Lorenzo stopped short when he saw the flames. For the first time in years, panic cracked through his control as he rushed forward.
“What the hell are you doing?” he barked, fury and disbelief colliding in his voice.
I stayed where I was.
He lunged toward the fire, trying to pull the album free, but the heat forced him back. He swore under his breath, hands reddening as he stomped at embers in a futile attempt to save what was already gone.
“Have you lost your mind?” he snapped, turning on me. “Do you even know what you just burned? That was our history. Years of it. Why would you destroy that?”
I met his eyes, unflinching.
“Because history is worthless when the promises behind it are empty,” I said evenly. “You said you’d give me reasons to choose you. Instead, you handed that place to someone else before we even reached the end.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re twisting things. Francesca—”
“Francesca,” I interrupted calmly, “only took what you made available. The pictures. The attention. The way you stand beside her in public. Don’t insult me by pretending it happened by accident.”
He stepped closer, his voice dropping, rougher now.
“She works for me. I’m responsible for her safety, for—”