My Husband Chose His Mistress While I Was Dying

By two in the afternoon, the silence in the house felt thick and heavy.

I stayed upstairs in the master bedroom. But I couldn’t rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Trevor’s voice from the kitchen. *You turn everything into a tragedy.*

I stood by the window and looked out at the driveway. The sky was turning a dull, bruised gray.

Down the hall, I heard light footsteps.

I cracked my bedroom door open. Sienna was walking past. She had on a soft gray sweater with the sleeves pushed up. In her right hand, catching a glint of the hallway light, was a small paring knife with a yellow handle. It was from the wooden block in my kitchen.

I frowned, stepping out into the corridor. "Sienna?"

She didn't answer. She turned into the guest bathroom and shut the door.

A minute passed. Total silence.

Then came the scream.

It was loud, shrill, and frantic. A sound meant to wake the dead.

"Trevor!" she shrieked. "Trevor, help!"

My heart jumped into my throat. I ran toward the bathroom door just as it flew open.

Sienna stumbled backward into the hallway near the top of the stairs. Blood was smudged across her left forearm—a thin, shallow red line, bright against her pale skin. The yellow knife clattered onto the hardwood floor, spinning once before resting near my feet.

"What happened?" I asked, my hands coming up in shock. "What did you—"

Before I could finish, Trevor’s office door on the ground floor slammed open against the wall.

His heavy boots pounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. His face was red, his eyes wild with terror.

I took half a step forward toward Sienna. "Trevor, she—"

Trevor reached the top landing like a charging bull. He didn't ask a question. He didn't look at the knife on the floor.

He threw his arm out and shoved me with all his weight.

The force threw me sideways. My left shoulder slammed hard against the heavy oak doorframe. A sharp, burning crack of pain shot down my arm, knocking the wind straight out of my chest. I hit the floor on my knees, clutching my shoulder as spots danced across my vision.

Trevor didn't look back. Not once.

He fell to his knees in front of Sienna and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I'm here," he breathed, his voice ragged. "I'm here, baby. What happened? Are you hurt?"

Sienna buried her face into the crook of his neck. Her shoulders shook with small, delicate sobs. But over Trevor's broad shoulder, her head tilted slightly.

Her eyes opened. They were completely dry.

She looked directly down at me where I knelt on the floor. Then, in a trembling, breathy whisper calibrated to echo in the quiet hall, she choked out her words.

"She came at me... I was so scared for the baby."

Trevor’s muscles went rigid under his shirt. A low, furious sound rumbled in his throat. He pulled her tighter against his chest, shielding her body with his own.

"You're safe," he murmured into her hair. "I've got you. Nobody is going to touch you."

He never turned around. He never checked to see if I was bleeding. He just scooped Sienna up into his arms and carried her down the hall toward his room.

***

By four o'clock, the door to the master bedroom was locked from the outside.

I sat on the edge of the mattress. My left shoulder was swollen and hot to the touch, already turning a dark, mottled purple beneath my collarbone. Every tiny breath sent a throb of pain through my ribs.

Outside in the hall, a heavy pair of dress shoes paced three steps left, then three steps right.

Cole.

He was a broad-shouldered man from Trevor's private security team. Trevor had posted him directly outside my door like a prison warden. My phone was gone. The house phone was cut. I was a prisoner in the room I had slept in for ten years.

Around seven, the lock clicked.

The heavy wood swung open. Cole stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was flat and empty, looking right past my ear as if I were already a ghost.

Behind him came the household staff.

Maria carried a ceramic water pitcher. She set it on the nightstand with trembling hands. Her eyes stayed glued to the carpet, terrified to look at my bruised arm. Trevor had made his orders clear: I was not allowed in the common rooms whenever Sienna was present. The staff knew who held the power now. They knew which woman was carrying the heir.

Maria slipped out without a single word.

Then Marcus Webb stepped into the room.

Marcus was fifty, with graying temples and tired, steady eyes. He had run security for the house for six years. He was the one who checked the perimeter locks every night. He was the one who had watched me tend the garden, watched me wait up late with dinner warming in the oven, watched me treat Trevor with endless patience.

He held a wooden dinner tray with a small bowl of chicken broth and two slices of dry toast.

Cole leaned against the doorframe, watching him like a hawk.

Marcus walked over to the small sitting table near the window. He didn't rush. He bent down and set the tray down with slow, gentle care, making sure the bowl didn't clatter against the wood.

He straightened up.

For two seconds, he didn't turn around.

His eyes shifted toward me. He looked at my face, then down at my bruised shoulder and the way I held my arm against my stomach.

His jaw tightened. Something sad and heavy passed across his eyes.

"Drink the broth while it's warm, Mrs. Hicks," he said quietly.

His voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it was steady. Human.

He didn't pull the door shut right away. He lingered for a heartbeat, his back straight, blocking Cole's view of me. Then, with a slow, solemn nod, Marcus turned and walked out.

The heavy lock turned with a cold, hollow click.