On Our Anniversary, He Lit Fireworks for His First Love

New Year's Eve. The whole city was waiting for the firework show called Phoenix Courtship. Oscar Delgado had spent three hundred million dollars commissioning it—a celebration of our fifth wedding anniversary, designed entirely by my hand. I'd planned to tell him about the pregnancy at the exact moment the sky caught fire. But when the fireworks launched and the heavens erupted in color, the drones spelled out something else entirely: [Wishing Summer peace, year after year.] The crowd roared. The pregnancy test in my hand bent under the pressure of my grip. Oscar's arm was around my waist, his fingers gently brushing the snow from my hair—while his mouth delivered the cruelest words I'd ever heard: "Summer just got back to the country. Think of it as a welcome-home gift. You're an artist too, Dora Henson—surely you're not that petty?" I stared into those deep, tender eyes of his, and a single thought crystallized. All those fireworks blazing across the sky looked exactly like a funeral arranged just for me. —— The wind off the river cut like a blade. I stood on the best viewing platform in the city, draped in Oscar Delgado's expensive cashmere coat. It still carried his signature scent—cold cedar, clean and sharp. Once, that smell had meant safety. Now all I could detect beneath it was a cloying sweetness that didn't belong to me. Summer Fox's favorite perfume. Mon Paris. "Cold?" Oscar's hands were warm. They slid around my waist from behind, his chin settling into the curve of my shoulder. To everyone watching, we were the most enviable couple in the elite circle. Oscar Delgado, head of the Delgado Group, a man who worshipped his wife. To pamper me—and to promote the art of heritage pyrotechnics—he'd spent a fortune reserving the entire riverfront. I said nothing. I just stared at the dark sky in the distance. "Dora, why so quiet?" His warm lips grazed my earlobe, coaxing. "Tonight's Phoenix Courtship is the formula you spent six months perfecting. It's about to start. Be happy." Happy? The corner of my mouth twitched. My hands were buried in the coat pockets, fingernails digging into the pregnancy test with its two unmistakable red lines. "Oscar." My voice came out hoarse. "These fireworks—are they really for me?" He stiffened for a fraction of a second, then let out a low chuckle. He turned me around to face him. His dark eyes reflected my face back at me. "Don't be silly. If not for you, then who?" One long finger traced down the bridge of my nose. "You're Mrs. Delgado. You're the finest firework designer in the world. Tonight, you're the star." The words had barely left his lips. Boom. The first shell rocketed skyward. Golden flame split the darkness wide open—a phoenix spreading its wings, savage and magnificent. The crowd gasped as one. Oscar pulled me closer, tighter, like he was showing off his most prized possession. Then hundreds of drones rose into the air. The grand finale. The crowning moment. According to the final design I'd approved, they were supposed to form our initials—mine and Oscar's—along with the words Happy 5th Anniversary. I looked up. My breath stopped. The drones shifted formation beneath the phoenix's blazing wings and slowly, deliberately, spelled out seven words: The cheering around us swelled even louder. Someone squealed about how romantic it was. Only I felt every drop of blood in my body turn to ice. I could even feel it—Oscar's body, pressed against mine, going rigid for one telling instant. But he didn't let go. If anything, he held on tighter. As if afraid I'd bolt. As if afraid I'd make a scene. "Oscar!" A bright, girlish voice shattered the silence between us. Summer Fox appeared at the top of the viewing platform in a white designer puffer, a sparkler clutched in her hand, breathless and doe-eyed—like a fawn that had wandered into the mortal world by mistake.