Then she smelled it.
Smoke.
Not the warm, comforting scent of baking. This was acrid. Chemical.
Wrong.
The back door slammed shut with a finality that made her jump. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of Michael's face—not angry anymore. Not hurt.
Satisfied.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as tendrils of dark smoke began curling under the door.
This wasn't an accident.
This wasn't a mistake.
This was?—
The first flames licked up the wall, hungry and bright, and Hannah's world erupted into chaos.
The heat hit first.
Hannah stumbled back as flames crawled up the walls, spreading faster than should be possible. The recipe box clutched against her chest, she ran for the front door—but orange tongues of fire had already claimed it, consuming the entrance like hungry demons.
Think. Think.
The windows. She could break?—
A deafening crack split the air. The front windows exploded inward, showering the floor with glittering shards. The sudden rush of oxygen fed the flames, sending them racing across the ceiling in waves of red and gold.
Hannah dropped to her knees, pressing her cardigan over her mouth as thick black smoke rolled through the bakery. The heat was overwhelming now, pressing against her skin like a physical weight.
The back door.
She crawled toward the kitchen, eyes burning, lungs screaming for clean air. The smoke was so dense she could barely see two feet ahead. But she knew this space. Knew every inch of it by heart.
Past the prep station.
Around the mixer.
Three more feet to?—
The back door wouldn't budge.
Hannah's fingers scrabbled against the handle, she could feel the heat of the metal even through her oven mitt. Panic clawing up her throat. She shoved at the door, shoulder aching with the effort, but the door didn't move.
No. No no no.
The truth hit her like a punch to the gut: Michael hadn't just started the fire.
He'd made sure she couldn't escape it.
Flames consumed the walls now, eating through decades of memories. Every photo, every recipe card pinned to the wall, every piece of her life here—all of it feeding the inferno.
The smoke was so thick she could barely breathe. Her vision tunneled, dark spots dancing at the edges. The recipe box slipped from her trembling fingers as she sank to her knees.
She was going to die here.
