Some women kiss with fire. Others hide the ashes.

The attic was darker than Marla expected. Dust danced in thick, lazy spirals in the beam of her phone's flashlight. She'd waited until Evelyn left for her morning garden brunch — two hours she could count on.

She stepped carefully over creaky floorboards, heart rattling like a caged sparrow. At the far end, under an old garment bag and several antique hatboxes, she found it.

A cedar box.

No key.

She pried it open with a rusted paper knife. Inside were delicate, yellowed papers. Letters, photographs, and one cassette tape labeled:

Margot – May '88.

She pulled out a letter.

"My love—They say they'll fire me if I don't stop. That this kind of affection is shameful. But you know what shames me? Pretending I don't breathe when you're not in the room. I want you to run away with me. Evelyn, please. Before this place makes you cruel."

It wasn't just a romance.

It was a plea.

Claire stood in Veronica's sunroom, bathed in morning light filtered through lavender silk curtains. She wore a deep green silk robe that barely touched her thighs. No makeup. Barefoot.

Veronica sipped her tea slowly, eyes scanning Claire's body.

"You didn't call," she said.

Claire stepped closer. "You kissed me last night. And I felt nothing."

Veronica arched an eyebrow. "Then why are you here, dressed like sin and asking to be devoured?"

Claire didn't answer with words. She walked to the chaise longue, sat with legs crossed, and let the silk robe slip slightly from one shoulder. Her voice was low, calculated, a blade sheathed in honey.

"You want to own me, Veronica. But you don't even know me."

Veronica set her teacup down.

"I know you're angry," she said. "And trying to turn that into power. I admire it. I did the same thing once. But be careful—rage is hot at first, then it just burns holes."

Claire leaned in. "Then teach me to aim it."

Veronica's smile twisted like smoke. She stepped close, trailing a finger from Claire's temple to her collarbone.

"You want power?" she whispered. "Start by taking mine."

Claire's lips parted.

And then Veronica said something she hadn't expected.

"Undress me."

Claire froze.

Veronica turned, offering her back.

Power, Claire thought. This is what it feels like to hold a woman who once held your throat.

She stood.

Slowly undid the clasp of Veronica's gown.

Peeled it down.

Each inch revealing soft, toned flesh, age marked only by confidence.

And then, Veronica turned. Naked. Calm.

"Now what will you do with me, darling?"

Claire stared at her — and did nothing.

She whispered, "I wanted to see if I still had control. Not to use it."

Veronica's breath caught.

Claire stepped away, robe slipping closed.

"I'm not yours," she said softly. "But I might be someone else's again. That scares you, doesn't it?"

She walked out.

Veronica stood motionless, heartbeat thundering. For the first time in years… she didn't win.

Nina and Gloria sat in Gloria's kitchen, laptop open, cassette tape digitized. The voice on the recording was soft. Quivering.

It was Margot.

"I know Evelyn will say I broke her, but it's not true. I loved her. But love in that town… it turned into ownership. Into control. If she finds this, she'll burn it. Maybe she'll even say I died. But I didn't. I left."

Then a pause.

"If you're hearing this… I need you to find me. Or tell the truth. Evelyn Grey doesn't love. She possesses."

The tape crackled off.

Gloria leaned back, stunned.

"Jesus," Nina said. "She ran."

Gloria nodded. "And Evelyn made everyone think she disappeared."

Nina blinked. "You think she killed her?"

"I think Evelyn doesn't lose."

Gloria opened a browser window and began searching Margot's maiden name. After several false leads — there it was.

A women's poetry collective in Oregon.

Margot Calhoun.

Still writing. Still alive.

They exchanged a look.

"We go," Gloria said.

"We don't tell Evelyn," Nina added.

"And we definitely don't tell Marla," Gloria said. "She's too close."

But outside, just beyond the window, someone stood at the edge of the yard, hidden behind hedges.

It was Daniel.

And he had heard everything.

That night, Evelyn returned home and found the cedar box gone.

Her scream was not rage.

It was panic.