tonight, I do something I have never done before.

I slide out of bed slowly so the mattress does not shift. Nova murmurs something soft and turns onto her side. I stand in the dark hallway for a full minute, listening to her breathe. Then I walk to my study.

The study is my sanctuary and my prison. Behind the false panel in my desk drawer, I keep the things she must never see.

I open the panel now.

Inside is a photograph from our wedding. Luca is in the background. He is laughing, his head thrown back, his hand resting on Nova's waist. The photographer captured it by accident. Luca's fingers are curved around her hip like he belongs there. I have stared at this image a hundred times. Each time, my chest tightens with something that is not jealousy.

It is want.

Beside the photograph is a folded letter. I found it in Eli's jacket pocket three years ago when he stayed at our house after a breakup. He had written it but never sent it. The paper is soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. The handwriting is small and neat.

I met her first. You know that, right? The coffee shop on Maple Street. She spilled her drink. I helped her clean it up. She gave me her number. I lost it the same day. Then you introduced her as your girlfriend a week later. I have never told you how much that destroyed me. I will never tell her. But I need you to know. You won. But I loved her first.

I read the letter again tonight. My hands do not shake anymore. They used to.

Now I understand something Eli does not know I understand. He did not lose her number. He threw it away because he thought he was not good enough. And by the time he changed his mind, I had already claimed her.

I put the letter down. I take out my phone.

I have a draft message I wrote six months ago. It is addressed to both Luca and Eli. The words are short but they cost me everything to type.

If something happens to me, take care of her. Together.

I have never sent it. I have come close a dozen times. Tonight, my thumb hovers over the send button.

I imagine their faces when they read it. Luca's smirk fading into something serious. Eli's quiet nod. I imagine Nova between them. Luca's hands on her waist. Eli's lips on her neck. And me – watching. Wanting. Finally honest about the darkness inside me.

It is sick. I know it is sick.

I delete the message. Again.

Not because I do not mean it. Because I am a coward. Because I am afraid she would say yes. Because I am afraid she would say no and leave me forever.

I close the drawer. I lock the study door. I walk back to the bedroom.

Nova has not moved. Her hair is still spread across my pillow. Her hand is still reaching for where I used to be.

I lie down next to her. I kiss her shoulder. She stirs and whispers my name. Derek.

I close my eyes and make a promise to myself.

Tomorrow, on our drive to the coast, I will tell her the truth. Not all of it. But enough. About Marcus. About the texts. About the photograph and the letter. About the message I cannot stop writing and cannot send.

I will tell her that I am broken in ways the accident has not yet revealed.

Then she can decide if she still wants me.

The sun rises. We pack the car. She is wearing a white sundress and sunglasses. She looks like the first day I met her. I hold her hand too tight. She laughs and asks what is wrong.

I say nothing. I am a coward.

The light turns green. I am holding her hand. Singing off-key to the radio. The words to an old song I do not remember. The truth is on my tongue. I open my mouth to speak.

Then I see the semi.

Metal. Speed. The driver's face, frozen, too late.

I do not scream her name. I do not have time. I only think one thing.

I never sent the message.

The world folds in on itself.

Everything goes black.