As I began gathering my things, my gaze landed on the thick leather-bound album resting on the coffee table. Lorenzo’s idea. His tradition. Every page held moments from our years together—successful deals, quiet meals after bloody negotiations, rare laughter stolen between crises.
He once told me he wanted to give me 9,999 memories before ever asking me to marry him. Not because of alliances or bloodlines—but because he wanted me to choose him without obligation.
The album was nearly full. Only one page remained untouched.
Promises lose their meaning when devotion shifts.
I carried the album out to the clearing behind the estate—the place where bonfires once marked victories and alliances sealed in blood and fire. Under the cold watch of the moon, I built a small fire. When the flames caught, steady and bright, I placed the album on top.
Leather shriveled. Pages curled and blackened. Smoke rose thick and final, carrying years of hope with it.
Footsteps approached behind me.
I didn’t need to turn around. I knew his presence the way one knows the weight of a gun at their back.