Sofia’s POV
The last wisps of ash still glowed faintly near my shoes when Lorenzo’s fury finally burned itself out, leaving behind something far more dangerous—regret. Under the pale wash of moonlight spilling through the towering glass windows, his face looked unfamiliar, stripped of the confidence he wore like a second skin. He tugged at his collar, straightening it as if reclaiming control by force of habit, but his body betrayed him. The rapid pulse at his throat, the tension in his jaw—none of it lied.
I brushed the soot from my palms with deliberate care and raised my chin, meeting his stare without offering even a hint of softness.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said coolly. “I noticed insects crawling through the album. Cockroaches, I think. Burning it seemed like the cleanest solution.”
He frowned, clearly thrown off, and moved closer, disbelief etched into every line of his face.
“You burned it?” His voice dipped, rough and strained. “Ten years of our life—gone just like that? How could you—”
The sentence broke apart, swallowed by a low, involuntary snarl.
I tilted my head, unimpressed.
“Are you done?”
That single question hit harder than shouting ever could. He sucked in a sharp breath and dragged a hand through his hair, the anger draining away and leaving something raw behind.
“I reacted badly,” he admitted, quieter now. “But that album mattered to us. You could’ve waited. Why destroy it before I even had a chance to stop you?”
I let out a short, hollow laugh. Us. That word had lost its meaning the moment his attention shifted to Francesca—the perfectly polished newcomer who knew exactly how to smile for the public and whisper into the right ears.
“You’ve been busy,” I replied flatly. “With work. With her. I didn’t think something this trivial deserved your attention.”
He stepped closer again, lowering his voice, trying to pull me back into a familiar rhythm.
“I know I’ve been absent. I see that now. But we don’t have to end it this way. We can fix things. Start over. Make new memories—better ones—if you’ll let me.”
Once, those words would’ve undone me. Years ago, I would’ve reached for him without hesitation. But I’d seen the way his eyes followed Francesca, smelled her perfume lingering on his suits. Whatever part of me once hoped had already gone quiet.
“Fine,” I said, my tone empty. “If you’re serious about making it right, start with my birthday. A real one this time. No allergens. No disappearing acts.”
He blinked, caught off guard. For years, my birthdays had been afterthoughts—rushed dinners, canceled plans, excuses wrapped in silk and diamonds.
After a pause, he nodded.
“Okay. Whatever you want.”
Before he could say more, his phone vibrated. That specific alert—the one reserved for her—rang out. He glanced down, jaw tightening as the screen lit up.
“I need to take this,” he said quickly. “It’s urgent. I’ll be back soon. Don’t stay up.”
The lie was transparent.
“Go,” I said, waving him away. “I’m used to being left.”
He hesitated, then turned and walked out, leaving me alone with the dying embers of something that should’ve ended long ago.
By morning, the mansion was alive with movement. Decorators, planners, and caterers swarmed the halls, arranging flowers and centerpieces. As the hours passed, dread settled in my stomach. The layout, the colors, the music—it was all painfully familiar.
By noon, there was no denying it. The setup mirrored Francesca’s extravagant birthday from two months earlier.
And then she arrived.
She moved like she owned the place, dressed in red silk that clung perfectly, her sweet, artificial scent filling the room.
“I hope you like everything,” she said brightly. “I handled all the details myself. Thought it suited your… preferences.”
I didn’t answer right away. My gaze dropped to the crescent-moon necklace glittering at her throat. Mine. The one Lorenzo had given me years ago, right before it vanished.
“A secondhand celebration for a secondhand woman,” I said coldly. “Fitting.”
Her smile cracked. Fury flashed across her face as she grabbed a crystal ornament and slammed it to the floor. Glass exploded outward, a shard slicing into her foot. She screamed, clutching her ankle as if mortally wounded.
Lorenzo rushed in seconds later, eyes sweeping the chaos.
“What happened?”
“She—she tried to stop me,” Francesca sobbed. “I was only helping, and she—”
The slap came out of nowhere. My cheek burned, but I didn’t move. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
“That’s enough!” he shouted. “She spent all day helping you, and this is how you treat her? If you hate it so much, handle it yourself!”
He lifted Francesca into his arms and carried her away, leaving me standing among broken glass and borrowed decorations.
The party never happened. No guests arrived. There was no one left to invite anyway—over the years, my friends had been replaced by his allies and her admirers.
I cut a small slice of the untouched cake, placed a single candle on top, and lit it. Closing my eyes, I whispered,
“I hope I never see either of you again.”
The next morning, I packed one suitcase and left. On the way to the airport, I sent one final message:
This is over. Don’t contact me again.
As the plane lifted into the sky, I shut off my phone, leaving behind a man who once promised me the world—and chose someone else instead.
