Five years ago, I pulled my billionaire fiancé, Arthur, from a burning car. The glass ruined my hands, and I never held a scalpel again. For five years, I thought that sacrifice had secured my place beside him. Then, one month before our wedding, he told me to give my custom dress and our exclusive venue to his "terminally ill" childhood friend. He defended every tear she shed. I was left with one question: if he had to choose between her and our future, would the man I saved choose me?
I remember the fire better than I remember being in love. It was five years ago, on the highway outside the city. I was a surgical resident then, twenty-six, with steady hands and a whole career in front of me. Arthur Sterling was the man I had been dating for eight months, a billionaire with a reckless habit of driving fast cars too fast. The collision woke the whole block. I had been following him home in my own car when his Porsche hit the barrier and rolled, and by the time I reached it, the hood was already breathing flames. I don't remember deciding to run to the passenger side. I remember the tire iron in my hands, the glass shattering over my forearms, the seat belt that would not give. I remember Arthur's face, pale and slack against the airbag, and the heat of the fire like a
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