Until Her Last Breath

Chapter Five

He didn't even flinch. "She was shaken up. We needed to get her away from the city for a few hours until the threat was neutralized. It was protocol."

"Protocol involved champagne? Why are you so caring for an assistant who would just leave the job and work for somebody else for a few dollars hope."

His eyes narrowed, the gold flecks hardening. "Don't start, Claire. Ava is not like that. She is dutiful and sincere. I'm tired. I spent the last four hours cleaning up a mess so my employees do not lose their trust in me. In the mafia trust and reliability are the two words of primary importance. I came home because you wanted to have a trip to the family mausoleum. I couldn't deny your request, you are a disabled orphan and you deserve it. Don't make me regret it."

“Do you regret it? Come on Alaric, I didn't request you to come, I only informed you about it. As if my existence is a burden, you graciously tolerate me?”

Alaric simply left her presence without any plausible response.

The physical betrayal was barely registered for Claire. She had stopped seeing her body as whole three years ago. But she had no regrets. Alaric was breathing and in one piece and that was all she wanted. Whether he gave her the time or not didn't matter until pictures with Ava began to flood her i********:. She was scheming, money minded and power hungry woman who had no ethical aspect in her life.

Claire was shattered. The clip staring at her with a mocking smile was a physical blow, something she didn't expect of Alaric even in her dream. The videos were designed not for love, but for calculated destruction: Alaric’s hand resting on Ava's bare skin, snippets of hushed conversations about their future and Ava's own subtly manipulative texts detailing Alaric’s exhaustion and resentment over the weight of their marriage have fully devastated Claire.

What shattered her the worst was the loss of his honesty. The man who was supposed to be her other half, the recipient of her ultimate sacrifice, could not even offer her the dignity of truth about his love for another woman. Instead he had allowed his guilt to marry her as a part of discharge for her sacrifice. And that fractured the last piece of her protective shell.

The next morning she emailed her primary care physician, requesting the contact information for a discreet hospice care facility in Switzerland. She requested information on "voluntary passive euthanasia." She had run the numbers on her life, and the calculation was clear: death was less painful than the endless, suffocating pity.

Claire secured her appointment double-checking the travel documents and the discreet, palliative care plan. The date was set. It was the last act of the woman Alaric loved would be to grant him, through her absence, the complete freedom he so desperately wished for.

That night she could not sleep. The next day early morning was her flight to Switzerland for euthanasia. Late at night Claire was in the middle of shoving a silk blouse onto a small duffel bag when she heard the front door slam downstairs. It was 3am Panic flared, hot and bright. She pushed the bag under the bed and snatched a book from the nightstand, arranging herself against the headboard with practiced ease, as if she had been reading all along.

A heartbeat later, Alaric kicked the bedroom door open. He was covered in blood. Most of it didn't belong to him. His knuckles were split, the skin raw and weeping, and his white dress shirt hung in ruined tatters. He looked less like her husband and more like a demon who had just crawled his way out of the pit.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, his chest heaving. He stared at me, his eyes wild, pupils blown wide from adrenaline.

"You are awake," he rasped.

"It is hard to sleep when the house feels like a bunker," Claire said, her voice unnervingly calm.

He walked to the dresser and threw his gun down. It landed with a heavy, final thud against the mahogany. He began to strip off his ruined shirt, peeling the fabric from his sticky skin.

"It was a trap," he said. "Rival gang. They used Ava as bait."

The air in the room grew thin.

"Is she safe?"

"She is at the hospital. Minor injuries. Shock." He turned around. There was a long, ugly s***h across his back. It was shallow but bleeding sluggishly, a red grin across his olive skin.

Claire sighed, closing the book on a chapter she hadn't read. No matter the truth that she was going to leave him shortly, Claire couldn't leave him bleeding. She wheeled her chair to the bathroom, and retrieved the first-aid kit. This was the practice, the vow she had made when she was hardly sixteen. First love doesn't die. She married him, vowed to shield his life with hers and wash the blood from his hands. But little did he think about her love for him.

"Sit," She ordered. He obeyed, sinking onto the edge of the bed and Claire started her usual work of bandaging his injuries.

“I cleaned the wound with antiseptic.” She announced. The smell of alcohol mixed with the metallic tang of fresh copper was unmistakable. Probably he drank to ease the pain. He didn't flinch. Alaric was made of stone. As she began to stitch the skin, the silence was shattered by light. Her phone, sitting on the nightstand, illuminated the dark room. An email notification: Flight Confirmation to Switzerland one way.

Claire’s breath hitched. She had been careful to wipe away every thread of hers associated with him without his knowledge but couldn't get her phone away from his scrutinizing eyes to clear the notification.

Alaric's hand shot out as fast as a viper, grabbing the phone before she could react. He stared at the screen. The oxygen left the room. He turned slowly, ignoring the needle that still threaded through the skin of his back.

Claire went still. He stood up and turned to face her. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him with a different kind of energy, darker, heavier. He looked at her with a strange intensity that she couldn't decipher. "Switzerland. One way? Why are you going to Switzerland?"