“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.”