My childhood sweetheart and my brother both fell for the new scholarship girl, Jane Reed. One of them, my fiancé, turned his back on our betrothal, sneering, “A princess like Elara Vance? I’m not man enough to handle that.” The other, my brother, forgot our mother's dying wish. “Jane’s had it so tough,” he’d pleaded. “Is it really so wrong if I just give her half the love I give you?” On my birthday, my fiancé chose to be with Jane. On the anniversary of my mother's death, my brother was at a party, celebrating with Jane and her mother. And while they were off in Port Moore, accompanying Jane as she accepted a prestigious design award, I set a match to the house that held all our memories. I faked my death and vanished from Crestwood. But when the news of my demise reached Port Moore, the two men who had grown so tired of me went mad, rushing back to Crestwood that very night. They knelt before the smoldering ruins of the house, their cries echoing in the ashes.
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