Chapter 5 Silence

~Victoria's POV~

I called my father's office four times before I gave up counting.

"Mr. Hale's assistant speaking."

"It's Victoria. I need to speak with my father. Now."

"Ms. Hale, I'm so sorry, your father is in the middle of an urgent matter and cannot be reached at the moment."

"What urgent matter? I was in cardiac arrest today. He came to see me, then vanished without an explanation. I need to know what's going on."

"I understand your concern, but I've been instructed…"

"Instructed to do what? Keep me in the dark?"

There was a pause, the kind that told me she was choosing her words very carefully. "I will pass along your message the moment he's available."

"You said that three calls ago."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Hale. I truly am."

The line went dead, and I sat there staring at the ceiling tiles, feeling something cold settle into my chest that had nothing to do with the cardiac monitors.

Fine. If nobody was going to tell me anything, I would find out myself.

—------------

I pulled my laptop from my overnight bag, wincing as the IV line tugged against my wrist, and typed the name into the search bar with shaking fingers.

Selene Ashford.

Photos loaded one after another. Galas. Charity dinners. A woman with dark, glossy hair and a smile that looked practiced in a mirror a thousand times. And then I found it, a photo from a business summit, dated weeks ago.

Ethan was standing beside her in a tailored black suit, and his hand was resting on the small of her back. Not a polite, professional touch. It lingered there a fraction too long, comfortable in a way that made my stomach twist.

The caption underneath read: Cole Technologies CEO Ethan Cole with Ashford Holdings executive Selene Ashford, described by insiders as "strategic partners" ahead of a rumored joint venture.

Six weeks ago.

I did the math in my head, over and over, hoping I'd get a different answer each time. Six weeks ago was before Dr. Whitfield had even confirmed the sixth failed cycle. Before I'd cried myself to sleep in the bathroom so Ethan wouldn't hear me. Before any of this.

Whatever this was, it hadn't started today. It hadn't even started this month.

I closed the laptop and pressed the heel of my hand against my eyes, trying to hold myself together in a room that suddenly felt too small and too quiet at the same time.

—-----------

The nurse came in a little after eight, holding a clipboard and speaking in that soft, rehearsed tone hospital staff use when they think you might shatter if they raise their voice.

"Just going over your discharge paperwork, Mrs. Cole. We want to make sure you understand the medication schedule before you go home tomorrow."

I nodded, only half listening.

"Oh, and your husband called the front desk a little while ago," she added, flipping a page. "He said he'd be by later tonight. He wanted us to let you know that everything would be explained."

Everything would be explained.

I clung to that sentence like it was the only solid thing in the room. I wanted so badly to believe it meant something good. That he'd walk through that door and tell me it was all a misunderstanding, that Selene Ashford was some business partner and nothing more, that the hand at her back was nothing, that what I saw on his phone screen was a typo, a trick, a bad dream.

"Did he say what time?"

"He didn't specify. Just that it would be tonight." She smiled gently and patted my chart against her chest. "Try to rest, dear. Your body's been through a lot."

She was right about that, at least.

—--------------

I don't remember falling asleep. One moment I was staring at the window, watching the city lights blur through unshed tears, and the next, my eyes were fluttering open to a room gone dim.

Something on the bedside table caught my eye. A small box, plain, no wrapping paper, no delivery label, nothing to indicate where it had come from or who had left it.

I sat up slowly, my body protesting every movement, and reached for it with trembling fingers.

Inside, resting on a bed of black tissue paper, was a single rose. Not red. Black, or close enough to it, its petals already curling and wilting at the edges like it had been cut days ago and only just delivered now.

Beneath it was a small white card.

My hands were shaking before I even opened it, some instinct deep in my chest already telling me that this wasn't kindness. Nobody sends a dying flower to a woman recovering from cardiac arrest unless they want her to understand something ugly.

I unfolded the card.

Rest well, Mrs. Cole. It would be such a shame if your heart gave out again, before the wedding.

No signature. No name. Just those words, printed in a clean, cold font that gave away nothing about who had written them.

I read it three times, my mind stumbling over the same word each time.

Wedding.

Not my wedding. Not a wedding I knew about. The kind of wedding a woman writes about when she's already certain there's going to be one, when she's already counting down days instead of hoping.

My chest tightened, and for one terrifying second I thought my heart might actually be failing again, that whatever damage the transfer and the cardiac arrest had done was finally catching up with me in the dark, alone, with no one around to press the call button in time.

And then the fire alarm went off.

The shriek of it tore through the hallway outside my door, high and relentless, followed almost instantly by the pounding of running feet. Voices shouted somewhere down the corridor, sharp and urgent, the kind of voices that meant something was actually wrong and not just a drill.

I sat frozen on the bed, the card still clutched in my hand, the wilting black rose lying forgotten on the blanket beside me, and I didn't know which was more terrifying.

The alarm.

Or the fact that whoever left that card knew exactly when I'd be alone to receive it.