My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

My steps echo through the silent hallway.

Too loud. Too sharp. Each one a confession I never meant to make.

I walk, still holding Silas’s wrist—dragging him behind me like a prisoner, like evidence, like something I don’t know what to do with.

Morning light spills through the tall windows—golden, indifferent—falling across his skin in ways I refuse to notice.

He doesn’t pull back.

Doesn’t resist.

Just follows.

Like he’s been following me his whole life. Like he’s been waiting for this— for me to grab his wrist and pull him somewhere he doesn’t understand.

Dad’s words circle inside my skull, nesting there, refusing to leave.

He cleaned you up.

Wiped your body.

You were covered in alcohol.

My chest burns just thinking about it—a slow, spreading heat that starts somewhere behind my ribs and crawls outward until my skin feels too tight.

How dare he. How dare he act like he has that right. Touching me like I belong to him. Like he has every right. I won’t let this slide.

My fingers tighten around his wrist. I can feel the bones beneath—small, delicate, like something meant to be held carefully. I don’t hold carefully. I hold like I mean to leave marks.

I open my bedroom door. Push it wide. Step inside.

The room still smells like last night.

The roses are still there. The candles, the champagne—untouched.

Like a scene frozen in time.

Waiting for something that never happened.

A wedding chamber.

A tomb.

I release Silas’s hand. With a jerk.

He stumbles—just a little, just enough—his shoulder brushing the wall. His expression shifts. Confusion flickers across his face like a shadow passing over water. His hand comes up to his wrist, rubbing where I held him. Where my fingers pressed too hard.

The door shuts behind us.

The sound is loud. Final. Like something closing that won’t open again.

I step forward.

The petals crush beneath my shoes—soft, yielding, releasing their dying perfume into the air. White against black. Living against something that used to be alive.

My voice drops. Low. Quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a storm.

"What the hell are you thinking?" I stop. Let the question hang between us. "Who do you think you are?"

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t give me anything to hold on to. His brown eyes stay on me—steady, unblinking. Like he’s reading something written on the inside of my skull.

He steps back. Just once. His shoulders meet the wall.

My eyes burn with anger—the kind that’s been building for days, for weeks, maybe years. The kind that has nowhere to go but out.

I step forward again.

Closing the distance. Erasing the space between us until there’s almost nothing left but breath, anger, and the scent of dying roses.

"Are you dumb?" My voice comes out cold. Sharp. A blade wrapped in silk. "Or are you just pretending?"

He stays still.

No movement. No flinch. No fear. Nothing.

"Don’t pretend you don’t know." The words fall from my mouth like stones. "I don’t like you."

I step closer again.

My hand comes up, pressing against the wall beside his head—palm flat, arm straight, caging him in without touching him. My face is close enough to see the shadows his lashes cast against his cheeks. Close enough to feel his breath.

"I don’t like you." My voice drops—lower, harder. The words scrape against my throat on the way out.

"Did you hear me clearly?"

He stares at me. No reaction. No tears. No anger. No fear.

His face is calm. Almost peaceful. Like he already knew all of this. Like I’m not telling him anything he hasn’t already figured out on his own.

Like my hatred is just weather. Something that passes. Something that doesn’t touch him.

That makes me angrier than anything else.

My voice drops—dangerous now. Quiet. The kind of quiet that should make anyone with survival instincts run.

"So don’t try to get close to me." A pause. I let the words settle into his skin. "Don’t touch me."

Another pause.

"Especially when I’m sleeping." My jaw tightens. My teeth press together. "If you do—" I lean closer. Just enough. "—you will regret it."

The words hang in the air between us—heavy, sharp.

"Do you understand?"

For a moment, nothing. Then—

Slowly. So slowly I almost miss it.

He nods.

Just once. Barely a movement—his chin dipping toward his chest. My eyes stay on him.

What the hell is this?

He just nodded. Like I asked him to pass the salt. Like I asked him what time it was. Like I didn’t just threaten to make his life hell.

I pull my hand back from the wall and step away. The space between us rushes back in—cold now, empty, filled with everything I didn’t say.

"From now on, keep your distance." My voice is flat. Tired. The anger still there, but buried now—pressed down beneath exhaustion.

"And don’t ever complain about me to my father."

I look at him.

"Don’t tell anyone what happens between us." Silas shakes his head. Quick. Immediate.

No. I won’t.

"Better for you."

He looks down. I turn. Start walking toward the door. Then I stop.

Suddenly.

Something catches in my chest—a hook, a thorn, a question I didn’t mean to ask. My fists clench at my sides.

I look back.

"Last night."

The words come out quieter than I intended. Something else beneath them—something I don’t want to name.

"Did you..." A pause. The silence stretches. "...take off my clothes?"

He blinks.

Then looks up at me—those brown eyes steady, warm, like embers glowing beneath ash.

He shakes his head.

No.

I don’t say anything else. I walk out of the room. The door closes behind me—soft this time, almost gentle, like even it is tired of slamming.

I stand in the hallway. My breathing is steady—but something feels off.

The anger in my chest rises and falls, refusing to settle. My hands clench at my sides—the bandaged one tightening painfully, the pressure sharp but controlled.

His face was so calm. Like he didn’t care what I said to him. Like my words were just wind passing through trees. Like I’m the one who should be afraid.