The Last Wish Before Goodbye

Chapter One

The weather had been strange lately. Each night came with torrential rain, and before darkness even fell, the wind would start howling. Claire Wynn had forgotten to close her bedroom window, so the curtains flapped wildly, knocking over a glass on the desk. It shattered into a thousand pieces.

The sharp crash jolted Claire from her sleep. She opened her eyes groggily, not yet clear on what had happened, when someone burst through her bedroom door in a hurry.

It was Mrs. Dawson, the housekeeper.

She came in quickly, scanned the room, then exhaled in relief when she realized it was a false alarm. Crouching to pick up the shards, she muttered, “Go back to sleep, sweetheart. It’s nothing.”

Claire mumbled a soft “Mm-hmm,” then closed her eyes again. She didn’t move until Mrs. Dawson had finished cleaning and left. Finally, Claire slowly sat up, still dazed, and stared blankly at nothing in particular. She hadn’t even noticed when someone else entered the room.

“Sir’s home. He’s asked you to come down for dinner,” Mrs. Dawson said again.

At the word “Sir,” Claire’s fingers instinctively curled into fists. After a long pause, she muttered, “Got it.”

Satisfied with the response, Mrs. Dawson turned and left.

Claire sat there for a while longer before slipping on her slippers and shuffling toward the hallway. When she reached the second-floor landing, she glanced down at the dining room. The large table was filled with seven plates and eight bowls—but only one person sat at the end.

He wore a neatly pressed shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows. A few strands of dark hair fell loose over his forehead, his usually perfect part now messy. The collar of his shirt was slightly open, and a pin at his throat caught the warm, amber lighting, glinting faintly.

He looked every bit the aristocrat—elegant and unapproachable. And yet, sinfully alluring.

She didn’t even realize her feet had stopped moving. Claire stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at him in silence.

Julian Price.

His name had once occupied every corner of her heart. Every time she whispered it, her tongue curled just slightly, her lips pulling gently upward—it was intimate, tender.

But that was then. Now, it meant nothing.

“Come eat.”

His voice was low, cold, and commanding.

Claire looked up as Julian waved her down. She hesitated, then began walking toward the table slowly.

“Why do you look like you’re walking to your own funeral?” Julian said with a faint laugh. He had a charming smile—his eyes curved into crescents, all innocence and mischief.

But Claire knew better. She’d seen this smile too many times. It usually meant he was angry.

She took a couple of steps back instinctively, her fingers tightening without thought.

Julian tilted his head and studied her for a moment, then set down his spoon and stood. “Come here.”

Claire pressed her lips together and stood still. Her feet felt nailed to the floor.

Julian raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with an unreadable smile. He started walking toward her, the heavy sound of his shoes against the marble echoing through the room, each step making her more anxious.

She knew this would only make him angrier, but her body refused to listen. The moment he got too close, she turned to flee—but he caught her by the waist and yanked her back into his arms.

Then his hand tightened around her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

“I told you to come here. Why did you run?” His voice was low, almost teasing, as he looked down at her. “Say something.”

Claire tried to turn her head, but his grip was too strong. Pain shot through her jaw, and she grabbed his wrist, whispering carefully, “I’m not hungry.”

“Not hungry?” he echoed, his voice flat. Then he nodded slowly. “Fine.”

Without another word, he lifted her like a child and carried her upstairs.

Claire barely had time to react before he tossed her onto the bed. Her head spun from the impact.

Julian loomed over her, his presence heavy and overwhelming. Before she could gather her thoughts, his lips crashed down on hers, his hand still gripping her chin.

She turned her head away as hard as she could, but he refused to let her go. His grip only tightened.

It wasn’t until tears welled in her eyes and she could barely breathe that he finally pulled back. He propped himself up slightly and looked at her face, studying it with unsettling calm.

Her skin was pale and delicate—every touch left a mark. His fingers had already left faint red imprints on her jaw.

“Claire Wynn,” he whispered in her ear, his breath warm, cruel. “If Michael were still alive and saw his precious little sister like this... do you think he’d kill me on the spot?”

He chuckled softly.

Claire clutched at his shirt in a panic, her face draining of all color.

Julian watched her reaction closely, then gently patted her cheek. “Maybe we should go pay him a visit, don’t you think?”

“Julian! You—” Her voice broke as her hands trembled, digging into his arm so hard her nails almost broke the skin.

Julian didn’t flinch. He stared back at her. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot.

Then, just when he expected her to explode, she suddenly let go.

Claire clasped her hands tightly together. She was shaking, but her voice came out hoarse and calm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s my fault.”

Julian blinked, surprised.

That wasn’t like her. She usually screamed, cried, fought him.

“I shouldn’t have refused to eat and made you angry,” she said shakily. “It was stupid. Do whatever you want to me.”

Her voice cracked. Tears rolled down her cheeks, soaking into the bedding.

“Just... please don’t touch my brother. He’s dead. You saw him—on the highway…”

The tears came faster now, her words jumbled and broken. She dug her nails into her palms, until her skin was swollen and raw.

“I know you hate us,” she sobbed. “But he’s already paid the price. If you’re still not satisfied, take it out on me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Suddenly, a wild desperation lit in her eyes.

She grabbed his wrist with bloodied fingers. “Kill me,” she pleaded. “If that will finally make you stop, then do it.”

Julian froze.

That hadn’t been his intention—not at all. He just wanted to scare her a little, make her react, anything but the dead-eyed silence she’d had for months.

But this… this wasn’t what he wanted.

He panicked. He gathered her into his arms and frantically wiped her tears, but they kept coming, an endless stream.

Something deep in his chest twisted.

He held her tight, pressing her into his shoulder. “Stop saying things like that.”

Claire didn’t respond. She let him hold her like a broken doll, eyes half-lidded, unfocused.

Julian rubbed her back gently, whispering, “It’s okay now. It’s okay.”

When he saw her hands, swollen and bleeding, he grabbed them immediately, frowning in regret. “God, I was just messing with you. Why would you react like this?”

Claire swallowed hard and closed her eyes again, resting her head on his shoulder.

Julian sprayed antiseptic on her wounds and then got up to grab two pieces of chocolate from the table.

He knew she’d been refusing to eat just to push him away. That made him angry, and in his frustration, he’d said the wrong things.

“Open up,” he said, holding out a piece to her lips.

Claire stared at the chocolate. It was her favorite kind. He used to buy it for her all the time.

When she didn’t move, Julian licked his lips and grinned. “Should I feed it to you another way?”

She quickly took it from him and popped it into her mouth.

The sweet, creamy taste filled her tongue. She looked away awkwardly.

Julian smiled again. She looked like a little cat while she ate, cheeks puffed up adorably. He fed her piece by piece until the whole bar was gone, then cleaned up the wrappers.

“You’re such a delicate thing,” he muttered.

Claire said nothing. Her head hung low, her energy drained.

When Julian turned back around and reached out to fix her messy hair, she recoiled instantly.

He caught her just in time.

He stared at her, startled by the terror in her eyes. Then he sighed, pulled her into a hug, and murmured against her ear, “Am I really that scary?”

Claire didn’t answer. She just kept chewing her chocolate silently.

Julian didn’t press. He knew she was still traumatized. Her emotions had been unstable for half a year now, and he hated himself for making it worse.

His Claire… she was so fragile now.

And he’d have to learn how to take care of her all over again.

Chapter Two

Drip. Drip.

The heavy sound of rain hitting the slate tiles mixed with hurried, chaotic footsteps—relentless and broken.

It was pouring. Sheets of rain blurred the world beyond, water gushing down in thick streams that swallowed the road beneath.

A row of black SUVs stood silently in the storm. Water splashed off their sleek surfaces as a tall figure stepped into the downpour, holding an umbrella. His perfectly tailored suit clung to him within seconds, soaked through, yet he looked not the least bit disheveled.

He had come to settle a debt. In his hand, he held a life from Price Manor. The only question was: would Julian Price be able to win it back?

Behind him, another set of footsteps splashed closer, stumbling, desperate.

"Get inside. It's raining," the man said without turning back.

But the person behind him didn’t listen. Before he could step into the car, she rushed forward and threw herself into his arms.

Amid the endless rain, Claire Wynn clung to him, trembling. Her face was soaked—from tears or rain, it was impossible to tell.

"Michael..." she choked, burying her head in his shoulder, her sobs muffled. "Please... let Julian Price go."

There was a pause. Then he shifted the umbrella to cover her, pulling her into the shelter.

"You still love him that much?" he asked softly.

She nodded immediately, gripping his clothes like her life depended on it. Her cries broke into uncontrollable shudders.

He looked down at her, a gentle sadness softening his gaze. "If that’s what my little sister wants... then fine."

His voice was quiet, the rain deafening. But she heard him, clear as day.

The cars slowly vanished into the curtain of rain, until nothing was left.

The storm raged on deep into the night. Claire waited by the window, anxiety eating at her, eyes locked on the downpour outside. Then a flash of light cut through the darkness.

She leapt up and ran to the hallway. In the lightning, several dark figures moved toward the estate.

Her heart raced.

She strained to see through the flashes.

But it wasn’t her brother.

It was Julian Price.

Drenched and furious, he burst through the doors. Behind him, his guards fanned out in black precision, sealing off the Wynn Estate.

A flash of lightning revealed dried blood on his face and a chilling gleam in his eyes.

Then, casually, he smirked.

"Long time no see, Claire."

CRACK.

Something inside her shattered.

Claire jolted awake, covered in sweat. She rolled off the bed, gasping. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. Her stomach twisted violently, and she collapsed to the floor, dry heaving.

Nothing came up. She hadn’t eaten.

She had never imagined it would come to this—a battle where one had to die. She had wanted Julian to live.

And Michael had granted her that wish.

Her eyes burned. The walls around her felt like they were closing in.

She staggered to her feet, flung open the door, and ran.

Outside, fresh snow blanketed the world. She tripped after a few steps, falling hard. It was the coldest time of year, but her bare feet felt nothing.

She didn’t move.

The rose garden was bare now—no blooms in this frozen season.

She had once said she loved roses. They reminded her of Julian. A burning, passionate rose that had consumed her whole.

A memory floated back.

Back when the Price and Wynn families weren’t enemies, she and Julian would walk to and from school together. Michael would pick her up, and she’d refuse to let go of Julian’s hand, crying until he agreed to come with them.

Michael would crouch and ask, exasperated, "So who do you want—Julian or your brother?"

She cried harder. "Julian."

She couldn’t remember his face then, only his voice, laughing as he poked her forehead: "Girls grow up and forget their brothers."

Her fingers curled into the snow, melting it into water.

She stared at the slush, bile rising again.

Her vision blurred.

"Claire!"

A firm grip pulled her up into a warm embrace.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Julian stripped off his coat and wrapped it around her, lifting her easily. "It’s freezing! Are you trying to die out here?!"

She didn’t answer.

She looked up at him. That familiar face. Sharp lines. Wild beauty.

Without realizing it, her fingers brushed his cheek, tracing from brow to nose to lips.

He flinched at the cold. "Jesus, you’re freezing."

But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned into her touch.

"Now you know it’s cold? Who told you to run outside dressed like this?"

She laughed softly, then cupped his face with both hands.

"Remember? I did this once before. You bit my hand."

He stopped walking.

She hadn’t said much in weeks. He hadn’t expected her to mention the past.

They didn’t talk about the past anymore. It only made the present seem more unbearable.

They had been childhood sweethearts once. If not for the feud, they might have had a future.

But it didn’t matter now. The war was over. She was still here.

He adjusted his hold, bundled her tighter in his coat, and carried her inside.

That night, Claire fell ill. Again.

Her health had been fragile for months. This time the fever wouldn’t break, and she kept vomiting. Nothing helped.

Julian panicked, called in doctors, ran himself ragged.

She got better slowly, but became even more silent. Nightmares, vomiting, sudden awakenings.

He noticed her slipping further away.

He got irritable.

"Eat," he snapped, tapping the bowl. "Finish it. Or I’ll tell you how Michael Wynn died."

She flinched. Then, wordlessly, she hugged the bowl.

For the first time in days, her expression changed.

He pushed the spoon toward her. "Go ahead."

She obeyed. Ate slowly. Almost finished it.

It worked. Every time he threatened her like that, she ate. Didn’t gain weight, but her skin looked better.

He kept doing it.

Until one day, she snapped.

The spoon clattered to the ground. She screamed, "Then tell me! Go on!"

He froze, then lunged to hold her. "I won’t, okay? Just eat. I’ll light a hundred candles for him if you do."

But she didn’t respond.

Because each time he did that, he reminded her: Michael had died because of her.

She felt exhausted. Started throwing up again.

Julian panicked. The anger was gone. He ran to get her medicine.

It was always in the same drawer. But his hands shook.

He already knew she wasn’t okay. But he had refused to face it.

He told himself she would heal. That if he kept her close, she’d come back.

The girl he loved was still in there. He just had to wait.

He dropped the medicine.

Rushed to her side.

Held her as she heaved.

"It’s okay. You’re okay," he whispered, rubbing her back, burying his face in her shoulder.

If he held on tightly enough, maybe she wouldn’t slip away.

The doctors had said it: PTSD. Trauma. Nightmares. Vomiting. A mind that couldn’t escape its pain.

They had warned him not to rely on medication.

She needed time.

She would get better.

She had to.

He stroked her back gently, over and over, silently begging the universe to give him back the girl he lost.

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