My Last Plea Was His Worst Mistake Chapter 10

My Last Plea Was His Worst Mistake Chapter 10

Ethan tried three times before he could get the flash drive into the computer.

The screen lit up.

It was me, recorded on the morning of the fire.

I sat in my studio, a few packed boxes behind me. My face was pale, but calm.

The moment Ethan saw me, he froze.

He reached toward the screen—then pulled his hand back just before touching it.

On the video, I looked down at a document.

It was a termination of engagement agreement.

“Ethan.

If you’re watching this, it means I’m gone.”

Outside the screen, he barely dared to breathe.

I continued.

“This isn’t some impulsive runaway act, a jealous outburst, or a ploy to get your attention. I’ve walked away from you for good.”

On the video, I picked up the ring.

Back then, it was still clean—the silver band catching the light.

“I wore this for seven years. After you stopped wearing yours, I told myself it was just because of work. But then I watched you tie her shoes for her. Peel shrimp for her. Wipe her tears. That’s when it hit me. It was never about work. You just didn’t want anyone to know you were taken.”

Ethan closed his eyes, the corners reddening.

On screen, I gave a small smile.

“I don’t blame you. You can’t force someone to love you. But Ethan—stop writing off my pain as petty jealousy, my desperate pleas as calculated manipulation, and my endless compromises as quiet maturity.”

I put the ring back in its box.

“There’s one last piece of evidence I need to pick up today. After that, I’ll return the ring. From then on, whoever you choose to care for—it has nothing to do with me.”

Ethan’s eyes flew open.

He finally understood.

I hadn’t been wearing that ring waiting for him.

I was going to give it back.

I just never got the chance.

At the end of the video, I looked straight at the camera and spoke slowly.

“Ethan. You weren’t late. You never came at all.”

The screen went black.

The only sound left was the computer fan.

Ethan sat there for a long time.

Then he bent over, burying his face in his hands.

Broken, muffled sobs escaped through his fingers—each one hoarser than the last.

I walked past the ring on the table.

The hem of my dress brushed the edge, but I didn’t stop.

Later, Ethan resigned.

Word was that he’d wake up in the middle of the night, run into the hallway, and call my name.

And that he never answered another emergency call again.

Every time a phone rang, he’d remember that day.

Remember me calling out through the smoke, “Ethan, save me.”

On the day Chloe was sentenced, Ethan didn’t go to the courthouse.

He went to the mall ruins.

The east wing basement had been sealed off.

The fire door was warped from the heat, the lock melted into a black scar.

He stood there for a long time.

Then he knelt down and started wiping the soot off the door with his bare hands.

Ash and rainwater mixed on his skin.

He scrubbed until his nails split, until his palms bled.

But the scorch marks wouldn’t come off.

Later, he bought that door. Against everyone’s advice, he had it moved to the cemetery.

When my mother Helen heard about it, she only said, “Let him be. If he wants to kneel, let him.”

On the day the rain stopped, I returned to the cemetery one last time.

Ethan was kneeling in front of that door.

His black uniform was soaked through, clinging to him, a pathetic sight.

He placed the warped ring next to the melted lock.

His forehead pressed against the cold metal.

“Luna. I was wrong. Please come back. Yell at me if you want. Hit me if you need to. Just don’t leave me.”

The door still bore the cracks from that day.

He pressed his forehead against it, as if finally understanding how desperate I’d been on the other side.

But it was too late.

I wasn’t knocking anymore.

I wasn’t waiting for it to open.

My mother reopened my studio.

The wind chime still hung by the door.

Wyatt would stop by sometimes to help move things.

He threw away the thermos Chloe had used and put a new one by my mother’s hand.

Wind swept through the cemetery.

Carrying a faint, clear chime.

Like the wind chime at the studio.

Crisp and light.

Years ago, before Ethan’s first mission, he’d leaned down to tie my scarf.

He said, “Luna, wait for me.”

And I did—for seven years.

And in the end, it was a fire that took me.

Now I’m done waiting.

I walked past that door. I didn’t look at the ring. I didn’t look at him.

Behind me, Ethan called my name until his voice gave out.

But I never stopped for him again.

Because Luna Moore died in that fire.

And finally—finally—she walked out of the door he’d sealed shut.