Chapter 10

Dominic sat at his desk, fingers tapping restlessly. Three days, and still no word from Clara. His phone screen flickered on and off—no calls, no texts, no familiar footsteps at the door.

On the fourth morning, he stared at the empty chair across the breakfast table, his chest tight. He rubbed his temples, and suddenly, strange text flashed before his eyes.

[What's Dominic doing just sitting there? Clara's really gone!]

[I'm freaking out! If he doesn't go after her, she'll vanish for good!]

He shot to his feet, the chair scraping the floor. He stared at the air, but the words vanished like a mirage. "What the hell was that?" he muttered, fingers clenching.

At the hospital, in the psych ward, the healer adjusted her glasses. "Dominic, your tests are normal. Brain scan's clean, nervous system's fine."

He glared at the report. "Then why am I seeing things that aren't there?"

She paused. "Could be stress-induced hallucinations. Try resting, take it easy."

Dominic scoffed and walked out. In the hall, he bumped into Aurora, holding a stack of medical forms. Her eyes lit up, like their last encounter never happened. "Dominic? You okay?"

She feigned concern. "You look rough. Want me to—"

He brushed past her without a word. She hurried after him. "Oh, I saw Clara downstairs!"

He froze, turning sharply. "Where?"

She blinked, playing innocent. "In the lobby. She seemed upset, rushed off. I called, but she ignored me…"

Dominic didn't wait for the rest. He bolted to the elevator, reaching the bustling lobby and scanning every corner. No Clara.

His breathing grew ragged, fingers flexing. "So her 'disappearing' was just a trick?" he muttered, eyes darkening.

Over the next few days, Dominic threw himself into social scenes, dragging Aurora along. He let her cling to his arm for photos at upscale restaurants, bid on extravagant jewelry at auctions and clasped it around her neck, even let her post vague, flirty photos of them online.

Each time, his face was blank, but his eyes stayed glued to his phone, waiting for Clara's response. Her chat stayed silent.

A week later, he couldn't take it anymore. He drove to Clara's place. Pushing open the door, his heart dropped. The sofa corner where she always curled up was empty, her favorite throw pillow gone. Her mug was missing from the table, her slippers nowhere at the entryway. The house was a tomb, like she'd never existed.

He remembered the boxes she'd thrown out. He sprinted to his car, racing to the dump. The worker just shook his head. "Trash from a week ago? Long gone."

Dominic stood among the heaps of garbage, hands trembling. On the drive back, the butler called. "Dominic, Clara sent a package."

He floored it home. Tearing open the envelope, a single sheet slipped out: Bond-Breaking Agreement. Clara's signature was clean, final, no trace of hesitation.

"Where is she?" His voice was hoarse, barely his own.

The butler shook his head. "She only said something would come. Didn't say where she went."

A memory hit him. He raced upstairs, shoving open his study door. He yanked open the drawer, and there it was—a dark gold bond-breaking certificate, his own signature staring back.

He looked around the room, at the walls covered with Clara's photos, her keepsakes. Her calm face that day—it wasn't anger. It was goodbye.

The world spun. Dominic sank to the floor, clutching the certificate, knuckles white.

"Clara…"