Morning light bled through the heavy curtains. My lungs ached with my first waking breath. I reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, my fingers brushing the cold plastic of my pill bottle.
The brass handle of my bedroom door turned. No knock. No hesitation.
Daphne Whitlock pushed inside and shut the door behind her. She didn't pause at the threshold. She crossed the rug, her gaze sweeping over my vanity, my jewelry box, my life. She sank onto the edge of my mattress, making herself at home in the room I shared with her brother-in-law.
"You look terrible, Sienna," Daphne said.
"And you look entirely too comfortable in my bedroom," I replied, keeping my voice flat.
Daphne ignored the warning. She rested her palm against her lower stomach. Her silk nightgown clung to the unmistakable swell above her hips.
"It's time we stopped pretending." She stroked the curve of her belly. "Caleb loves me. He always has. This baby will be the only legitimate Marchetti heir. You need to bow out gracefully."
My chest tightened, choking my already failing breath. A sharp cough rattled in my throat. I pressed a hand to my mouth until it passed.
Daphne watched me with detached pity.
The whispered words from the trophy room took shape in the daylight — in the form of Daphne's manicured hand resting on her unborn child.
"He told you to come here?" I asked.
"He doesn't have to," Daphne replied, her chin tilting up. "We both know why he married you. It was never about love."
"Enlighten me."
"You were a convenient shield." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with cruel triumph. "A wife kept the elders from questioning why he spent so much time at my estate. It kept me safe from the family's scrutiny while Theo was sick. You served your purpose."
I gripped the edge of the duvet. The fabric bit into my knuckles. "A shield."
"A temporary one," she corrected. "And your time is up."
I stared at the woman on my bed. She practically glowed with health and victory, a stark contrast to my pale skin and hollow cheekbones.
"If my time is up, Daphne, why isn't my husband the one telling me?" I tilted my head, locking onto her gaze. "Why are you sneaking into my bedroom while he's downstairs having coffee?"
A flush crept up Daphne's neck. She looked away, her fingers twitching against the silk. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
"He's protecting your feelings," she finally shot back, though her tone had lost its venom.
"Caleb doesn't care about my feelings. If he wanted me gone, he'd hand me the paperwork himself."
Daphne's jaw snapped shut. She glared, embarrassment hardening into defensive anger. "You saved him in Chicago. You took a bullet meant for him."
"I'm aware of my own medical history," I said dryly.
"He feels he owes you his life," Daphne spat. "He pities you. He won't kick a dying woman to the curb. He thinks it would make him a monster."
"So he's keeping me around out of charity."
"He's waiting for nature to take its course," she said, her voice dropping to an ugly whisper. "But we can't wait for your illness to finish the job. My baby needs a father now. Not in a month."
My eyes tracked her fingers as they traced slow circles over her womb.
Three years ago, Caleb had knelt beside this very mattress. He'd pressed his warm mouth against my flat stomach, his hands trembling as he looked up at me.
*We're going to fill these halls, Sienna. You and me.*
The memory shattered into jagged shards and sliced me open from the inside.
"I thought his debt to me was another form of love," I murmured. The realization tasted like ash.
"It was an obligation," Daphne agreed, her tone softening into fake sympathy. "You see that now."
"No." I met her gaze, my chest turning to ice. The sorrow evaporated, replaced by cold, calculating clarity. "I'm a vessel for his guilt. And a very useful prop."
Daphne frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"A grieving widower gets far more sympathy from the board than a man who divorces his sick wife for his dead brother's widow," I said. "He isn't silent because he pities me. He's silent because my death keeps his image clean."
Daphne flinched. She stood up abruptly, smoothing the front of her gown to hide her unease.
"Think whatever you want," she said. She reached into the deep pocket of her robe and pulled out a folded stack of thick, legal-sized paper. "But you're going to sign this."
She tossed the documents onto my nightstand.
The pages slid across the polished mahogany. Daphne grabbed my amber prescription bottle and slammed it down on the corner, pinning the divorce agreement in place.
"Have some dignity, Sienna," she threw over her shoulder as she walked out. "Leave before he has to force you out."
The door shut firmly behind her.
I sat alone in the quiet room. My gaze moved from the closed door to the nightstand.
The stark black ink of the legal document peeked out from under the heavy plastic of my painkillers. A tidy, quiet exit. Exactly what Daphne wanted. Exactly what Caleb needed to keep his hands clean.
I touched my coat draped over the chair, my eyes fixing on the pocket. The clinical trial approval letter remained hidden inside.
I wasn't going to die quietly.
The divorce papers sat motionless beneath the weight of my medication. Would I sign his sister-in-law's drafted agreement, or walk downstairs, force Caleb to look me in the eye, and make him beg for his life back?
