The Old Fires Glow, But Old Souls Never Return

From the back cover

I’d just boarded an international flight, my body still aching from an abortion hours earlier, when my phone buzzed. A notification from Marcus, my billionaire husband.

He’d sent fifty-two dollars.

“Serena forgot your sister’s surgery fees,” his message read. “This covers it. Your oversight. Next time, clear expenses over two hundred with Serena.”

“No reply? Don’t think carrying my child gives you free rein. Tomorrow, state publicly your sister’s crisis wasn’t Serena’s fault. Delaying surgery a few days—what’s the harm?”

I stared, hollow, then shut off the screen and leaned against the cold window. Seconds later, my phone erupted—relentless calls and texts.

“Where are you? Pick up, or I’ll have your paralytic sister thrown out!”

When silence answered, Marcus panicked. He raced to the care facility; my sister was the anchor that kept me tethered. Bursting into her room, he found an empty bed. Grabbing a nurse, his voice shook: “Where is she?”

The nurse blinked. “You didn’t know? Critical last night. Family couldn’t raise funds in time. She’s dead.”

Marcus froze, blood draining from his face. Then he remembered: five days ago, my sister crashed. I begged for three hundred thousand. His secretary Serena hid the request. When he chose her over us—and I said I wanted a divorce—I meant every word.

…