Store posters.
Online ads.
Product launches.
I met Derek during a Luma Belle photo shoot three years earlier.
His advertising agency, Vaughn Creative, had won the campaign.
Derek was charming.
Funny.
Confident.
He remembered everyone’s coffee order.
He made interns feel important.
He made clients feel brilliant.
And he made me feel seen.
We married eighteen months later.
At first, our life was good.
Then Derek’s agency began struggling.
He hid it well.
New car.
Expensive dinners.
Tailored suits.
But I noticed bills.
Late notices.
Calls he refused to answer around me.
When I asked, he smiled.
“Cash-flow timing.”
I believed him.
Then came the fire.
We had rented a house in Dunwoody while our apartment building underwent renovations.
The night before the fire, Derek went to dinner with friends.
He returned drunk around midnight.
We argued.
He slept in the guest room.
At approximately 4:20 a.m., I woke coughing.
Smoke filled the hallway.
I ran outside.
Neighbors called 911.
Then I realized Derek hadn’t followed me.
I remember someone grabbing my arm.
“Don’t go back!”
