The shrill ring of my cell phone shattered the morning quiet.
I snatched the device from the nightstand. The caller ID flashed *St. Brigid Hospital*.
"Sienna?" a woman asked.
"Speaking."
"This is Nurse Hayes from the ICU. We've been trying to reach you since midnight."
I frowned, glancing at my blank notification screen. "My phone has been on all night. I didn't get any missed calls."
"We left four urgent voicemails with your estate's front desk," the nurse pressed, her words clipped with frustration. "Your mother's vitals plummeted around one in the morning."
My knees buckled. "What happened?"
"Her organs are shutting down. She's failing fast. You need to come now."
"I'm on my way," I choked out.
"Hurry. She doesn't have much time."
The line went dead.
I shoved my arms into my heavy wool coat. The thick fabric brushed the Hale approval letter hidden in the pocket.
I sprinted down the grand staircase. My socks slid on the polished marble, nearly sending me tumbling. The heavy front doors loomed at the end of the foyer, promising escape.
"Sienna."
Caleb's voice cracked like a whip across the entryway.
I didn't stop. I reached for the brass handle.
A large hand clamped around my wrist and yanked me backward.
My shoulder wrenched. I slammed into Caleb's chest. His fingers dug into my skin, locking my arm in a brutal vice.
"Where do you think you're going?" Caleb demanded.
"Release me." I twisted my arm.
His grip hardened. "You don't leave this house without running it by me. You look completely unhinged."
"My mother is dying." I shoved at his chest with my free hand. "St. Brigid just called. I need to get there right now."
"You're not going anywhere looking like this."
He scanned my messy hair, the oversized coat over my pajamas, my bare socked feet.
"I don't care about my clothes!" I shouted. "She is taking her last breaths!"
"You represent the Marchetti family," he shot back, his tone icy. "Act like it."
Footsteps padded across the hardwood.
"Are you trying to cause a scene?" Daphne asked.
She stepped out from the dining room archway, a delicate porcelain teacup in hand. Her cashmere sweater was pristine, her hair perfectly styled.
"Stay out of this, Daphne," I warned.
She took a sip of her tea. "The paparazzi practically live outside St. Brigid. You want them to photograph Caleb's wife looking like a deranged runaway?"
"She's my mother!"
"And you are his wife," Daphne countered smoothly. "You have obligations here."
"My only obligation is to the woman who gave me life." I turned back to my husband. "Caleb, drop your hand."
He didn't budge. "Daphne is right. The press will have a field day."
"You care more about a headline than my mother's life?"
"I care about order," Caleb replied. "Go upstairs. Put on a proper dress. Have the driver bring the tinted SUV around."
"That will take thirty minutes!" I screamed, the sound tearing at my raw lungs. "She doesn't have thirty minutes!"
I yanked my arm with all my remaining strength.
Caleb's fingers bruised my flesh. The same hand that used to stroke my hair during chemotherapy now closed like a shackle. He absorbed my struggle without effort, immovable.
"Stop fighting me," Caleb commanded.
"Please," I begged, abandoning anger for pure desperation. "The nurse said she's crashing. I need to say goodbye."
He stared down at me. His dark eyes held zero warmth.
"She's been in a coma for four years, Sienna."
The words hung in the cold foyer.
"What?" I whispered.
Caleb sighed, annoyed by my panic. "She's been lying in that bed forever. What difference does an hour make?"
My jaw dropped.
"A few minutes won't change the outcome," he continued flatly. "I won't have my wife photographed looking like a mess."
"What difference does it make?" My voice cracked, barely audible.
"Exactly. Go change."
The floor seemed to drop out from under me.
I stared at the man I had loved for years. I had taken a bullet for his family. I had endured poison in my veins to stay alive for him.
He thought my dying mother was an inconvenience to his morning schedule.
*What difference does an hour make?*
The last fragile thread tying me to this marriage snapped.
It didn't fray. It didn't unravel. It simply vanished.
I stopped pulling against his hold. I let my arm go limp in his grasp.
Caleb frowned, confused by my sudden stillness. "Are you going to behave?"
I didn't answer. I didn't cry.
I slid my free hand into my coat pocket. My fingertips found the folded edges of the clinical trial letter. I squeezed until the corners dug into my palm.
Through the frosted glass of the front door, the headlights of the estate shuttle cut through the morning fog. The driver was waiting.
Caleb's fingers stayed clamped around my wrist, refusing to yield.
I didn't beg him anymore.
Would my mother's heart keep beating long enough for me to break free?
