The rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the storm raging inside. Uriel, usually a picture of controlled power, was a broken man, his shoulders slumped, his usually sharp features softened by despair. The photograph – a cruel fabrication – lay discarded on the polished mahogany floor, a stark testament to the chasm that had opened between them.

“So that’s why you’re always busy! Because you have a mistress?!” Your voice, sharp with accusation, cut through the air. The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but the hurt was too raw, the betrayal too real, to allow for anything else.

He tried to speak, to explain, his hand reaching out, but you flinched away. The years of unwavering devotion, the countless acts of love, were momentarily eclipsed by the searing pain of doubt.

“I’m leaving,” you declared, your voice trembling despite your anger.

Before you could take a step, his arms encircled your waist, his grip firm but gentle. His face buried in your hair, his breath hot against your skin, his body shaking with a grief that transcended mere heartbreak. The scent of his cologne, usually a comfort, now felt suffocating, heavy with unspoken sorrow.

“No…” he whispered, the single word a choked sob. The sound, raw and vulnerable, was utterly unlike the powerful CEO, the feared Mafia don. This was a man stripped bare, exposed in his deepest vulnerability. His voice cracked, the words barely audible. “Not now, not again... Please stay… and don’t go out… it’s raining, dangerous… You stay here… here with me please… don’t leave me again… again…”

The repetition of “again” hung in the air, heavy with the weight of centuries, of lifetimes lost. The words pierced you, a sudden, chilling realization dawning. His desperation wasn't just about this fight; it was about a deeper, more profound fear.

A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. Then another, and another, until his face was streaked with tears. He wasn't just begging you to stay; he was begging you to forgive him for a pain he couldn't articulate, a pain that stretched back through the eons.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I’ll find the person who sent you that picture… I’ll… I’ll burn them for you… just… just don’t leave me…”

His words were a desperate plea, laced with a raw, primal fear. Then, a confession, barely a breath, a whisper lost in the storm. “You said… you wanted to see the flowers bloom… they’re blooming now… I’ll… I’ll take you there…”

The weight of his words crashed down on you. The mention of the flowers, a detail only he could know, You hadn't said those words to him. Not in this life. But the memory, vivid and agonizing, flooded back: the vibrant garden, bursting with color, a paradise he'd created for you in your fourth life… a life cut short by illness, a life where you died before you could ever see those flowers bloom. A life where he'd lost you, again. His pain, his unending, centuries-long pursuit of you, across lifetimes of loss and heartbreak… it was a burden far heavier than any infidelity. The photograph, the argument… they were insignificant compared to the vast, agonizing ocean of his grief.