My Boyfriend Burnt My house to Please His Mistress

At the awards ceremony, my boyfriend Owen, the fire brigade captain, disappeared backstage after taking a call. There I stood alone in my evening gown, accepting his "Firefighter of the Year" medal for him. "Looks like Captain Parker's got priorities higher than awards tonight!" the host quipped. The audience roared with laughter while I stood frozen, my limbs numb with embarrassment. When I returned home, no hero's embrace awaited me, just the choking reek of gas. Then boom! The world shattered. As neighbors dug me from the wreckage, a message flashed from Owen's trainee: a photo of him shirtless, dead asleep in his dorm bed. Her caption stabbed at me. Claire: Just so you know, the captain's too wiped to come home. Says with you there, the place could never blow up. Smoke clawed at my throat as I jolted awake, half my body screaming, half eerily silent. Darkness. The air thick with the stench of scorched metal and leaking gas. James, my neighbor, hauled me from the kitchen, his face streaked with soot as he bellowed, "Call an ambulance! And the fire department, now!" My skull pounded. Through the haze, I remembered texting Owen. Bella: Help. His reply? One gutting word. Owen: Later. I waited. The explosion didn't. White-hot pain lanced through my left leg. My ankle bent at a sickening angle. Sirens wailed. Orange-clad figures swarmed in, the color of safety now tasting like betrayal. Owen once called me his brigade's "team sunshine." Now that sunshine lay broken in the rubble, while her hero... where was he? In the ambulance, I gasped against the oxygen mask, grabbing a medic's arm. "My phone..." "Madam, you're critical. The rest can wait." I shut my eyes. Tears carved grimy tracks down my cheeks. All I needed was to know if he'd answered. The ER took me in, no ceremony. Second-degree burns. A leg crushed like a beer can. A brain rattled like a maraca. I trembled through the bandaging, biting my lip raw. The physical agony? A paper cut compared to the hemorrhage in my chest. A nurse handed me my cracked phone. "Found it in your pocket." "Thanks," I croaked. WhatsApp loaded, our last exchange frozen on that single, gutting word: Later. Scrolling up, I saw my desperate, choked plea: "Owen, I smell gas again, just like last time. Get back here now!" Last time, our aging stove had leaked slightly. Owen inspected it and dismissed it. "Just keep the windows open," he'd said. "I'll replace it on my next day off." But he never did. As the star of Eastbrook Fire Brigade, his days were packed—endless meetings, nonstop emergency calls, rookies always needing his attention. I never complained. I loved him. I understood. Six years, from his wet-behind-the-ears rookie days to the decorated hero he was now. I truly thought we were about to tie the knot. We'd even picked out a home near the fire station. I'd already imagined our future child's nickname: "Blake," for 'safe and sound.' Then my phone buzzed. Owen: Sorry, just woke up. Missed your messages. Owen: Everything okay at home? Owen: Saw the news—something happened at your building. Where are you? The words blurred. A laugh tore from my throat, dry and broken. Asleep? Like hell he was. Claire's photo flashed in my mind: Owen's bare chest, crumpled sheets, the dim glow of a bedside lamp, her smug, taunting text.