Luca's question died in his throat, strangled by the frost in my voice. The moment the black sedan rolled to a stop before the apartment tower—his tower, never mine—I ended the call without ceremony.

The night air carried the scent of coming rain as I stepped onto the pavement. My phone buzzed incessantly, the Family's internal network flooding with notifications. I opened the thread to find over ninety-nine unread messages, all spawned from a single photograph Celina Vitale had posted at the top.

The image showed Luca Haskins on his knees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, repairing electrical wiring and plumbing in what appeared to be her modest quarters.

"Who else has a Boss this generous with his time?" she had written beneath it. "I'd pledge my life to this Family. Can I take a blood oath right now?"

The comments cascaded beneath her post like offerings at a shrine—envy dressed as admiration.

"I've never seen the Boss lower himself like this. Doesn't the staff say he won't touch anything beneath his station? This doesn't look like a man with standards."

"Madonna mia, he's devastating without the suit jacket. From this moment forward, I dream of becoming Mrs. Haskins. Everyone else—hands off."

"The woman posting this picture is already auditioning for that role. Wake up, sister. Your only future is running errands."

Before Celina had arrived to serve as Luca's personal courier, I had been the one performing every task he required—fetching, organizing, anticipating his needs without ever asking for recognition. When she took over my duties, I had simply forgotten to remove myself from the network thread. Now, having read every sycophantic reply, I deleted the conversation from my device and closed the application entirely.

If I had already decided to sever the thread binding me to this life, watching their "preview of domestic bliss" carried less sting than I had anticipated.

My mind drifted to those early days, fresh from university, when I had first entered his orbit.

Luca used to share glimpses of me in the group chat—candid photographs of me preparing his espresso, updating his calendar, arranging the details of his days. Everyone in the organization could see it plainly: he had marked me as his.

With his attention wrapped around me like armor, even the tedious work felt honeyed. His small intimacies transformed the cold machinery of Family business into something almost tender.

But everything shifted when Celina appeared.

She absorbed every responsibility that had once been mine. Luca forbade anyone from mentioning my name in the threads. His gaze, once reserved for me alone, began to drift toward her—sometimes openly, sometimes with the careful discretion of a man who knew he was being watched.

One of my former associates, a woman who had been close to me, made the mistake of remarking that Celina lacked my competence. Luca stripped her of an entire year's tribute share without hesitation. Afterward, I quietly arranged for her transfer to another crew's territory.

She had pressed ten thousand dollars into my palm before leaving, hoping the gesture might prevent her from doing something reckless—like walking away entirely.

Now, returning to this place I had called home for eight years yet never truly belonged to, I began gathering my possessions. My hands paused over a thick leather album, its spine cracked from years of handling. Inside lay the collected memories of a decade.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened it, turning each page with deliberate slowness.

Every photograph represented a gift from Luca. Eight years ago, he had told me that before we stood together and sealed our union, he would give me 9,999 surprises. He wanted to earn my heart through sincerity, he said, so that I would choose to become his wife of my own will. This custom-made album had been designed to hold exactly 9,999 images.

Only one page remained empty.

In the end, none of it had meant anything at all.

I carried the album downstairs and walked to a quiet clearing behind the building, where the shadows pooled thick and the city's noise faded to a distant murmur. I struck a match.

I watched each photograph curl and blacken, the flames consuming eight years of carefully preserved moments. The fire devoured everything—the smiles, the promises, the carefully staged scenes of devotion—until only ash remained. I was burying the woman I had been.

Luca arrived to find me standing before the blaze, my face illuminated by dying embers. His complexion drained of color.

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.

"Are you alright? I'm sorry—I got carried away." His eyes lingered on the dying flames. "We collected those photographs over ten years, Elena. Weren't we supposed to look through them together at the wedding? Why would you destroy them?"

"If there were insects in the album, you could have waited for me to return. Or at least sent word. I would have handled it." He stepped closer, and I could smell the cloying sweetness of his signature cologne—Black Opium, expensive and suffocating.

I didn't bother meeting his gaze. The man standing before me bore no resemblance to the boy who had once sworn to protect me, who had promised me a place in his world. That boy had been buried long ago beneath ambition and another woman's perfume.

"You're so occupied with Family business," I said flatly. "I didn't want to trouble you with such trivial matters."

He stood beside me, staring mournfully at the ashes as if they held the remnants of something sacred. The irony was bitter enough to taste—he was the one who had burned our decade to the ground for another woman, yet here he stood, performing grief like a man who still cared.

I turned to go inside, but he misread my coldness for wounded anger. His hand shot out, pulling me into his arms. The Black Opium flooded my senses, thick and sweet, triggering a violent sneezing fit. Still, he refused to release me, holding on as though guilt alone could bridge the distance between us.

"Are you unwell?" His voice dropped to something resembling tenderness. "I'm sorry. I know I've neglected you lately. Once things settle down, we'll take new photographs together. We'll make up for everything we've lost—double it, even."

Once, those words might have softened me. But since that night in the emergency ward—when I'd realized he'd forgotten my severe allergies for the sake of another woman—I could no longer pretend. I wanted nothing more than to sever every thread that still bound me to him.

He finally loosened his grip, and I pulled away firmly. "No apologies necessary. But if you truly wish to make amends, perhaps you could arrange a proper birthday celebration for me."

My cream allergy had stolen every birthday from me for as long as I could remember. But since I would be leaving soon, I wanted at least one celebration—one final memory with him before I walked away forever.

My simple request seemed to catch him off guard. He nodded, but before he could elaborate, his phone pierced the silence. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted—urgent, eager.

"It's business. An emergency at the club." He was already backing away. "Don't wait up for me tonight. I promise I'll make it up to you."

By the time he finished speaking, he was already several meters away, disappearing into the shadows of the estate.

I knew that ringtone. It was Celina Vitale's—her personal summons. But I didn't call out his lie. What would be the point?

The next morning, workers arrived to prepare the party venue. Among them was Celina herself, claiming she'd come to oversee the arrangements since she had designed the layout.

By evening, I understood the truth: the decorations were nothing more than a stripped-down version of her own birthday celebration from months prior.

After the workers departed, she approached with measured steps, a satisfied smile playing at her lips.

"Everyone worked so hard today." She tilted her head, studying my face. "What do you think? Does it suit your taste?"

My gaze drifted to her throat, where a familiar pendant caught the light—one of mine, reported missing weeks ago. My eyes narrowed.

"Second-hand goods for a second-hand woman," I said coolly. "It suits you perfectly."

Celina's expression flickered—offense, then calculation. Without a word, she turned aside, picked up a crystal ornament from the display, and hurled it to the floor. A shard sliced across her foot, and she crumpled with a pitiful cry, tears streaming down her face.

Before I could react, Luca stormed in and struck me across the face. The blow rang through my skull like a gunshot.

"Enough of your tantrums!" he roared. "Celina took time away from her duties to help prepare your party, and this is how you repay her?"

"If you don't like it, do it yourself!"

He didn't wait for my explanation. He swept Celina into his arms and carried her out, leaving me alone in the hollow silence of the room. The stillness pressed down like a weight, heavier with each passing moment.

The next morning, no one came.

It wasn't surprising, really. In ten years, Luca had been my only friend—my only connection to the world outside these walls.

When the cake arrived, I opened the box and cut a small slice. I placed a single candle in the center and lit it. Closing my eyes, I made my wish:

May we never meet again.

My allergy meant I couldn't even taste the cake. The sweetness would have been lost on me anyway.

My phone alarm sounded—the countdown had ended. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out without looking back.

On the way to the airport, I sent Luca one final message:

"Let this be the end. There's no need for further contact."

It wasn't even a proper farewell. Just the quiet conclusion of ten years of my life.

I powered off my phone before boarding, but even then, it had been ringing incessantly—Luca calling over and over, like a man possessed.

The plane lifted into the night sky, and I watched the city lights shrink below me until they were nothing but scattered embers in the darkness.

I was finally free.