Chapter 13: A Fire They Can't Put Out
The sun rose, but the room stayed dim. Shadows clung to the corners like ghosts unwilling to leave.
Nova hadn't slept. Neither had Bea.
They sat on the floor, backs against the wall, knees brushing. The silence between them wasn't empty—it was full. Of thoughts. Of decisions. Of the next step that would change everything.
Bea broke it first.
"We need to go after him."
Nova blinked. "You mean... find Cassian?"
Bea turned to her, fierce. "I mean we stop hiding. I mean we take control of the story he thinks he's still writing."
Nova ran a hand through her hair. "He's not just some ex. He's dangerous. He manipulates people. He knows how to break them without ever raising his voice."
Bea's eyes didn't flinch. "Then he picked the wrong girls to mess with."
There it was. That fire. That unwavering loyalty in Bea that made Nova want to cry and scream and kiss her all at once.
"But if we do this," Nova said quietly, "we burn the past. We torch everything that came before and walk through it."
"Good," Bea said. "I've always loved the smell of smoke."
Nova smiled, the first real one in days.
They spent the rest of the morning preparing.
They made a list. Not just names or places—memories.
The gallery where Cassian first saw Nova's work and tried to buy her before he loved her.
The motel off 12th Street where she spent three nights locked inside, "for her protection."
The bar downtown where Cassian's mask cracked for the first time—and Nova saw the monster behind the charm.
One by one, Bea circled them. "We confront it all."
And then there was one more thing: the journal.
Nova hesitated. "It's in the storage unit. Everything he ever wrote to me. All the letters. The threats. The... apologies."
Bea's hand found hers. "Then that's where we start."
---
That Night.
The storage unit smelled of rust and mildew. Concrete walls, a flickering overhead light, and stacks of boxes that hadn't been touched in years.
Nova's fingers trembled as she reached into the one marked "Letters — DO NOT OPEN."
She opened it anyway.
Inside were pages. Hundreds. Folded, crumpled, pristine—like fragments of a love that was never love at all.
Bea read over her shoulder, silent at first.
But then her voice broke through the stillness. "He called you mine in every single one of these. Not yours, not ours—just mine."
Nova nodded. "That was his favorite word."
Bea grabbed a letter and ripped it in half. Then another. And another.
"Burn it," she said.
They brought the box outside behind the unit. Nova hesitated only a moment.
Then she lit the first match.
The flames danced and devoured every piece of Cassian's twisted story. Every word he tried to brand into her memory turned to ash.
Nova watched, tears in her eyes—not from sadness, but from release.
"I'm not his," she said softly.
Bea stood beside her. "No. You're yours."
Then Bea did something she hadn't done since that night in the room with no clocks.
She kissed her.
Not soft.
Not shy.
But certain.
It was a kiss that said We are taking back the narrative.
A kiss that said You are not broken.
A kiss that said We burn, but we rise.
When they pulled apart, Nova smiled through the smoke.
"This is our story now."
And Bea, fierce and steady, nodded.
"Flames and all."