My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

I unlock it. The click is loud—too loud in the silence.

I just want a drink. Enough to empty my mind. Enough to sleep.

I open the door. Step out.

And freeze.

Silas stands in front of me.

The hallway is dim—lit by a strip of recessed lighting along the ceiling, casting a soft, controlled glow across polished marble floors. The light reflects faintly against glass and metal, clean surfaces untouched by clutter.

Everything is still. Too still. The kind of silence that feels designed.

Our eyes meet.

His brown hair is slightly mussed—not careless, just enough to show he’s been here for hours. Waiting. Still. A few strands fall across his forehead, catching the light. I notice how soft they look.

How... human.

I stare at him.

It’s been three hours. Maybe longer.

And he’s still here.

Like a statue carved from silence, placed outside my door.

A notebook clutched against his chest like a shield. A pencil resting between his fingers.

No sleep in his eyes—no heaviness, no shadow. No sign of exhaustion. Just that same calmness.

Unnerving.

The kind that makes me want to shake him until something breaks.

How stubborn is he?

What does he even want from me?

His gaze moves.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Over me.

Head to toe.

My bare feet against the cold marble. The bathrobe hanging loose at my waist—the tie forgotten, the fabric falling open, revealing more than it should. My chest bare to the dim light, the warmth of the shower from hours ago still clinging to my skin like a second layer.

His eyes travel higher.

Then—quickly—he looks away.

I watch him.

I can see it—the way his cheeks flush. Pink rising beneath his pale skin, like dawn creeping over a hill. The color spreads to his ears, the tips glowing in the low light.

Blooming. Embarrassed. Alive.

I blink.

What the hell is this?

Is he... blushing?

Then I look down at myself. My chest. Completely exposed. The bathrobe hanging open like a curtain I forgot to close.

I move quickly—fingers fumbling with the tie, pulling it tight, securing the fabric around me like armor. Like I can still protect myself from whatever this is.

"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, cutting through the silence. "Didn’t I tell you to leave me alone? Or do you want to be thrown out of here in the middle of the night?"

Silas doesn’t flinch.

He just writes.

The pencil moves across the page—quick, certain, practiced. He tears the sheet free and holds it out to me.

I look down at the note. Then back at his face.

I want to drink in peace. But—

I take the note from his hand. Jerky. Impatient. My fingers brush his—just for a second—and his skin is warm.

Too warm.

I look down.

Please eat something before you sleep. If you don’t eat, you’ll get sick. I don’t want you to be sick.

I crumple the note in my fist. The paper folds in on itself, collapsing in my palm.

"I don’t want to eat anything." My voice is flat. Final. "Just leave me alone."

I turn.

Start walking away.

His hand catches my sleeve.

Just the fabric. Just the edge. His fingers pinch the loose material of my bathrobe—holding on like it’s something precious. Something he’s afraid to lose.

I stop.

My fists clench at my sides. My jaw tightens until my teeth ache. My voice comes out cold—ice wrapped around each word.

I turn back to face him.

"Didn’t you hear me?" My eyes lock onto his. "I don’t want to eat anything. I’m not hungry."

Silas’s fingers still hold the small piece of fabric. He squeezes it—softly, carefully, like he’s afraid it might tear. Like I might.

His eyes stay down. Fixed on his hand. On the edge of my robe between his fingers.

"Let go." My voice drops lower. "I’m not hungry."

Slowly—reluctantly—his fingers uncurl. One by one. His hand falls away from my sleeve. Drops to his side. Empty.

I adjust my bathrobe. Pull it tighter. Make sure it’s closed. Make sure he can’t see anything he shouldn’t.

Silas writes again.

His pencil scratches against the paper—soft, insistent. He tears the page free and holds it out.

I stare at it.

How do I get rid of him?

I take the note.

Just eat a little. I hope you like the dinner. I made it. For you.

I look up at him.

So he’s not going to give up.

Fine.

A smirk spreads across my lips—slow, deliberate, cruel.

"How are you so confident?" My voice drops lower. Dangerous. Like a cat playing with something small. "What if I don’t like the dinner?"

Silas blinks.

Confusion flickers across his face—just for a moment. He looks down at his notebook. Then back at me. Then down again.

I step forward.

The space between us shrinks. Disappears. I can feel the warmth radiating from his body—the heat of someone who’s been standing here for hours, waiting for a door to open.

My blue eyes stay on him. Watching. Waiting. Hunting.

He looks up at me.

My voice drops to almost a whisper.

"If I don’t like the dinner..." My smile widens—slow, sharp, dangerous. "I’m going to punish you."

Silas doesn’t hesitate.

He nods.

Quickly.

I go still.

Just for a moment.

He’s this sure?

No fear. No hesitation.

What is wrong with him?

Silas writes again—his pencil moving fast, like the words are pushing to escape. He hands me the note.

I take it.

What if you like it?

I look at him.

He’s challenging me.

Quietly. Without a word. Still pushing back.

I hold his gaze.

"Fine." My voice is steady. "If I like it—I’ll grant you one wish. Whatever you want."

I pause. Let it settle. "But if I don’t like it..." Another pause. Longer this time. "Be ready for punishment."

A beat. "I don’t make empty threats."

Silas smiles. Softly. Warmly. Like sunlight breaking through clouds.

And nods.

Like it doesn’t matter. Like my threat means nothing. Like he already knows— he’s won.

What is wrong with this man?