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.