Chapter Thirteen — Smoke Before the Vows
Hazel moved into Henry's penthouse on a rainy Wednesday. There was no grand speech, no boxes, no labels. Just her — standing in the doorway with an overnight bag and a heart she was finally willing to hand over.
He didn't ask her to stay.
He opened the door and said, "It's yours now too."
And that was enough.
She learned quickly that Henry wasn't used to softness.
He kept a toothbrush for her, but didn't know where to put her clothes.
He'd order five kinds of milk because he wasn't sure what she liked.
He let her take over the empty library, just because she said she liked the way the light fell there in the mornings.
She left a single hair tie on the bathroom counter and found it the next day, tucked gently inside a drawer — like it mattered.
It was new.
Tentative.
But real.
They didn't talk about love yet.
They didn't need to.
But one night, as they lay in bed and Hazel traced his ribs with her fingertips, he said quietly, "What if I asked you to marry me?"
Hazel blinked.
"You're not asking," she whispered.
"Not yet." His voice was raw. "But I'm close."
Her smile was small, tired, but fierce. "Then ask when you're sure I won't say no."
He kissed her shoulder, and the room went still.
Somewhere across the city, Ava sat in a dim apartment, watching the ceiling fan spin like a broken compass.
She was unraveling — slowly, deliberately.
The pregnancy was real.
The father? A washed-up DJ who hadn't answered her texts in weeks.
But that didn't matter.
She'd already planted the seed of doubt in Hazel's mind. And when lies grow in love, they bloom like rot.
She picked up her phone and dialed.
"Henry won't marry her," she said into the silence. "Not when I'm still here."
Back in the penthouse, Hazel was holding a wedding magazine she hadn't meant to buy.
It lay open on her lap like a quiet confession.
Henry noticed. Said nothing. Just wrapped his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder.
"Planning already?" he asked.
"Maybe."
"Do you want big or small?"
She thought for a long moment. "Private. But beautiful. Like it doesn't need to be loud to be unforgettable."
He kissed the side of her neck. "Sounds like you."
Hazel closed the magazine. "And if she shows up again?"
"We bury her lies with truth."
"You're sure?"
"I have the footage. The lawyers. The proof. Ava's just a ghost now."
Hazel turned to him. "Some ghosts don't leave unless you burn the whole house down."
Henry smiled faintly. "Then let's light the match."
That night, he pulled out a black velvet box.
Didn't open it.
Didn't offer it.
Just placed it on her bedside table.
"Whenever you're ready," he said.
Hazel stared at it like it was alive.
And suddenly, for the first time in months, she dreamed of a future that didn't taste like guilt.
Outside, the sky cracked open with thunder.
And somewhere in the city's bones, Ava Monroe lit her own match.
The kind that doesn't warm — only destroys.