The medic's van sped away, taking my mother with it—and along with her, every solid piece of ground I thought I still had under me.

Rafe stood nearby, arms crossed, soot streaked across his cheek like war paint. The sirens were fading, but the fire between us was just beginning to build.

"You knew," I snapped. "You knew my uncle was dirty and didn't tell me."

His brows furrowed, jaw tightening. "I didn't know anything for sure. And I wasn't going to accuse your family based on half a theory and a hunch."

"That hunch could've gotten her killed!" I took a step toward him, fury boiling in my chest. "This wasn't just another call, Rafe. This was personal, and you treated it like paperwork."

He scoffed, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "You don't get to talk to me about personal, Celeste. Not when you spent weeks hiding your real last name from the entire department."

"That's not the same and you know it."

"Don't I?" His voice dropped, but the edge stayed razor-sharp. "Because every time I think we're building something real, you remind me exactly why I shouldn't trust you."

I flinched like he'd hit me.

Silence cracked between us, loud as the collapsing glass of the tower behind.

He exhaled, backing away. "Maybe we should take a step back before one of us says something we really regret."

"Too late," I said coldly, the words tasting like smoke.

He stared at me for a second longer—like he wanted to say something more, something softer—but instead, he turned and walked off, his boots crunching over broken glass.

I didn't follow. I couldn't.

Because in that moment, it wasn't just the family business that was turning to ash.

It was us.