Three Minutes to Say Goodbye
I woke up before sunrise.
Not because the fight was still burning in my blood, and not because regret came knocking. I just have a habit of ending things early—negotiations, battles, relationships. Clean. Efficient.
The living room was still a mess. Shards of the blue porcelain vase Elena had smashed last night glittered across the floorboards. She’d fallen asleep on the couch with her jacket pulled up to her shoulders—like a guard dog that never heard the intruder leave. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. Her phone was clenched in her fist so hard her knuckles were white.
I set my travel bag by the door and went straight to the bedroom, opening the closet.
The zipper sounded soft.
She still woke up.
“…You’re really leaving?” Her voice was rough, still half-asleep, laced with irritation and something she didn’t want to admit.
I didn’t turn around. My hands kept moving, folding shirts and packing them tight.
“You were right,” I said, calm as stone. “We’re not a good fit.”
She sat up like I’d jabbed her with a blade. For two seconds, she just stared—caught off-balance, stunned that I’d actually done it.
Then the armor snapped back into place. She forced a laugh, sharp and brittle.
“Fine.” She emphasized the word like she was daring me to flinch. “I’ve been sick of this for a long time. You really think I can’t live without you?”
I slid open the second drawer, took out two ties, folded them.
“You’ll live just fine.”
No sarcasm. No begging. No drama.
And somehow that hit her harder than anything I could’ve said.
Elena knew how to handle a man who pleaded. A man who explained. A man who tried to fix things.
A man who turned around and walked? She had no playbook for that.
“Don’t pretend you’re being noble.” She stood up barefoot on the hardwood, voice rising. “You leave me, you die. Do you understand me? This city isn’t built for people like you. Normal people.”
I dropped my last box of painkillers into the bag and zipped it shut.
“I’ll manage.”
She stepped forward, blocking the bedroom doorway, eyes flicking over my packed bag like she was counting what she was losing.
“That’s it?” she sneered. “So this place is a hotel to you? You just come and go whenever you want?”
I paused, then met her eyes.
“You turned it into an interrogation room.”
Her smile froze—just for a heartbeat—before she shoved it back up, harder, meaner.
“Take your pathetic antiques with you,” she said, dripping contempt. “I never understood your taste anyway. Old junk, just like you—soft, slow, useless.”
I walked past her to the study and snapped shut the small wooden case on my desk. Inside were a few items I kept on consignment at my shop: old silver coins, a pocket watch, a carved ivory piece. She always called them “creepy.”
The things weren’t creepy.
Her need for control was.
She followed me in, close behind, like she was afraid I’d steal the air out of the room.
“You’re going to regret this,” she said, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “No one will ever care about your safety like I do.”
I clipped the case into the side strap of my bag and tightened it.
She’d said that line a hundred times. Before, I’d swallow my pride and let it sink in. I’d go quiet. I’d give her what she needed so she wouldn’t spiral.
Now I just wanted to cut the truth out of it.
I looked at her. My voice stayed low, but it landed like steel.
“You want control, not love. I’m done being your pet.”
“Pet?” Her eyes flashed, red creeping in despite how hard she fought it. She gritted her teeth, refusing to lose ground. “I protected you for three years. And this is how you thank me?”
“You protected your anxiety,” I said, buckling the bag shut. “Not me.”
Her chest rose and fell like she wanted to lunge, but she didn’t. She just stood there, then forced a laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Good.” She nodded, too fast, too loud. “Go. Hurry up. Get out of my sight.”
I glanced at the wall clock.
Two minutes and forty seconds.
Three minutes was all it took to end a relationship—three minutes to gather the last few scraps of myself I’d left in her hands.
I walked to the entryway, pulled on my coat, lifted the travel bag.
Elena stood in the center of the living room, voice climbing as if volume could keep her upright.
“Don’t think for a second I’m going to beg you to stay!”
I didn’t look back.
The lock clicked shut behind me, clean as a guillotine.
In the hallway, the air was quiet. I hit the elevator button and stood straight. My phone buzzed once in my pocket. I didn’t check it.
I didn’t need anyone’s opinion right now.
I just needed execution.
The elevator doors slid open. I stepped in and pressed 1.
In the mirror, my face looked cold. Clean. No fatigue. Like I’d never loved anyone—and never been trained to heel.
Inside the apartment, only her breathing remained.
Elena stood by the door, listening to my footsteps fade. The second they vanished, the toughness on her face cracked. She inhaled like she’d finally won something, then yanked out her phone and hit a contact.
“Hello?” Her best friend’s voice.
Elena snapped into her brightest tone, too quick, too light. “I broke up with Damien.”
“What? You two—”
“It’s nothing.” She cut her off, laughing too loudly. “I’ve never felt lighter. Seriously. Finally, I don’t have to babysit some disobedient normal guy.”
The words rushed out like she couldn’t afford to slow down.
There was silence on the other end. Then: “Elena… your voice is shaking.”
“It’s not,” she hissed. “How would I be shaking? I just—didn’t sleep.”
She ended the call hard, like she could crush evidence with her thumb.
The living room was too empty.
Empty enough to make her ears ring.
She went back into the bedroom and started gathering the things I’d left behind—no, hunting for proof. Proof that I needed her. Proof that I’d come crawling back.
She opened drawers. Cabinets. Checked the cups I’d used. Even dug through the trash.
Then, in the corner of the study, inside a cardboard box, her fingers found a book wrapped in brown leather.
She pulled it out, frowning.
No title.
Just an embossed crest on the cover: a blood-dripping moon, black roses crossed beneath it.
Her pupils tightened.
A vampire sigil.
“How is this here…” she muttered, a chill sliding up her fingers. But she still opened it.
The parchment rasped under her touch—like an old contract waking up.
Dead center on the first page, written in ancient Latin, a single line stood bold and arrogant in steady ink.
She recognized the opening with effort.
“Sanguine Rex Damien…”
Blood King Damien…
Elena’s breath caught.
She stared at the words as if they were a trap. The contempt, the victory, the stubborn pride—each one peeled away from her face, piece by piece.
On the edge of the next page, something was tucked in—something dark red, sealed like dried blood.
She reached for it.
The moment her fingers brushed the wax, she jerked back, shivering.
As if it wasn’t paper at all.
As if something on the other side had just looked back at her.
