Leonardo’s brows knit in confusion and disbelief as he stepped closer, the tension in his posture unmistakable. “You burned it? Ten years’ worth of memories? How could you—” His words faltered, cut off by the unintentional growl that escaped him.
I raised an eyebrow, unshaken. “Are you finished?”
The casual cruelty in my tone seemed to strike him harder than any insult I could have thrown. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair, frustration softening to something almost… vulnerable. “I— I overreacted,” he admitted quietly, his voice losing the edge it had held. “But that album meant so much to us. Why didn’t you wait? Why would you destroy it before I even had a chance?”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Us. There was no “us” anymore—not since he had given his attention entirely to Camila, the insufferably charming newcomer with her calculated sweetness and carefully curated public persona.
“You’ve been too preoccupied with work—or whatever it is you’ve been doing with her. I didn’t want to bother you with something as insignificant as this,” I said, letting the words land.