Until Her Last Breath

Chapter Three

Claire went to the master closet, a mausoleum filled with designer gowns, silk blouses, and shoes that cost more than a midsize sedan. She walked past them to the small safe in the back. She punched the code and took out the burner phone and a flash drive. That was the real Claire. The rest was just a costume.

That night, she began working, stripping the house of their shared past. The photos of their graduation cruise went into a storage vault. The couple’s meticulous history, the years of photos, old letters from prep school, and university mementos were stored in the climate-controlled basement. The wedding silver was anonymously donated. The house, designed for a couple in love, was clinically emptied of memory, leaving only expensive furniture behind.

With a single instruction to the estate manager, she initiated the transfer of every shared memory item, not to the trash, but to a bonded, nondescript storage facility an hour outside the city. They were labeled simply as Bean Archives. Nothing was destroyed; it was simply removed from their shared physical space. She sat on the bed and began the digital scrub, she logged into the joint accounts and removed her authorization. She unlinked her email from the estate security notifications. Piece by piece, byte by byte, she was erasing herself from the Bean infrastructure.

Her finger hovered over the i********: icon on her personal phone. She shouldn't, she knew she shouldn't but anyways opened it.

Ava's story was at the top of course. A photo of a yacht deck. A bucket of Cristal-chilled champagne. And in the corner of the frame, a hand resting on the railing. She very well knew that hand and she knew the birthmark on the knuckle. The heavy gold signet ring bearing the Bean crest. "Safe and sound," the caption read. "My hero."

Alaric wasn't handling a crisis; he was drinking champagne on a boat with his wife-set, while Claire was alone in an empty penthouse on their wedding anniversary. His ignorance of her was complex. The urgent, unavoidable meetings weren't just excuses; they were carefully engineered opportunities to be with Ava.

Once upon a time he stood beside her like a rock in her dim days to which she was grateful. Their love story was frequently documented and endlessly admired. Claire and Alaric were a perfect couple with love of abundance. But now?

He would check in with his chief-of-staff, ensuring all of her needs were met, the new medical device, the specialized diet and the logistical check marks of a responsible custodian. Then, he would be on the phone with Ava on the pretext of work. While his chief-of-staff relayed medical updates to Alaric, he was simultaneously booking a weekend in the Dolomites with Ava.

Claire closed the app. The front door beeped. Hope ignited in her. Maybe he remembered their anniversary and decided to take her out to dinner.

Alaric walked in. But much against her anticipation he looked disheveled, a rare state for him. His tie was loose, his top button undone. His sleeves rolled up to reveal the forearms she used to cling to. But as he moved closer, the scent hit her. He smelled of sea salt and that cloying vanilla perfume. Ava’s perfume.

He stopped when he saw her in the kitchen wheeling towards the counter to make something for herself. He held a small white box in his hand, a bakery box and placed it on the island. "I picked this up on the way back." He opened it. It was a small vanilla cake, generic, no writing. It looked like something an assistant would buy at a grocery store five minutes before closing.

"Happy anniversary," he said. The words felt heavy, forced.

Claire stared at the cake. He remembered. Or rather, his calendar reminded him, and he felt a twinge of obligation, strong enough to stop at a bakery, but not strong enough to stay home.

"Thank you, you too, have a great anniversary." The words were with regret but Alaric was far away from reading between the lines.

His phone rang again. The sharp trill cut through the tension. He looked at the screen and sighed, a sound of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. "I have to take this," he said. "It's about Ava's security detail."

Claire didn't even look at Alaric. There is no use chasing a man who had already gone too far from her. "Go,"

"Claire…?" Alaric was surprised. In the rare moments he was home, he would enter the penthouse and move directly to his study, a hermetically sealed world of finance and success. He would send Claire a text: "Just got in. Long day. See you tomorrow." Tomorrow, inevitably, meant more travel. The physical distance was now compounded by a chasm of emotional dishonesty.

"Go, Alaric . It's fine."

He hesitated for a second. Claire had a little hope. She thought he might see her. See her eyes that were still hoping he might turn back and see the sorrow in them. See the woman who had loved him since she was sixteen, the woman who had put his life before hers and prayed for his safety when she was the one who was facing danger. But he just nodded. "I will make it up to you.” And walked out without turning back.

Claire didn't need the blurry pictures, the deleted texts, or the excused absences anymore. This was the final, absolute evidence. Alaric wasn't just having an affair; he was in love with someone else. His heart, his genuine passion, his very best self, belonged entirely to Ava. The emotionless shell she dealt with daily was the result of giving her only his leftover, grudging pity.

Claire looked at the silence that permeates in the kitchen. She turned and looked at the cheap vanilla cake with its waxy white frosting. Her hand reached into the drawer and pulled out a single match. She struck it against the box. The flame flared, bright and hot, consuming the oxygen. She stuck the match into the center of the cake like a candle and whispered to the empty room, watching the flame burn down towards the frosting. "THIS ANNIVERSARY, I WISH TO STOP LOVING YOU.”

She blew it out. Smoke curled into the air, gray and vanishing, just like them.