His Love Stayed Silent Until My Death Novel by Seraphina_4ever _ Novel



His Love Stayed Silent Until My Death Novel by Seraphina_4ever _ Novel

His Love Stayed Silent Until My Death Chapter 01

Dominic Sterling and I used to be that couple—the one everybody in our fancy circle secretly hated because we had it all. Childhood sweethearts for over ten years, finally said “I do”… only for our families to go full savage corporate war on each other.
His dad literally shot mine. My dad yanked the life support on his.
When the smoke cleared, all we had left were graves and hospital bills. Whatever love we had just curdled into pure venom. We never actually filed for divorce, but damn, we got creative finding new ways to hurt each other.
He threw a big flashy birthday party for his side piece? Cool. I set up a whole-ass funeral altar in the house right next door—candles, black roses, giant photo of his dead grandpa—just to hex their whole night.
I’d show up to galas with a couple of ripped male models hanging off me, hands sliding low on my hips, lips grazing my neck in full view. He’d retaliate by posting open “auditions” for his next fuck buddy on his story. Our friends all whispered we were trapped in this sick, codependent death spiral—too poisonous to stay, too obsessed to leave.
On our seventh wedding anniversary, he took Tiffany Rose out and celebrated their “seventh anniversary.” Sent me a smug photo of them clinking champagne glasses. Caption? “Why aren’t you here causing your usual drama? That college boy got you pinned to the mattress so good you can’t even walk straight?”
I was staring at the fresh blood I’d just coughed onto the stiff hospital sheets. I smirked anyway, voice low and taunting when I texted back:
“Yeah, his cock stays rock-hard for hours. Way better stamina than you ever had. I’m getting properly fucked for once and loving every filthy second.”
“Oh—and when you’re done playing house, swing by and sign the divorce papers. I wanna give him a real home… and a bed that doesn’t still smell like you.”
Dead silence on his end. Then that low, mocking chuckle I used to melt for.
“Divorce? Fine. But you cheated, sweetheart. You walk away with exactly zero. Not a dime.”
He knew me too damn well after almost twenty years. Money was my oxygen. Leaving with nothing would kill me faster than whatever was eating my lungs.
I clenched the sheets so hard my knuckles went white. The doctor’s words still rang in my head—one week left, maybe less. A sharp, burning ache spread behind my ribs.
“Fine,” I whispered.
He went quiet. Like… really quiet.
After what felt like forever he finally spoke again, teeth practically grinding:
“You actually fell for somebody else?”
I let out a dry laugh.
“What else would it be? Don’t tell me you’re suddenly not okay with letting me go? Wait—are you still in love with me, Dom?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I held my breath, waiting for those sweet, dirty promises he used to growl in my ear every night—promises I hadn’t heard once in seven miserable years of marriage.
But before he could say a word, a sugary, girly voice purred in the background:
“Dominic, the room is literally drowning in roses you sent me! They’re so gorgeous—come take some pics of me~”
Click. Line went dead.
I stared at the blank screen, chest caving in.
Dominic always spoiled with money. Back when things were good, even his casual “just because” gifts cost more than most people’s rent. After we got married? Not even a $5 bodega rose.
But Tiffany? Thousand-stem red roses filling a hotel suite.
She posted soon after. Silk pajama set barely tied, neck covered in fresh purple hickeys that stood out more than the flowers towering behind her. Caption:
“Seven years together! Thank you, Hubby~ PS: how is my man this good with a camera?”
I laughed—actually laughed—until it hurt.
I remembered our early days. We used to fight nonstop because his photos were awful. Fifty-dollar steak looked like gas-station jerky. My designer dresses came out looking like Shein hauls. I’d cry, he’d get pissed… until one day he quietly hired a pro photographer to teach him.
His pictures got insanely good. TikTok blew up. Everyone in my comments begging for the photographer’s name. I’d reply all sweet and smug:
“My boyfriend took them.”
When was the last time he pointed a lens at me?
The phone screen timed out. My wallpaper stared back—me in that white wedding gown, smiling like the world was mine. Bitter acid coated my tongue.
Seven years ago. That long already?
I used to swap wallpapers every week. This one’s been sitting there untouched for seven years.
My own socials went ghost mode back then too. Meanwhile “Tiffany” became the new main character.
The man who once swore I’d be his only muse had picked a new one ages ago.
Turns out I was the only idiot who never let go.
Phone buzzed again. Dominic calling back. His voice came through rough, but rock-solid:
“You were right. I don’t love you anymore either.”
“Divorce is the cleanest way. I want to give Tiffany a real home.”
Old me would’ve jumped on a plane and stormed their suite, made a scene that’d be talked about for years.
Current me could barely sit up without getting dizzy. So I just answered, calm as hell:
“Okay.”
“Let’s do it tomorrow then. After you finish celebrating Tiffany’s birthday, come back and we’ll divorce.”
Right as the words left my mouth, the hospital door slid open.
Julian Hayes walked in holding a thermos, steam curling up.
“Drink this while it’s hot. I just made it—”
“Hah.”
“Victoria Vance, good for you.”
The call cut off again.

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