My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The morning arrives slowly, reluctantly, like it’s not sure it wants to wake the world.

Outside the glass wall, the hills stretch beneath a sky pale with dawn. The long trees sway softly in the cold air, their branches whispering as the first sunlight spills over the highest peaks, catching every droplet of night dew still clinging to the grass. The stones glisten. The leaves sparkle. Thin fog lingers between the trees, silver and soft against the waking hills.

Inside the wooden room, morning light pours through the glass wall. At first it’s only a thin golden thread stretching across the floor. Then more. Then all of it. Warmth slowly fills the room, the wooden boards glowing beneath the sunlight while dust motes drift lazily through the beams, like they have nowhere to be and all day to get there.

The red petals scattered across the floor last night have already begun curling at the edges, their color deepening in the warmth.

I move beneath the sheets.

Slowly.

My body wakes in pieces—first my fingers, then my arms. My eyes stay closed. I’m not ready to leave whatever dream I was buried in.

There’s warmth beneath my cheek. Soft. Steady. Rising and falling beneath me like something alive.

Without thinking, I press closer. I nuzzle into it, my lips brushing against fabric so smooth it almost slips against my skin.

A smile touches my mouth. Unconscious. Unguarded. Peaceful.

Then my eyes open. I blink once. Then again. My vision clears reluctantly, like my body still wants to stay asleep.

The first thing I see is Silas’s face.

He’s close. Too close. His face is turned toward me in sleep, brown hair falling messily across his forehead like he spent the night tossing through restless dreams. His lips are parted slightly, his breathing slow and even, each exhale warm against my skin. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

My face is resting on his chest.

The red silk of his nightshirt is smooth beneath my cheek, cool at first before warming against my skin. But beneath the fabric, his chest is warmer still. I can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear—slow, calm, completely untouched by the chaos beginning to unravel inside me.

And we’re tangled together.

Beneath the white sheets, our bodies have somehow twisted together like we’ve been sleeping this way for years. His arm rests across my back, heavy with warmth, his fingers loose near my hip. My leg is hooked over his, my knee pressed against his thigh.

The space between us is gone. There’s only warmth. Fabric. Breathing. Him.

The morning smile fades from my lips.

What the hell?

I told him—

The thought fractures before it finishes.

I sit up too quickly. Cold air rushes between us, filling the space I just abandoned. My hand catches his shoulder—a rough jerk, sharper than I intended.

"Hey." My voice cuts through the quiet. "Wake up."

Silas’s eyes open slowly. His lashes flutter once before he blinks at me, still hazy with sleep, his gaze soft and unfocused from whatever dream I dragged him out of.

Then he sees my face.

I’m glaring at him. My jaw is tight, my expression sharpened into something colder than simple anger—like the last thread of my patience is about to snap.

"I told you," I say, my voice cold and sharp. A blade wrapped in silk. "If I saw you clinging to me in the morning, I’d throw you off this hill."

Silas blinks innocently. He rubs at his eyes, still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, then slowly turns his head to glance beside him.

The space behind him is empty. The sheets are rumpled and twisted.

He looks back at me.

I blink. Then glance beside him. Down at myself.

He’s still on his side of the bed.

The realization doesn’t crash into me. It seeps in instead—slow and cold, like water rising beneath my skin.

I’m the one who crossed the line.

I’m the one who moved.

Something in my expression cracks. Just for a second. My eyes widen slightly.

How is this possible?

I remember falling asleep on my side. Facing the window. The stars beyond the cold glass wall.

I don’t remember turning.

I don’t remember reaching for him.

I don’t remember pulling him close and pressing my face against his chest and breathing him in like he was air.

How did I end up... on top of him?

Silas sits up slowly. The sheets slide down his chest, his hair still messy where it falls across his temple. His expression doesn’t change. No smugness. No I told you so. No victory in his eyes.

Just calm.

Just patience.

Just those brown eyes watching me, waiting for me to finish whatever storm is breaking inside my head.

"Don’t tell me," I say, my voice quieter now, less certain, "that you dragged me over here while I was sleeping."

He blinks.

That’s all.

Just a blink.

His eyes stay on me.

A long breath slips from my lips. I look away—toward the window, toward the fog still clinging to the trees, toward anything that isn’t his face.

"Fine." The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "Stop staring at me. I’ll admit it was my fault."

Another pause.

"Now what do you want to do? Throw me off the hill? Or off the bed?"

Silas’s eyes stay on me. Still calm. Slowly, almost gently, he shakes his head.

No.

I look away again. The morning light feels too bright now. Too warm.

"Then what the hell do you want?"

Before I finish the sentence— He leans closer. His arms wrap around me.

I go still.

My breath catches somewhere in my throat. My body locks—every muscle, every nerve, every quiet thing inside me freezing at once.

Silas’s chin rests against my shoulder. His breath brushes softly against my neck, slow and unhurried. His grip isn’t tight. It’s just... present. Gentle. Like he’s holding something precious, something that might break if he holds too hard.

I don’t move.

Outside the glass wall, the world keeps turning. The sun climbs higher. The trees sway softly in the morning wind. The fog slowly burns away.

But inside this room—

Everything stops.

My fists clench in the sheets. Knuckles white. Jaw tight.

What the hell is he doing?

But I don’t push him away. I don’t move at all.

Then he pulls back. Gently. Slowly. His arms slip away from around me with obvious reluctance, his chin lifting from my shoulder until his eyes meet mine.

He looks at me.

And smiles. Softly. The kind of smile that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that simply exists—warm. Quiet. Certain.

I stare at him.

Then I feel it again. That strange sensation at the back of my neck. Spreading down my spine. Coiling low in my stomach.

I press my hand against my neck—hard, like I can force whatever this is back down before it spreads any further.

Silas’s smile fades. He notices. I see it in his eyes—the shift, the sudden recognition that something is wrong.

I stand up too quickly. The bed shifts beneath the sudden movement. My feet hit the wooden floor—cold, painfully cold, like stepping onto ice.

I head straight for the bathroom. The door closes behind me with a sharp click that echoes through the silence.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

The face staring back at me is mine—but different. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes look too bright, too glassy, feverish beneath the morning light. Even my breathing feels uneven.

I rub the back of my neck again. The sensation spreads lower—down my throat, across my shoulders, settling deep in my chest, my stomach, my thighs.

How is this possible?

It’s still days away.

Then why is my rut starting so soon?