My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The morning light glows in the room.

Soft. Golden. Almost shy—like it’s asking permission to enter, like it knows this space isn’t meant for brightness.

My eyes open slowly. The ceiling greets me first—smooth, flawless, the same one I’ve stared at for years. But something is different. Something has shifted while I was sleeping.

The air is thick with flowers.

Roses, mostly. Their perfume heavy and sweet, pressing against my lungs like something alive—something that’s been waiting for me to wake up. The scent clings to the sheets, to my skin, to the back of my throat.

I keep staring at the ceiling.

Last night...

I turn my head, looking around the room.

Flowers everywhere. Spread across the floor like snow that forgot how to be cold. Petals scattered in careless handfuls—white, cream, blush—as if someone emptied an entire garden into this room while I slept.

Candles in silver holders have burned down to nothing, their bases filled with cooled wax, the wicks drowned in their final melt.

Sunlight pours through the windows—golden, warm. It catches the white petals, makes them glow, makes them look almost alive.

Champagne. Two glasses. Resting on the table beside an arrangement of pink roses so perfect they look fake. Crystal catching the light, scattering tiny rainbows across the wall.

It looks like a painting.

Something unreal.

Something staged.

A wedding chamber.

My eyes widen.

Wait.

Wedding chamber?

How did I get here?

I push myself up slowly. The sheets fall away from my chest. My head throbs—a dull, insistent ache behind my eyes. Too much wine. Too much silence. Too much of everything.

I remember last night.

Drinking alone in the private bar. The wine dark and bitter. The silence heavy enough to drown in.

Lying down on the couch. Letting the darkness take me because fighting it felt like too much work.

Then—nothing.

A gap in my memory. A hole where something should be.

How did I end up here?

Did I sleepwalk?

No.

I’ve never—

I run a hand through my hair, fingers snagging on tangles. Frustration prickles at the edges of my consciousness—sharp and unwelcome.

Then I feel it.

Something on my hand.

I look down.

Bandaged.

White cotton wrapped around my palm, around my fingers—careful. Precise. Someone took their time with this. Someone cared enough to do it right.

Last night. The wine glass broke in my hand. I got hurt.

But who did this?

And who carried me here?

I turn my head sharply, irritation rising, trying to shake the fog loose— and my gaze catches on something.

Silas.

Sleeping on the couch.

Sunlight pours over him like water—like worship, like something sacred. His pale skin glows in the morning light, almost translucent, almost unreal. The curtains soften the sun, turning it gentle, forgiving—making him look like he’s made of light instead of flesh.

His brown hair is slightly messy, a few strands fallen across his temple, clinging to his skin as if they don’t want to leave. His lashes—dark, thick—rest against his pale cheeks, long enough to cast faint shadows, to make him look like he’s dreaming of something beautiful.

My gaze moves over him. Slowly. From head to toe.

His lips. Pink. Slightly parted. Soft, even in sleep.

His neck. The curve of his throat. The way his collar falls open.

Lower. The rise and fall of his chest—steady, peaceful, unaware of me watching.

He sleeps like he has nothing to fear.

Like he belongs here.

I blink.

Look away.

What am I doing?

My heart is beating faster than it should. My face feels warm. I press my palm against my cheek.

First. I need to know how I ended up here.

Did Dad order a servant to carry me into this room while I was asleep?

A pause.

No. How could he—

I stop.

No doubt. He would do anything. Of course he would. Of course he would.

I throw the sheets aside and stand, sliding my feet into the slippers waiting beside the nightstand—placed there by someone who knew I’d need them.

My footsteps are heavy. Urgent. Each one a small declaration of war.

This is too much.

How dare someone touch me while I was asleep. How dare someone move me without my permission—without asking, without caring.

I am not a doll. I am not a toy. I am not something to be carried from room to room like luggage.

The hallway stretches before me—long, empty. Morning light falls through tall windows, making everything look peaceful. Making everything look like a lie.

They made me marry against my will. Isn’t that enough?

Now they lift me from the couch like a sack of flour—like I weigh nothing, like I matter nothing—and deliver me to their precious beta prince like a gift.

Like I’m some kind of offering.

Something to be wrapped in ribbons and handed over.

Something to make him happy.

My jaw clenches. My hands curl into fists at my sides—the bandaged one protesting, sending small shocks of pain up my arm. I ignore it.

I push open the living room door.

Dad and Mom sit on the couch.

Enjoying their morning. Peaceful. Sipping their coffee, reading from a tablet, existing in their own world like nothing happened yesterday. Like they didn’t sell their son to a stranger.

Like the universe didn’t shift beneath my feet and leave me standing on nothing.

Mom’s eyes shift to me. She smiles—that soft, practiced smile she’s worn my whole life.

"Good morning, son."

Her gaze moves over me, head to toe.

Still in the groom’s outfit. Unbuttoned at the collar, hanging open, revealing more skin than it should. Messy from sleep—wrinkled, untucked, abandoned. Stained with wine.

Dark red splotches blooming across the white fabric like wounds.

Her smile falters.

"Ellis." A pause. "What is this?"

I stop in front of them, letting the silence stretch—letting them feel the weight of me standing there, unwashed, unkempt, unimpressed.

"Isn’t that my question?"

Mom blinks. Confusion flickers across her face—genuine, or at least convincing.

"What happened?"

"I can’t believe you two did this."

Dad sips his coffee. Calm. Unbothered. The steam rises around his face, blurring him for a moment.

Mom’s voice softens—the way it does when she’s trying to calm something wild.

"What are you talking about?"

"You ordered servants to lift me from the couch." My voice is flat. Cold. Measured. "While I was asleep. And throw me into my room. Didn’t you?"

Dad’s gaze shifts to me. Slow. Deliberate.

Before he speaks— his mind screams

{Now what happened to him? So early in the morning. Always something. Always drama.}

"What are you talking about?" His voice is calm. Annoyed. The voice of a man who’s been interrupted one too many times. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

"You ordered servants—"

"Why would I do that?"

I stare into his eyes, searching. Digging beneath the surface, looking for something hidden.

His mind says the same thing. He’s not lying.

I pause.

Something shifts in my chest. Something uncomfortable.

"Then how did I end up in my room?" My voice is quieter now. Less certain. The anger still there—but unfocused, searching for somewhere to land. "I was sleeping in the private bar."

Dad looks away, sipping his coffee. The ceramic clinks softly against the saucer.

"You really think I’m that kind of man?"

I cross my arms. Don’t hesitate.

"Yes." The word lands hard. Sharp. "I expect anything from you."

He sighs, setting his cup down with a soft, final sound.

"Go get some fresh air." He gestures toward the window, toward the world outside. "Maybe then your chaotic mind will calm down and start working properly."

"I’m completely fine." My voice sharpens. "If you didn’t order servants—then how did I end up in my room?"

I stop.

Mid-sentence.

The words hang in the air, unfinished.

Did he...

Did Silas do this?

The thought hits like cold water—sharp, unwelcome.

I stand there, frozen in the middle of the living room, my parents watching me, waiting for me to finish a sentence I no longer remember how to complete.

Silas.

I turn and walk toward the door, my footsteps heavier than before.

Behind me, Mom’s voice follows—soft, uncertain.

"Ellis? Where are you going?"

I don’t answer.

I just keep walking.