Author's Note:
Surprised? 👀
You didn't expect her voice here, did you?
But a mother always knows — even when she stays silent.
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Mrs Vivian stone POV
I've learned that silence can be its own kind of survival.
That's how I've lived for years — quietly, carefully, learning when to speak and when to simply fold my hands on my lap and say nothing at all.
My husband, Richard, has always been a man of control. His words are not suggestions; they're commands shaped like conversations. And when he said Amara would marry Alexander Voss, I didn't ask why.
Because I already knew asking would change nothing.
That night, during dinner — the same night my daughter's world began to unravel — I saw everything unfold across the table.
The tremor in Amara's hand when the fork slipped from her fingers.
The flare of pain and defiance in her eyes when she said no.
The calm, terrifying coldness in Richard's voice when he disowned her for it.
I wanted to speak. God knows I did.
But my tongue felt made of lead, and my fear was older than my courage.
Richard has a way of making you small — of reminding you that your voice is only welcome when it agrees with his.
So I watched my daughter walk away that night, tears in her eyes, and I sat there, doing nothing but breathing through the ache in my chest.
That's what it means to be his wife.
To endure. To submit. To survive.
Now, days later, I sit alone in this house that never feels like home. The air smells like expensive polish and old wine — wealth, control, and emptiness. I've been hearing bits and pieces about the preparations. Dress fittings. Jewelry selection. Invitations sent.
She hasn't called me.
But I know she's hurting.
I feel it like it's my own.
I saw the way she looked at her father the last time they were in the same room — not with love, but with something raw, betrayed.
And when I looked at her, I saw myself — twenty-five years ago.
The same fear. The same helplessness. The same quiet breaking.
I tried to speak to Richard again tonight, after dinner.
"She's not ready," I said softly. "Maybe we should wait—"
He didn't even look up from his papers. "The contract is signed. It's done."
Just like that.
He doesn't see her as a daughter anymore. He sees her as a transaction, a solution, a name to secure his legacy.
But I see her.
I always have.
I see the little girl who used to sneak into my room at night after one of his scoldings, curling up beside me and whispering, "Mom, why does he never smile?"
And now she's marrying a man whose smile looks just as cold.
I press a trembling hand to my mouth, tears slipping down my cheek. I don't even try to stop them this time.
I wish I could protect her. I wish I could stand between her and the world her father built. But I can't.
Because in this family, love is quiet.
And silence is survival.
Still, when I close my eyes tonight, I whisper a prayer — not for the marriage to succeed, but for my daughter to stay strong enough to survive it.