Until The Last Day Novel

Chapter 8 1288 Vouchers Chapter 8 Lorenzo's POV The plane touched down and my phone woke up like it was drowning. Dozens of missed calls. Hundreds of messages. All from my mom, Lola Moretti. I didn't even open them. I ran. She was waiting at the arrival gate, small inside her coat, hair messy, eyes red. When she saw me, she rushed forward and grabbed my arms. "Claire is gone," she said, breathless. "She's not home. Where is she? Where did she go?" All the calm I'd rehearsed on the flight shattered. My bag slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. I couldn't breathe. "She...

she has to be home," I said. "She has to be. Maybe you missed her. Maybe she's-" "She isn't," Mom said, her voice sharp with fear. "I checked every room. I checked the elevator camera with the doorman. I called the neighbors. She's gone." I shook my head and stumbled toward the exit like I could somehow outrun her words. Mom hurried after me. "Lorenzo," she said, lowering her voice, "something is wrong in that apartment." 0.00% 1149 Chapter 8 I stopped. Turned. "What do you mean?" 11 288 Vouchers She swallowed. "Half of Claire's things are gone. Not just gone... erased. Her clothes.

Her trinkets. Those scarves she liked. Even the snacks she kept in the cabinet. Did you two fight?" The words hit me like cold water. A memory rose; small, ordinary, and suddenly huge. Claire cutting up photo prints at the table. Claire telling me the mugs got moldy. Claire saying the styles were outdated, that she'd donate the gifts I gave her. Claire standing at the closet, quiet as snow, removing pairs. I had smiled weakly and let it pass. I had a trip to plan. There were calls to take. Aria's text pinging like a bell in my pocket. My stomach flipped. "She was...

getting rid of things," I said, more to myself than to Mom. "Every day. I thought she was tidying up." Mom's eyes searched mine. "What are you saying, Lorenzo? Did you two had a fight?" I looked at my mother's face but my mind was not wondering about her question. Instead, I felt something give way inside me, like ice cracking underfoot. The last time I looked into Claire's eyes flashed across my mind. It was not peace, not anger, but a stillness so complete it scared When I told her I had to leave Switzerland for "work," she didn't ask where. She didn't ask when I'd be back.

She didn't try to stop me. 21.23% 11.49 Chapter 8 288 Vouchers That wasn't acceptance. That was goodbye. "Why?" I whispered. "Why did she look at me like that?" "What are saying Lorenzo?" Mom frowned. "I can't follow you." I still didn't reply to my mother. I was lost in my memories of Claire distancing herself from me, secretely. I tried to find the beginning and kept falling through moments. The cemetery. Her face in the rain. Empty. The mall alarm. My arms around Aria. Claire on the ground, dust on her dress, watching me with that strange, predictable calm. At home.

My hand hovering above her shoulder for the photo. Her cutting our pictures into pieces. My relief that she wasn't angry. My relief that she was quiet. I pressed my hands to my eyes. When I tried to grab a memory of Claire, the way she laughed, the way she used to light up a room, I could barely hold it. It slipped, blurry, like a photo printed wrong. But I could see Aria clearly: her voice in the car, her grin at the studio, the way she squeezed my hand in the hospital light. A terrible thought formed and hardened. "She knew," I said. "Knew what?" Mom asked. "About me." I swallowed.

The word burned. "What was I doing!" Mom's face went still. "Lorenzo. What are you saying?" Chapter 8 288 Vouchers "I didn't tell her," I said, voice breaking. "She asked if there was something I wanted to say that night. I said no." Silence settled like dust between us. "Let's go home," Mom said softly. "We'll look again." Our apartment had never felt cold before. Now the air inside it met me like a closed door. I stepped into the living room and stopped. The walls were bare. The frames that used to hold our photos showed faint, lighter rectangles where sunlight hadn't touched the paint.

The shelves were neat, and had gaps everywhere like missing teeth. I walked to the hallway closet and opened it. The space where her coats used to hang looked wider than I remembered. There was one sweater left, a plain gray one I bought on one of my business trips. Nothing else. In the bedroom, the jewelry dish on her nightstand was empty. The small glass bottle of perfume she loved was gone. So was the satin ribbon she looped around the lamp. The books by her pillows were missing as well. And with every missing thing, the shape of the truth sharpened. She had been leaving me for weeks.

Not with a suitcase at the door, not with a fight, but with quiet hands and steady motions, one item at a time. 1149 Cedella Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella's storytelling style is immersive and addictive-perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.