Prologue – Before the Ashes
The warm Georgia breeze drifted through the half-open window, carrying in the scent of sweet magnolias and rain-dampened asphalt. Atlanta was quiet tonight. Too quiet for how loud Amara's heart was beating.
She lay curled in the crook of Malik's arm, her head resting against his bare chest, listening to the soft thump of his heartbeat and the occasional whisper of wind through the trees outside. His fingers lazily traced circles along her shoulder, warm and familiar.
Everything about this moment was perfect—too perfect.
That's why it scared her.
"You're quiet," Malik murmured, his voice low and heavy from sleep. "What's spinning in that pretty little head?"
Amara smiled faintly but didn't answer right away. Instead, she pulled the sheet higher over their bodies, the silk gliding across her skin. "Just thinking."
"Thinking always leads to trouble," he teased, kissing her forehead.
His lips were soft. Sweet. Dangerous.
She didn't want to ruin the moment, but the thoughts had been haunting her all week. It wasn't about the sex—they had always been fire together. The way his hands knew every curve, how their bodies moved in sync, how he whispered things in the dark that made her soul melt.
But beneath the heat, a storm brewed.
"You've been different lately," she said quietly. "Distant."
Malik's fingers stilled.
"I'm just… under a lot of pressure right now," he said, the edge in his voice too subtle for most to catch. But she caught it. She always did. "The business, my dad riding me about numbers, and now you—"
"I'm not trying to add pressure," Amara cut in. She sat up slightly, letting the sheet slip just enough to expose the top of her chest. Her dark curls fell over her shoulders. "I just want honesty."
He sat up too, rubbing his hands over his face. "You don't trust me anymore, do you?"
"That's not what I said."
"But it's what you meant."
She blinked, trying to swallow the rising lump in her throat. "Don't twist my words, Malik. I'm just saying… you've changed. We've changed. I feel it."
He stood and paced the room. His body, still naked, glistened under the soft light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. "You always overthink things, Amara. Always pushing, always needing reassurance."
"I need reassurance because you keep pulling away!"
That landed like a slap.
They stared at each other, naked and vulnerable in more ways than one.
"I've sacrificed everything for us," she whispered. "I left my job, my apartment—I bet everything on you. On us."
He looked away.
That silence was her answer.
The first time Amara met Malik, it was at a rooftop bar in midtown Atlanta. She was 23, fresh out of design school, wearing a thrifted blazer over a handmade slip dress she'd sewn the night before. He had walked in like he owned the sky—confident, clean-cut, with that quiet smirk that said he knew the world would bend for him.
He offered to buy her a drink. She declined.
He stayed anyway.
Three months later, she was waking up in his bed more often than her own. He was sweet then. Curious. He asked about her dreams. He told her she was brilliant, magnetic, rare.
She believed every word.
Back then, Malik was her sun. Everything in her orbit bent around him. She moved in with him after six months, thinking it was the start of forever.
She didn't notice when the compliments became criticisms. When the affection became obligation. When he stopped calling her designs "art" and started calling them "side projects."
By the time she realized how deep she'd fallen, she was already drowning.
Now, she stood in his bedroom, wrapping the sheet around her as if it could protect her from the truth settling over the room like smoke.
"I'm tired," she said softly. "Tired of wondering where I stand. Tired of feeling like I have to beg for crumbs."
"You think this is easy for me?" Malik snapped. "I'm trying to build something real. And all you do is doubt me."
"You're building something real?" Her voice cracked. "With who, Malik? Because I saw the texts."
He froze.
"Don't play dumb," she said. "Last night. Your phone buzzed while you were in the shower. I saw her name. Talia."
His jaw clenched.
"You promised me there was nothing going on," she continued. "But she sent you a picture. You didn't delete it."
Malik didn't speak.
That was when she knew.
All those nights he came home late, claiming work emergencies. The changed passwords. The way he'd flinch if she reached for his phone.
Amara's hands trembled. "Just tell me the truth."
But he didn't.
Instead, he pulled on his jeans in silence.
She turned away, covering her mouth to muffle the sob rising in her chest.
When she finally turned back, he was standing at the door, his eyes tired and hollow. "Maybe we rushed into this," he said quietly.
"Rushed?" she echoed. "We made a life together."
"You made a life around me. That's different."
He left that night.
She didn't stop him.
The days after were a blur.
She crashed at her cousin Lina's tiny apartment in Brooklyn, sleeping on a pull-out couch, living off takeout and ginger tea. She ignored calls, deleted Malik's number, and cried into her pillow until her throat was raw.
But grief doesn't always feel like sadness. Sometimes it feels like shame. Like looking in the mirror and not recognizing the woman staring back.
One night, unable to sleep, she stood in Lina's bathroom, staring at her reflection.
"I gave him everything," she whispered.
And the mirror answered back with silence.
That was when something in her snapped.
She pulled out her old sketchpad—the one she hadn't touched in months. The edges were frayed, the cover smudged with tears and eyeliner. She opened to a blank page and began to draw.
Not for Malik.
Not to prove anything.
But because it was the only thing that reminded her she was still alive.
She didn't know it then, but that moment—standing half-naked in a borrowed apartment, drawing with red-rimmed eyes and trembling hands—was the beginning of something powerful.
The beginning of her fire.
The ashes were still fresh. The pain was still raw.
But somewhere between the sketch lines and the tears, Amara began to remember who she was before Malik.
And more importantly—who she could still become.