I stood frozen at the top of the stairs, watching as Alaric continued his path of destruction. The hallway that had once displayed generations of Thorne family history lay in ruins—shattered frames, torn canvases, and splinters of wood scattered across the expensive carpet like battlefield debris.
"Damn them all to hell!" Alaric roared, his fist connecting with another frame. The glass exploded outward, tiny shards catching the afternoon light before raining down onto the carpet.
I'd never seen him like this—so utterly undone. My powerful, controlled husband had transformed into someone I barely recognized, a man consumed by rage and guilt so potent it demanded physical release.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped carefully over the wreckage toward him. "Alaric," I called softly.
He whirled around, eyes wild and unfocused. For a moment, I wasn't sure he even saw me.
"Please," I said, keeping my voice steady despite my racing heart. "You'll hurt yourself."
