He rushed forward, shoving me aside with enough force to send me stumbling, his hands plunging toward the flames in a desperate attempt to salvage something—anything. But the fire burned too hot, too hungry. Within seconds, his palms were scorched raw and red.
Rage contorted his features. He stamped down on the burning album with his polished shoes, trying to smother the flames that consumed what remained of us.
"What the hell are you doing?" he roared, his voice cracking with fury and something that might have been grief. "Have you lost your mind? All of these memories—destroyed because of you!"
I struggled to my feet, brushing ash and soot from my silk robe. The firelight painted warmth across my face, but my voice emerged cold as a blade drawn from ice.
"It's nothing. I opened the album and found insects crawling inside—roaches, perhaps. So I burned it."
Watching my composed demeanor, Luca Haskins finally seemed to realize he'd overreacted. He drew a slow breath, his tone softening into something almost tender.