Hated by My Husband for Seven Years, I Returned to the Past

At exactly seven o'clock in the evening, I heard the familiar sound of a car door slamming shut.

Phoenix was home.

I set down the plate in my hands and unconsciously smoothed my apron. The dining table was set with freshly made roast beef and mashed potatoes, along with his favorite honey butter rolls. Seven years, and I still remembered every one of his food preferences, even though he'd never say "thank you."

The front door slammed shut with a bang, followed by heavy boots hitting the wooden floor. My heart began beating irregularly—not from anticipation, but from fear.

"Get out of my sight."

His voice drifted from the living room, cold as a Denver winter blizzard. I heard him throw his firefighter's helmet heavily onto the coffee table, then the sound of his leather jacket zipper.

I took a deep breath and walked toward the living room. "Dinner's ready."

Phoenix McNamara stood beside the sofa, removing his fire department uniform jacket. Six feet two inches tall, broad shoulders, solid chest muscles visible beneath his tight T-shirt. If not for that face cold as ice, he was still the same man I'd fallen in love with at first sight seven years ago.

"Don't touch my things." He wouldn't even look at me. "Murderer."

Those two words stabbed into my chest like daggers. Seven years, and it was still the same two words. Every day, every encounter, always the same two words.

Gritting my teeth, I turned back to the kitchen. 'Seven years, and still the same words.'

I began clearing the dishes, my fingers trembling slightly from anger. A fork clattered to the floor with a sharp sound. As I bent to pick it up, I caught sight of the photo on the wall—the Denver Fire Department Station 7 group picture.

In the photo, Phoenix smiled so brightly, his arm draped over my shoulder. That was seven years ago, before everything became a nightmare.

Memories flooded back like a tide.

Ross Street apartment building, three in the morning. Flames reaching toward the sky, thick smoke billowing. I stood across the street, federal fire investigator credentials in hand, watching that six-story building being devoured by fire.

"Someone's trapped on the fourth floor!" someone was shouting.

I saw Phoenix rush into the inferno. His teammates Jason and Mark followed him in. And there was the rookie, Tommy, only twenty-three, married just three months.

Ten minutes later, the building began to collapse.

Only Phoenix made it out alive.

I closed my eyes, but those images remained as clear as if they'd happened yesterday. The prosecutor in court, reporters' camera flashes, and those words.

"Evidence suggests that Ms. McNamara may have deliberately placed flammable materials at the ignition point." The prosecutor's voice echoed through the courtroom. "Her professional knowledge and site access gave her the ability to orchestrate this tragedy."

I wanted to defend myself, but my lawyer said the evidence was against me. Surveillance showed I was at the scene an hour before the fire, my fingerprints were on door handles near the ignition point, and an accelerant was missing from my toolkit.

I didn't set that fire.

But no one believed me.

A phone ring pulled me back from the memories. I heard Phoenix answering a call in the living room.

"Daphne?" His tone immediately softened. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't make out what the voice on the other end was saying, but I could hear a woman's trembling voice.

"Okay, I'll be right there," Phoenix said. "Don't be afraid, I'll handle it."

I walked to the living room doorway. "Going out again?"

Phoenix was putting on his jacket. He finally looked at me, his eyes full of disgust. "Daphne says another firefighter is showing signs of post-traumatic stress. She needs me to assist with psychological intervention."

Daphne Sterling, the fire department's psychological consultant. Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect figure, and a psychology doctorate. More importantly, she'd never been accused of arson.

"The recent fire frequency isn't normal," I tried to speak in a calm tone. "It's suspicious—"

"Shut up!" Phoenix whirled toward me, his eyes burning with rage. "Your 'professional analysis' already killed three of my brothers! Do you want to kill more people?"

I stepped back, leaning against the wall.

'I was just trying to help.'

The living room TV suddenly blared with a harsh warning sound. We both turned toward the screen.

"Breaking news alert," the female anchor's voice was tense and urgent. "A hazardous material leak has occurred at the West Suburban Chemical Plant. Residents in the vicinity are advised to evacuate immediately. The fire department has already—"

Phoenix's pager began beeping frantically. He grabbed the device and pressed the button.

"Station 7, emergency assembly! Chemical plant leak, all personnel report immediately!"

He snatched his helmet from the coffee table and strode toward the door. At the doorway, he stopped for a second and looked back at me. In that instant, I saw a flicker of complex emotion in his eyes—was it worry? Or guilt?

"Don't wait up for me," he said, then left without looking back.

I stood in the empty living room, listening to the sound of his car pulling out of the driveway. The TV was still broadcasting news about the chemical plant, showing smoke billowing from the factory buildings.

'That look in his eyes just now... was he worried about me?'

I walked to the window, gazing at the night sky outside. In the distance, toward the western suburbs, orange light flickered. Phoenix was going to rush into the fire again, just like seven years ago.

Suddenly, I remembered something. His new gas mask was still upstairs—he'd brought it home from the equipment depot yesterday, planning to take it to the station tomorrow, but in his rush he'd forgotten it.

A chemical plant leak meant toxic gases. Without a gas mask, it would be dangerous.

I ran upstairs and found the silver gas mask in the bedroom, still in its equipment bag, just as I thought.

I grabbed my car keys. No matter how much Phoenix hated me, I couldn't let him die out there.

Even though he hated me, even though he'd never forgive me, I couldn't just watch him die.

Because whether he believed it or not, I loved him.

Seven years, and I still loved this man who hated me to his core.