The Last Time I Called Him Home

The day I was diagnosed with lung cancer, my adoptive father, Lucien Moretti, was busy making wedding arrangements for Harvey and me.

Harvey was the man Lucien had carefully chosen to be my husband.

“Harvey comes from a good family. He’s gentle and a renowned gentleman. He’ll treat you well,” Lucien reminded me.

I nodded in agreement.

“He really is wonderful.”

Harvey was wonderful in every way. The only problem was that I didn't love him.

Lucien paid no attention to my downcast expression. He focused on discussing the wedding details with the planner.

“We’ll hold the wedding on the beach next month. Use champagne-colored flowers, and keep the overall style understated.”

“Chloe doesn't like overly extravagant decorations. Make the stage look more like something out of a dream.”

Lucien held a fountain pen, carefully marking up the wedding planner's proposal.

He knew every one of my preferences. He even knew exactly what my dream wedding should look like.

He had always given me everything I wanted.

Everything except his love.

I watched expressionlessly as Lucien continued discussing the schedule and menu with the planner.

A bitter ache spread through my chest. He was so familiar with every detail because he was about to get married himself.

Everyone in Sicily knew that in three days, Lucien Moretti, the don of the Moretti family, would hold a grand wedding for Vivian, his childhood sweetheart who had just returned to the country.

I drank two cups of coffee, but the acid rising in my stomach made me feel nauseated.

“Chloe, do you have any thoughts?” Lucien turned to ask me.

Suppressing my discomfort, I lowered my head and replied listlessly, “I'll leave everything to you.”

I wasn't interested in anyone's wedding.

After all, I had cancer. I was going to die soon.

Once the arrangements were settled, Lucien drove me back to the estate.

Sitting in the car, I watched the familiar streets pass by the window.

I had lived in this city for ten years and grown deeply attached to it. An overwhelming sense of reluctance settled over me.

I turned to look at Lucien.

The real reason I couldn't bear to leave was him.

Because I loved Lucien.

My loving gaze made Lucien's expression darken.

His grip tightened around the steering wheel, the veins on the back of his hand standing out.

“Chloe, how many times have I told you not to look at me like that?”

“There will only ever be an adoptive father-daughter relationship between us. If you cross that line again, we might as well never see each other again.”

“In three days, I'll have a wife of my own. Stop entertaining these delusions.”

I quickly looked away and lowered my head.

The doctor had told me that the surgery had only a forty percent chance of success.

There was a real possibility I wouldn't survive.

All I wanted was to look at him a little longer.

Even that had become too much to ask.

Soon, the car pulled into the estate.

Outside lay a field of blooming champagne-colored roses.

Seven years ago, Lucien had planted them himself as a birthday gift for me.

I felt unwell and let out a soft cough.

Lucien took a blanket from the car and draped it over me, gently patting my back.

“Have you caught a chill lately?”

I shook my head and smiled at him.

“What flowers does Vivian like?”

Lucien answered almost without thinking.

“Dutch tulips.”

The next second, he realized I was asking about Vivian's preferences and frowned in displeasure.

“I just wanted to give you both a wedding gift,” I explained.

Lucien waved a hand dismissively.

“There's no need. She doesn't lack anything.”

With that, he told me to go inside before driving away.

I stood there, watching his car disappear from sight.

Then I reached into my bag and took out my lung cancer diagnosis.

My attending physician had already contacted a lung cancer specialist in Switzerland for me.

I planned to leave on the day Lucien got married and travel to Switzerland for treatment.

Lucien, I wish you a happy marriage.

Once I leave, I won't be coming back.