Chapter 2 - The Woman He ChosePreston Hale carried Vanessa Cole through the front doors of Hawthorne Estate at 8:23 p.m.
And he walked away carrying another woman.
Three days later, someone handed him my death certificate.
That was when Preston Hale finally understood what his choice had cost him.
What he didn’t know was that I was still alive.
Barely.
And from behind a hospital window, I watched the man who had promised to protect me collapse to his knees.
My name is Tara Bennett.
Until that Saturday night, I believed Preston Hale was the safest person in my world.
He had been a firefighter for eleven years. He had pulled children from burning apartments, crawled beneath collapsing roofs, and once spent six weeks recovering from smoke inhalation after refusing to leave an elderly man trapped inside a warehouse.
People in Denver called him a hero.
I did too.
That was probably my first mistake.
Our wedding reception was being held at Hawthorne Estate, an enormous century-old mansion forty minutes outside Denver. The place had dark oak halls, sweeping staircases, stained-glass windows, and enough white roses to make the entire building smell like summer.
I had married Preston three hours earlier beneath an outdoor arch overlooking the mountains.
By seven thirty, I was officially Mrs. Hale.
By eight fifteen, my marriage was already burning around me.
I had gone upstairs to change my shoes.
My heels were killing me, and my maid of honor, Jessie, had disappeared downstairs to find my silver flats.
I was alone in the bridal dressing room when the fire alarm began screaming.
At first, I almost laughed.
Somebody had probably burned something in the kitchen.
Then smoke appeared beneath the door.
Thick.
Black.
Fast.
I grabbed the handle.
Locked.
I twisted it again.
Nothing.
“Hello?”
I pounded against the wood.
“Is somebody out there?”
The lights flickered.
Then went out.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“PRESTON!”
I hit the door with both fists.
“PRESTON!”
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
A man shouted.
Then I heard his voice.
“Tara!”
Relief nearly dropped me to my knees.
“Preston! I’m locked in!”
“I’m here!”
I pressed both hands against the door.
Smoke was already filling the room.
“Please hurry!”
Something crashed outside.
Then a woman screamed.
Not me.
Another woman.
“Preston!”
I knew that voice.
Vanessa Cole.
A paramedic who worked with Preston.
The woman I had spent the past six months trying not to be suspicious of.
“Tara, stay low!” Preston shouted.
“Get me out!”
“I’m trying!”
Then Vanessa screamed again.
“Oh God! Preston, my leg!”
There was a pause.
A terrible, tiny pause.
I heard him breathing on the other side of the door.
Then I heard Vanessa sob.
“Please don’t leave me.”
My stomach turned cold despite the heat.
“Preston?”
No answer.
“PRESTON!”
“I’ll be right back,” he shouted.
Those five words would follow me for the rest of my life.
“Don’t you dare leave!”
“Tara, I have to get her out of the hallway!”
“Open this door first!”
“The frame is jammed!”
“Then break it!”
“I’ll come back!”
“PRESTON!”
His footsteps moved away.
I screamed until my throat tore.
“PRESTON, COME BACK!”
Nothing.
The smoke thickened.
I dropped to the floor, coughing.
Through the small glass panel beside the door, I saw movement in the hallway.
For one second, I thought he had returned.
Then I saw Preston.
He was carrying Vanessa.
Her arms were wrapped around his neck.
Her red bridesmaid-style evening gown hung over his arms.
And her face was buried against his chest.
He turned his head.
Our eyes met through the glass.
I will never forget that moment.
He saw me.
He saw me trapped.
He saw my hands against the window.
He saw the smoke filling the room behind me.
And still he kept walking.
I slammed my palm against the glass.
“PLEASE!”
His face twisted.
“Tara!”
Then another burst of flame exploded from the ceiling between us.
He disappeared.
I stumbled backward.
Something inside me broke long before the fire reached the room.
The man I loved had made his choice.
And it wasn’t me.
The ceiling groaned.
I crawled toward the window, but Hawthorne Estate’s second-floor bridal suite overlooked a stone courtyard almost thirty feet below.
There was no balcony.
No fire escape.
Only glass.
I grabbed a chair.
Raised it.
Swung.
The window cracked.
Again.
The chair slipped from my hands when the ceiling collapsed behind me.
Flames roared across the carpet.
My veil caught fire.
I ripped it from my hair.
My wedding dress began to smolder near the hem.
I swung the chair one final time.
The window shattered.
Cold air rushed inside.
Then the floor beneath me gave way.
For half a second, I was weightless.
Then everything disappeared.
I woke to darkness.
Somewhere far above me, men were shouting.
Water poured through broken beams.
I could not move my left leg.
I tasted blood.
And beneath the smoke and cracking wood, I heard something strange.
A cellphone ringing.
Mine.
It had fallen beside me.
I reached for it.
The screen was shattered.
One name flashed across it.
PRESTON.
I watched it ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then I turned the phone facedown.
Above me, someone yelled, “We’ve got a survivor!”
Hands reached through the wreckage.
I closed my eyes.
And the last thought I had before losing consciousness was simple.
May you like
My husband came back.
Just not soon enough.
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