Three Minutes Too Late Novel by T. L. Dew _ Novel





Three Minutes Too Late Chapter 01

The doorbell rang just after my shower.
Steam still clung to my skin.
My hair dripped water down my back as I walked barefoot toward the door, wrapped in a towel. Through the peephole, I saw two men standing outside.
They wore black jackets and expressionless faces. Total strangers.
But the gun hidden beneath one man’s coat was impossible to mistake.
For a second, my breathing stopped.
Not because I was brave.
Not because I wasn’t scared.
But because I suddenly remembered Ethan leaving that morning.
He had stood by the entrance, putting on his shoes.
“Claire,” he said without looking at me, “I’m not coming back tonight. Lily’s sick.”
I had smiled and said okay.
As if I was used to it.
Maybe I was.
He opened the door and left.
He never looked back.
I stood there for a very long time after the door closed.
I remember thinking:
Maybe he was just tired. Maybe loving someone meant learning not to ask for too much.
Then I went to shower.
And now, before the water on my body had even dried, death was already standing outside my apartment.
Life is cruel like that.
Sometimes you’re still grieving over a man who didn’t turn around...
while fate is already preparing something far worse.
A sound escaped when I accidentally bumped into the shoe cabinet.
One of the men outside spoke immediately.
“Claire Bennett?”
His voice was low.
Calm.
“Ethan Carter’s fiancée?”
I didn’t answer.
I turned and ran toward the bedroom, grabbing my phone with shaking hands.
My fingers trembled so badly I almost dropped it.
I hated myself in that moment.
I hated that after everything Ethan had done...after every disappointment, every time he chose Lily over me...when danger truly came, the person I still called first was him.
His name sat pinned at the top of my screen.
Ethan.
A drop of water slid from my hair and landed beside his contact.
Like the end of a sentence.
The call rang once. Then twice. Then a third time.
Every second felt unbearably long.
Then a violent bang shook the front door.
The lock cracked.
Another hit.
The frame splintered.
The third impact came just as the call connected.
“Ethan.”
My voice came out smaller than I expected.
“There are men outside my apartment. They have guns. They’re trying to break in—”
“Claire.”
His tone was exhausted and impatient.
“Can you stop doing this?”
I went still.
Doing this.
As if I was inconveniencing him.
As if I was interrupting something important.
“I’m serious,” I whispered. “Please listen to me—”
The door slammed again.
The chandelier trembled overhead.
A framed photo tilted sideways on the wall.
It was an old picture from the beach.
Ethan had one arm around me.
I was looking at him like he was my whole world.
But he wasn’t looking at me.
He was staring at the camera with faint irritation.
Back then I thought that was just how he looked in photos.
Later I realized Ethan only smiled softly at one person.
Lily Harper.

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