Until Her Last Breath

Chapter Two

“What? Are you going through the suicide procedure to set him free?”

Before Claire could reply, the café door opened and Cara fell silent though she had a thousand questions burning in her mind. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Two soldiers walked in first, scanning the perimeter with cold, dead eyes. Then Alaric entered. He was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than a building. His dark hair was swept back, revealing a face that was beautiful in a way a thunderstorm is beautiful: destructive and captivating. He walked straight to Claire’s table, ignoring everyone else including Cara.

“Claire,” he said. It wasn’t a greeting; it was a command.

“Alaric ,” she replied. “We are leaving. My mother expects us for dinner.” He didn’t look at Cara. He turned and walked out, expecting her to follow and Claire always followed.

Claire wasn't the woman who demands respect. She wasn't going to beg or plead for attention from Alaric. She gave up on her legs as a sacrifice for him to breathe and sacrifice doesn't sanctify selfishness. If he doesn't need her, she isn't going to stay with him and make him unhappy. Afterall whatever she did till today was for his happiness.

Claire gave Cara a small, sad smile and wheeled herself into the rain. A bodyguard held an umbrella over her. She could see the careful avoidance in Alaric’s eyes, in the way his hand hovered near her wheelchair, perpetually ready to assist, but never to truly touch. She was not a wife; she was a costly, lifelong responsibility—a debt he owed but desperately wished to service through distance.

She slid onto the leather, and sat beside him. The car smelled of expensive cologne, gun oil, and the faint, cloying scent of vanilla perfume—Ava’s perfume. The convoy started moving. The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating. Alaric was typing on his phone, his brow furrowed.

“That file I signed weeks ago,” he said suddenly, looking up at her.

Claire’s heart slammed against my ribs. Was her trip to Switzerland for euthanasia already discovered?

With her silence taken into consideration he asked her with clarity. “The vendor contracts for the dock supplies. Did you file it?”

Claire breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes,” she lied. “It’s being processed.”

He hummed a low vibration in his chest. “Good. I don’t want any loose ends before the transition. ”

Alaric was becoming a world don soon. His territory is soon not going to be limited to New York. Furthermore he wanted a clean slate and Claire was giving him the cleanest slate possible: a life without a guilt of being her husband.

His phone rang. The ringtone was specific; it pierced the quiet like a siren. Alaric answered immediately. “Ava?”

Claire looked out of the window, counting the raindrops.

“Slow down,” Alaric said, his voice shifting from cold command to something softer, something urgent. “Where are you? Who is there?” He listened for a moment, his jaw tightening. The temperature in the car dropped ten degrees. “I don’t care who his father is,” Alaric snarled into the phone. “If he reaches you, he loses his hand. Stay there. I am coming.” He hung up and tapped the partition glass. “Change of plans. Go to Central Avenue.”

“Alaric ,” Claire said quietly, “what about your mother’s invitation.”

He finally looked at her. His eyes were like ice, blue and impenetrable. “Ava is in trouble. Some street rogue cornered her.”

“She is your right hand’s daughter. She has her own guards.” Claire said with a steady voice trying not to bring out her emotions.

“She called me,” he said, as if that explained everything, as if that justified standing his wife in the middle of the city.

The car pulled over to the curb. It wasn’t the estate. It was a street corner, five blocks from their penthouse.

“Take the second car standing at the back,” Alaric ordered. “I need the team with me.”

He was kicking out his paralyzed wife to go save the woman whom he calls only as his assistant. Claire wasn't stupid. She was giving him the time to remedy. But Alaric was far away from understanding it. Then his eyes narrowed with culpability. He pressed his brows with fingertips in pity. “Sorry. Let me wheel you home.”

“Not required. I will manage.” Claire was prompt in her reply. She didn't need his sympathy, she needed love. He didn't notice that she no longer wanted him to push the chair. He didn't notice the profound, liberated finality in her eyes.

She was no longer his wife to save; she was simply a departing vessel. The final takedown was complete. Her goal was simple: to reclaim her peace. He was cheating on her with another woman and Claire would not fight for a man who did not have the courage to tell her the truth.

She opened the car door and one of the bodyguards came to her with a wheelchair. The rain was coming down harder now.

“Alaric ,” she said, asking the bodyguard to pause the wheels of her chair, “you signed the papers.”

He looked at her impatiently, his mind totally on Ava. “I know, Claire. You told me.”

“I just wanted to make sure you remembered,” she said and stepped out. Claire was trading a prolonged life of quiet resentment for a quick, dignified end.

The door slammed shut behind her and the convoy sped up, tires spraying dirty water onto her shoes and face. Claire wipes away the muddy water with her handkerchief and watches the taillights disappear, realizing that for the first time in three years, she didn’t feel the sting of tears. She just felt cold.

*

The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling, glass cage in the sky, overlooking a city that looked like a circuit board of gold and darkness. Her phone buzzed on the marble counter along with more than a hundred text messages, twenty calls and ten emails from Cara. She ignored them all and then came a single text from Alaric : “Won’t be back. Handling the situation. Don’t wait up.”

She didn't reply. Claire deleted the thread. Then she went into her contacts and deleted his number. She didn't block him—that would draw attention. She just removed the name. He was nothing more than a string of digits now.