My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The club’s VIP room glows like a wound—neon purple bleeding into electric blue, strobes slicing through the darkness in violent flashes. Music pulses beneath the floorboards, a heartbeat that isn’t mine, vibrating through the soles of my shoes, settling somewhere deep in my chest where I don’t want to feel anything.

Beautiful bodies move in the half-dark. Hosts draped in silk and sequins, their smiles painted on, their eyes empty. They dance like no one’s watching—because no one is. Everyone here is too busy drowning in their own hunger.

I sit on the leather couch. It gives beneath me—soft, expensive, broken in just enough to feel familiar.

The whiskey glass is cold in my hand. I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the light, lose it, catch it again. Ice clinks against crystal. A small sound. Almost gentle.

I drink.

The burn slides down my throat—slow, deliberate—like it knows I need something to feel. Heat settles in my chest, dulling the edge of everything I don’t want to think about.

My gaze drifts. Fixed on nothing.

The music fades into a dull roar. The dancers blur at the edges of my vision. Everything softens. Drifts. Becomes distant. Becomes bearable.

My phone buzzes.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The vibration hums against my thigh—insistent, impatient. Like a knock I refuse to answer.

I take it out. The screen glows in the dim light.

It’s late. Where are you?

Are you okay?

Dinner is ready. I’m waiting.

Come home safely.

I stare at the messages. Then turn off the screen. Slip the phone back into my pocket. The darkness swallows it.

Annoying.

I finish the glass in one swallow. The whiskey burns all the way down, and for a moment—just a moment—I feel nothing.

Sum sits across from me, leaning back lazily, one arm draped over the couch. He watches me with eyes that have known me too long to pretend.

"Hey, Mr. Charming." His voice cuts through the noise—sharp, but not unkind. "Slow down."

I don’t look at him.

"What’s wrong with you?" He tilts his head, brow furrowing. "You’ve been sitting here drinking in silence for two hours. Ignoring me." A pause. "That’s a little rude, don’t you think?"

I set the glass on the table. The clink echoes between us.

"Nothing."

Sum exhales slowly—the kind of sigh that comes from hearing the same answer too many times.

"Ellis." He leans forward. "You keep saying nothing. But it doesn’t feel like nothing." A beat. "Just tell me—"

A host Omega appears beside me. He pours more whiskey into my glass—dark amber, almost black, like liquid night. He offers it with a practiced smile.

I take it.

Sum leans back, one arm thrown across the back of the couch. He stares up at the ceiling like it might give him patience.

"Ahh." His voice drifts lazily. "I wish I could read minds too. Then I’d know what’s going on in that stubborn head of yours."

He glances at me.

"Ellis. You’re impossible."

He looks away. His gaze drifts toward the door. Then—something catches his attention. His body tenses. Just a little.

"Hey." His voice shifts. "What is she doing here?"

I don’t look.

"Hey, Sum!"

Sum forces a smile. I hear it in his voice—the stretch, the strain.

"Hey, Olivia."

Olivia.

A famous model. Long legs that go on forever. Hair that catches the light like spun gold.

She slides onto the couch beside me. Close. Too close. Her thigh presses against mine. Her perfume wraps around me—thick, cloying, sweet enough to choke on.

"Dear Ellis." Her voice drips like honey, slow and deliberate. "How are you?"

I sip my whiskey. I don’t look at her.

She shifts closer. Her fingers lift—resting against my chest, tracing the buttons of my shirt like she’s reading braille.

"It’s a surprise to see you here." She pouts—full lips pushing out, practiced. "I thought after your marriage, I wouldn’t see you anymore."

I turn my gaze to her. Slowly. Let her feel the weight of it.

"Did you?"

She nods. Her fingers toy with my top button—twisting, teasing.

"You know I miss you."

Sum stands. Brushes off his pants like he’s shaking something off. "I should leave you two alone."

I look at him.

His mind screams—

{Don’t fall into this fox’s trap. Push her away.}

Olivia smiles brightly—too brightly, like a flashlight aimed at someone trying to sleep. "Thank you, Sum. You understand the most."

Sum smiles back. Fake. Tight. The kind that says I don’t like this—but I won’t stop you.

He winks at me—quick, almost invisible. "I’m going to find myself a partner."

He walks away. Disappears into the neon haze.

Olivia leans in, resting her head lightly against my chest. Her vanilla pheromones bloom around me—sweet, cloying.

"I heard your partner is a male Beta." She laughs softly—a practiced trill. "I was so shocked. A Beta? With you?"

I sip my whiskey. My voice comes out cold. Flat.

"It’s just a business marriage. Nothing more."

Her smile widens—slow, satisfied.

"I knew it." She tilts her head, still resting against me. "How could you accept a Beta as your partner? You deserve better."

Her fingers trace idle patterns over my shirt. "You deserve someone like me."

I look at her.

Her mind screams—

{Yes. Yes. I still have a chance. I can win him over. I can make him mine.}

"Ellis." Her voice drops—soft, inviting. A velvet trap. "Come to my place tonight."

My eyebrow lifts.

"Are you sure?"

She nods eagerly. Her eyes light up—hope flickering behind her lashes.

Her face brightens—

The waiter arrives. Pours a drink. Offers her the glass.

She takes it—

And slips.

Whiskey splashes across my shirt. Dark. Cold. Spreading like a stain I can’t ignore. Olivia’s expression twists. Her perfect mask cracks.

"What the hell is this?"

The waiter bows quickly—too quickly, his movements jerky with fear.

"I’m sorry. Please forgive me—"

"Get out."

I stand. "I’m going to the restroom."

She nods, still glaring at the retreating waiter. "Okay."

I walk out of the room. Whiskey drips down my shirt—cold against my skin. The fabric clings to my chest, heavy, damp.

My mood was already bad. And now this.

The hallway stretches ahead—long, dim, too clean. Polished doors line the walls, identical, impersonal. The music dulls behind me, leaving only the quiet echo of my steps.

I push open the restroom door.

Cool air greets me. Quiet. Too quiet.

The lights are bright—clean, precise—reflecting off polished marble and chrome. Everything is spotless. Controlled. Almost sterile.

Then—

voices.

"Cutie. Your skin is so pale."

"Hey, calm down. Why are you resisting? We’re not going to do anything bad."

"Dude... he looks like an Omega. But I don’t smell any pheromones."

I turn on the faucet, ignoring them completely. Water runs—loud, steady, drowning everything else.

I wash my hands. Slow. Methodical. Unbothered.

I grab tissues. Wipe the whiskey from my shirt. The white paper soaks up the stain—amber turning brown, turning ugly.

The voices continue.

"Don’t cry, beauty."

"Oh... little thing." A pause. "His eyes are beautiful. Brown. Shiny."

Another voice laughs softly.

"Yeah... you’re right. That kind of brown... I’ve never seen it before." A beat. "They almost look like jewels."

I go still.

My hand freezes beneath the running water.

Brown.

Jewel.