Dying in Silence

Sienna’s POV

My bloodshot eyes remained glued to the glowing screen of my phone. I stared at Tristan's incoming message until the harsh black text began to blur into a meaningless smudge. Hot tears welled up fast, burning my eyes before spilling over my lower lashes. The salty drops tracked down my pale cheeks. I hastily swiped them away with the back of my hand. I needed the cracked screen to be perfectly clear. I needed to force myself to see exactly what my husband thought of me.

"Stop this, Sienna. Why can't you be more tolerant? Audrey is injured and needs time to recover. Stop being so selfish."

A bitter, grating laugh tore its way out of my tight throat. The sharp sound bounced off the walls of the empty room, echoing like a cruel joke. That singular laugh quickly gave way to heavy, agonizing sobs. My chest heaved with every broken breath. I pressed my palm hard against my mouth to muffle the ugly noise. I feared that if I let myself start screaming, I might never stop. My lungs burned, demanding air, but the grief choked me.

Selfish.

He dared to brand me as a selfish woman.

My doctors had given me barely three months to live. Three short months before my failing body gave out and I was placed in the cold ground. My time was running out faster than sand in an hourglass. All I wanted was to see my son. I just wanted to hold Leo in my arms, memorize the smell of his hair, and find the right words to tell my little boy that his mother was dying from cancer. I wanted to make a few lasting memories before I was gone forever.

But to Tristan, my dying wish made me a monster.

My terminal diagnosis was nothing compared to Audrey’s plight. Audrey had twisted her ankle. She sustained a minor sports injury on a tennis court. It was a slight sprain that required a bag of ice and a little rest on a comfortable couch. Yet, that minor inconvenience was enough to bring her running back to Chicago. It was enough to demand my husband’s undivided attention. Tristan and Leo were currently waiting on her hand and foot. They were treating a temporary limp like a life-threatening crisis, while I sat alone, rotting from the inside out.

The stark irony of the situation suffocated me.

My fingers hovered over the digital keyboard. A cold numbness washed over my hands. I needed to end this pathetic exchange. I swallowed the thick lump of bile in my throat and typed out my final, hollow reply. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Then take good care of your Audrey."

I hit send.

I sat rigid on the edge of the mattress and watched the tiny status indicator under the text bubble. It switched from delivered to read.

Then, I waited.

I kept my eyes fixed on the illuminated screen. One minute ticked by. Then two. Then five. I swiped down on the screen to refresh the messaging app, hoping against hope that my internet connection was just lagging. Ten heavy minutes passed in unbroken silence.

Nothing.

Tristan was not going to reply. He was too busy playing the devoted family man for another woman. He had likely shoved his phone deep into his pocket or powered the device off to avoid dealing with my annoying dramatics. A dying wife was merely a nuisance to him.

I dropped the phone onto the soft duvet.

I lifted my heavy head and took a long look around the expansive master bedroom. This space had been my personal sanctuary for the past few years. Now, the bitter truth finally set in, crushing the last of my foolish delusions. This room was not a home. It was a gilded cage, designed to keep a pet bird docile.

Every square inch of the sprawling suite screamed of obscene wealth. Heavy silk curtains draped over the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking out the sun. Expensive, custom-made furniture filled the corners. Original oil paintings, commissioned by famous artists, hung on the textured walls. Tristan had showered me with all these material possessions. He used his vast fortune as a cheap substitute for actual affection. He threw money at me, expecting me to smile and play the part of the grateful wife.

I had been so blind. I had spent years fooling myself into believing this was a real marriage built on mutual respect.

I was never a true wife to him, despite the vows we shared. I was just another corporate acquisition. I was a shiny object bought off the market for a very specific, calculated purpose.

I had the unfortunate luck of sharing Audrey’s face. When the original woman walked out on him, he scrambled to find a lookalike. Tristan needed a manageable replacement to satisfy his grandmother's relentless demand for an heir. The old woman wanted a marriage and a baby. Tristan needed a woman naive enough to step into the role without asking too many questions. I fit the bill perfectly. I was a convenient mold.

I gave him a healthy son. I bled and suffered to deliver his heir. I did my job.

Mission accomplished, Tristan.

Now that the original Audrey was back in the picture, he no longer needed the cheap copy. The used vessel had served its purpose. I was being tossed out with the morning trash so he could reclaim the woman he truly loved.

My gaze shifted to the polished wooden nightstand next to the bed. A heavy platinum band sat near the edge of the table. I had taken off my wedding ring earlier today. It rested there on the dark wood, a mocking reminder of all those fake vows exchanged at the altar. It was a heavy symbol of empty promises.

Right next to that discarded piece of jewelry sat a small, folded piece of paper.

It was a plain white business card. The corners were frayed and the paper was soft from being folded and unfolded a hundred times over the years. I had deliberately avoided looking at this specific piece of paper for three long years. I used to hide it in drawers, beneath books, anywhere to keep it out of sight.

I reached out and picked it up. My fingers shook with tremors I could not suppress as I traced the faded blue ink on the back of the card.

It was a phone number. My older brother’s phone number.

Donovan had scribbled those ten digits down for me at a chaotic family dinner. It was exactly two weeks before my arranged, loveless wedding to Marco. Our parents had been screaming at each other over floral arrangements, guest lists, and seating charts. Marco had been busy trying to pacify both angry women, oblivious to my mounting panic and silent tears.

Donovan had pulled me aside in the hallway, away from the screaming. I could still picture the intense, serious look in his dark eyes as he slipped the card into my palm.

"If you ever need anything... Even if you run. Call me. I'll listen, I won't judge and I will be on your side, no matter what."

Those were his exact words. His quiet promise had anchored me in that moment of chaos.

I did end up running away. I fled from Marco, from my controlling family, and from the life they planned for me. But I never called Donovan.

For three years, I convinced myself I was doing the right thing. I told myself I had found true, unconditional love with Tristan. I believed I was strong, independent, and capable of building my own family. I thought I didn't need my family’s suffocating wealth, their connections, or their cold arranged marriages to be happy. I was so fiercely proud of the life I had chosen. I wanted to prove to everyone that I made the right choice.

But pride was a luxury I could no longer afford. My pride was not going to comfort me when the cancer finally took my life. My pride was not going to protect my son from a woman who wanted to erase his mother.

I snatched my phone off the messy bedsheets.

My hands shook with terrifying force as I unlocked the screen and opened the keypad. I punched in the numbers I had memorized three years ago. My thumb hovered over the glowing green call button.

Doubt gnawed at my chest, tightening my throat. What if he did not answer? What if he changed his personal number to cut me off? What if he was still furious with me for vanishing into thin air without a single goodbye?

I closed my eyes and pressed call.

I lifted the speaker to my ear, bracing myself for a dial tone.

The line clicked. It rang once.

A long, agonizing pause followed. The mechanical sound pierced the silence of the bedroom.

It rang a second time.

"Hello?"

The deep, familiar voice hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. My lungs seized up. All the air left my body in a sudden rush. Donovan’s voice had not changed at all. It sounded exactly the same as it did on that frantic night in the hallway. A messy war of desperate hope and terrifying fear ripped through my chest.

I opened my mouth to speak. My lips moved, but my vocal cords were frozen solid. No sound came out.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Donovan asked again. His tone shifted, growing sharper, filled with a sudden alertness.

The final wall inside me crumbled to dust.

"Don?" I whispered.

My voice shattered into a million pieces on his name.

The dam finally broke. Deep, wrenching sobs tore out of my chest, racking my fragile frame. My shoulders shook as the tears poured down my face in endless streams. I was crying for the years I had lost. I was crying for the cruel indifference of the man I married. I was crying from the sheer, crushing weight of my physical pain.

But most of all, I was crying because my brother still sounded worried about me. Even after I abandoned him, his first instinct was unwavering concern. I was overwhelmed by the sudden release of finally asking for help.

The line went dead silent for a fraction of a second.

"Sienna? Sienna, is that you?"

I gripped the phone so tight my knuckles turned white, gasping for air between each jagged sob.

"I'm so sorry, Don. I should have called. I should have—"