Chapter 44:
Arson “You’re not serious, right?”
I ask, trying to mask the rising tide of dread, hoping against hope that this was just some misguided joke. But then she shakes her head with a sorrowful expression, extending her phone toward me as if offering a cursed artifact. **AVA SHARP’S HOUSE BURNS DOWN HOURS AFTER SHE REVEALS HER IDENTITY AS HOPE FOUNDATION’S FOUNDER.** I read the headline and then read it again, each word hitting me like a cold wave, as denial battles reality. But scrolling further down, I feel the unmistakable truth of my worst fear: the chaotic footage of flames devouring my home draws me in like a siren’s call. My heart thrashes violently within my chest. It can’t be. I put Mary’s phone down, my hand trembling, and surge to my feet, urgency propelling me out of the room. “Ava, wait!” Mary’s voice fades into an echo as I burst through the door, a mind filled with a single, frantic thought. I rush toward my car, my breaths quickening. Inside, I accelerate out of the parking lot, barely registering Mary's frantic attempts to stop me as I speed away. A storm of panic and rage brews in my mind. Did I leave the stove on? Did I neglect some small detail that set this all in motion? The memories are a blur, leaving no answers. My phone buzzes incessantly—Rowan’s name flashes on the screen. I dismiss it. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with him now. The calls from Ethan, Letty, Travis, and even my mother pile up, but I ignore them all; I just need to get home. A man on the street shouts, “Watch where you’re going!” and I narrowly miss him as I make a sharp turn. “Sorry!” I yell, but he’s already lost in his tirade. Twenty minutes feel like an eternity as I finally reach my neighborhood. The sight before me steals my breath—the aftermath of chaos is everywhere. Civilians stand around in shock, police cars line the street, and a fire truck is valiantly battling the raging inferno that was once my home. I step out of my car, walking slowly, shock anchoring my feet to the ground. Flames lick hungrily at the structure, devouring the memories woven into its very walls. This was our sanctuary, Noah’s and mine, a cocoon of love and laughter. Tears prick at my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. Why, oh why, is this happening to me again? Haven't I endured enough? “Ava.” The deep resonance of Rowan’s voice breaks through the haze. I turn, and find him standing behind me, concern etched on his face. I detest how much that look pains me. “What are you doing here?” I demand, hastily wiping away the moisture from my cheeks. At least no other homes have been affected, a small relief amidst the devastation. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else suffering because of my misfortune. “You weren’t answering your phone,” he replies softly, stepping closer. My stomach churns at the closeness. I ache for a moment of solace, a warm embrace, but I know better than to expect that from him now. “I’m fine,” I echo hollowly, casting one last glance at the charred remains of what was once my sanctuary. There’s nothing I can do here. I turn to leave, my feet moving swiftly, desperate to escape everything. But as I walk away, I hear him follow. I’m homeless, and I need to focus on organizing my life instead of reliving memories. I slide into my car, convinced I’ve lost him, only to feel the weight of his presence as he flings open the passenger door, settling in without invitation. “What in the world are you doing?” I screech incredulously. “You’re in an emotional state, and there’s no way in hell I’m letting you be alone,” he responds, fastening his seatbelt with the casual confidence of someone who simply won’t be denied. “Get out,” I snap, firmly. He returns my ire with an icy stare. “It’s either you start driving, or we sit here all day—your choice.” We lock eyes in a battle of wills that seems to stretch on for ages. Eventually, the reality of my momentary solitude beats me down, and I give in with an exasperated sigh. “What about your car?” I ask, starting the ignition. I can’t fathom leaving his vehicle behind; he must have someone drive him, an assistant perhaps. “Dennis can take care of it. I’ll call him when I need a ride,” he mutters, just as I gear up to back out. “Home… I don’t have one anymore,” I whisper, a deep heaviness settling in my chest. “It’s going to be okay,” he says, yet the uncertainty behind his tone tells me he’s not convinced. “Is it?” I retort, my voice shaking with doubt. Something deep within me whispers that this is only the beginning of my trials. I reach for my phone, dialing my real estate agent. He picks up almost immediately. “I’m so sorry, Ava. I saw what happened,” he says, the pitch of his voice a mixture of sympathy and concern. “It’s fine,” I manage to reply, forcing practicality to the forefront. “Please tell me you have something available for me. Anything at all. I can’t stay in a hotel for an indefinite period.” “It’s a bit of a surprise, but I do have one property that I think will suit you perfectly,” he replies, relief flooding over me. “Fantastic. Please send me the address right away; I want to see it,” I urge, heart racing with hope. Once the call is done, Rowan’s voice cuts through the air, startling me from my thoughts. “You realize you qualify for properties I own, don’t you? You could have just picked one.” I blink at him, incredulity sweeping over me. Truly, has he learned nothing? “No thanks. I can manage to buy my own house, and I certainly don’t need your help or handouts,” I retort sharply. He mutters something under his breath, too quiet for me to catch, breaking the tense silence settling between us. “How have you actually managed to piece together your wealth?” he asks suddenly, picking at the seams of my resolve. “Wasn’t your father cutting you out of his will?” Initially, I contemplate dismissing him. But beneath the surface, I sense his genuine curiosity and the desire to keep me distracted from the turmoil swirling within. So, I relent. “I knew our marriage wouldn’t withstand the pressure. It was inevitable—either I’d cave and file for divorce or you would. I always felt it would be you,” I begin, frustration seeping through my words as his name slips out. A deep breath escapes me. I don’t know what transpired between them after I’d left, but it hardly mattered now. “All I wanted was for Noah to continue enjoying the life he was accustomed to, and I didn’t want a penny from you but what belonged to him. A few years into the marriage, I invested every last dime into a start-up,” I continue, fondly recalling the risks I took. “The bank warned me it was a gamble; they were sure I would lose everything. But Tom’s Logistics flourished and became a success, proving them wrong,” I smile ruefully. “I became a silent partner and started gaining from my shares, which felt brilliant. I took a part-time business course to better understand management, and from there, I began investing in startups that needed cash. I became their lifeline, and in return, I ensured they had potential.” I take a glance at him, gauging his reaction. He appears genuinely impressed. “And you sustained this for more than five years?” he muses quietly, a hint of admiration lacing his tone. “Yes... I remember when I made my first million; it was exhilarating. I wanted to share it with you, to show you that I wasn’t just a nobody,” my mind drifts back to that day, a bittersweet recollection now permanently etched in the fabric of my memories. “I waited for you that evening, bursting with pride. When you walked in the next morning, I couldn’t contain it. I sat next to you and revealed my achievement.” I pause, my throat tightening. The sting of rejection springs forth as if it were yesterday. “Instead of being the supportive partner I hoped you’d be, you turned away coldly and dismissed me. You told me that my success did not matter, that I could drop dead right there and then, and it wouldn’t bother you in the slightest. Instead of ruining your morning, I’d be better off pestering someone else,” I force the words out, understanding the impact that silence left between us. The silence in the car is palpable as my bitterness lingers in the air, uninvited. I see his throat tighten as he swallows. “Ava…” he begins, but I cut him off. “That conversation silenced me. I learned that my life didn’t matter to you. From that day on, I decided to keep everything to myself. Your rejection left an imprint, and although it still stings, I’m gradually learning to cope.” An uncomfortable quiet envelops us once again, a dense fog that feels both suffocating and necessary. I decide to turn on the radio just as his phone chimes. He picks it up, engaging in a swift conversation. “Yes, I’m here with her now,” he replies after pausing to listen, before adding, “Sure, we’ll be there shortly.” When he hangs up, his gaze is sharp, intent. “The chief wants to see you at the police station.” “Why?” “It’s concerning the fire. He wants us both before he heads to an important meeting, so we’ll need to postpone your house viewing,” he explains. Before I think about it, I spin my car around, heading toward the station. “Why him?” “Because I have a vested interest in this case,” he replies, the finality in his words ringing through the air. “I don’t want or need your involvement. Please, just stay out of my life!” I groan in frustration. The intricacies of our past should have been buried by now. “You’re Noah’s mother. There’s no way I’m sitting on the sidelines while someone is targeting you,” he asserts, unyielding. It’s not a long drive, and as we reach the station, there’s no time for tension; he bolted from the car before I even get out. I trail behind, matching his pace until we reach the chief's office. “Have a seat,” the chief motions us in, his expression grave. “What have you found?” Rowan asks immediately, his demeanor shifting to professional. “There’s no easy way to say this,” the chief begins, sparing no words. “We’re classifying the fire as arson.” I hear his words, but they seem distant, as though spoken through a veil. “What do you mean?” I ask slowly; my voice trembles, disbelief coloring my tone. “I mean someone intentionally set your house ablaze,” he pauses, allowing the weight of his statement to settle. “We suspect whoever did this believed you were inside and intended to kill you.” Cold dread washes over me, stealing my breath. My mind races—if it hadn’t been for that morning meeting with Mary, I would have been inside, trapped in a fiery tomb. Once again, I’ve managed to escape death, but how many more times can I outrun this darkness before it finally consumes me?