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The first whiff of smoke reached me through the ventilation system—a faint, acrid scent that made my nostrils flare. I paused in front of the mirror, my fingers still adjusting the collar of my blouse. Tonight was supposed to be Declan's "Chosen Mate" ceremony—a cruel mockery of what should have been our moment. "Probably just someone burning leaves nearby," I muttered, trying to ignore the knot in my stomach. But the smell grew stronger. Too strong. I followed the scent to the kitchen, where wisps of gray smoke curled from beneath the refrigerator. My heart hammered against my ribs as I yanked the appliance away from the wall, revealing frayed wires sparking against the wooden floor. "Shit," I whispered, backing away as flames licked upward, hungry and swift. Panic surged through me as I lunged for the nearest exit—the French doors leading to the garden.