My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The evening light slants through the tall glass walls, golden and heavy, spilling across the polished marble floor. I sit on the couch, leaning back against the cushions, a book open on my lap. My eyes move across the words, but nothing stays. The letters blur together, the sentences dissolving before I can hold onto them.

My gaze drifts to the phone resting on the table beside me.

Almost evening. He’s still sleeping.

Should I check on him? Make sure he’s breathing?

I shake my head and force my attention back to the page, turning it with more force than necessary.

Why am I so worried about him? He’s fine.

But the words won’t settle. The paragraphs blur together. Time drags painfully slow, thick and heavy, pulling at the edges of my patience.

My gaze drifts to the phone again.

What if he collapsed in his room?

Alone?

If Father finds out—if he hears that I left his precious beta prince lying there sick while I sat here reading—he’ll start his lectures again. The disappointed voice. The heavy sighs. The quiet look that somehow feels worse than shouting.

I don’t want that trouble anymore. It’s exhausting.

I close the book and set it aside. The sound echoes softly through the quiet room.

Then I stand.

My footsteps are slow, deliberate, each one pressing against the marble like I’m still trying to decide whether to turn back. The hallway stretches ahead of me, silent and dim.

I walk toward his room. At the bottom of the stairs, I stop.

Maybe I’m overthinking. He’s an adult. He can take care of himself.

I turn away.

He’s probably just tired. That’s all. The drive. The night he spent taking care of me. His body is just catching up.

I take a step back toward the living room—Then stop again.

Or... Maybe I should just check once. Just one look. That’s it.

My fists clench at my sides, nails pressing into my palms. Why the hell am I thinking this much?

I exhale sharply.

It’s just a glance.

Then I turn back toward the stairs and start climbing. Each step feels heavier than the last.

The upstairs hallway is dim, washed in soft golden light. I walk to his door and stop in front of it.

No sound from inside. No movement. Just silence—thick and waiting.

He’s probably asleep.

I turn the handle slowly and step inside.

The room is dim. The curtains are drawn, but evening light slips through the thin gap between them, painting narrow gold lines across the floor. The air feels warm—too warm—heavy with the scent of sleep and fever.

I walk toward the bed.

And then I see him.

Silas lies on his back, one arm draped across his stomach, the other resting beside the pillow. His face is too red, the flush spreading across his cheekbones and down the length of his neck. His lips are parted—dry, cracked slightly at the edges. His breaths come shallow and uneven, each inhale sounding heavier than the last.

The cooling patch still rests against his temple, curled slightly at one corner, barely clinging to his skin anymore. His hair has fallen across his eyes—messy, tangled, almost uncomfortable to look at.

I stand there for a moment. Watching him.

He’s burning up.

Why didn’t he call for help?

Why didn’t he come find me?

Before I can stop myself, my hand reaches toward his face. Slowly—carefully—I brush the strands away from his forehead. My fingers graze his skin.

Hot. Hotter than before.

His fever got worse.

Silas stirs beneath my touch. His eyelids flutter open slowly—heavy, dazed. He looks at me, but it takes a moment for his gaze to truly focus, like he’s dragging himself back from somewhere far away.

I pull my hand back immediately.

My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "Your fever’s getting worse. Get up. We’re going to the hospital."

Silas slowly pushes himself upright. His arms tremble beneath him. His eyes are glassy with heat, brown irises blurred at the edges. Sweat glistens along his temples, his upper lip, the hollow of his throat.

Even sitting up seems difficult for him. Every movement looks exhausting.

I raise my hand toward him.

"I’ll help you."

Silas looks at my hand. Then at my face. Then back at my hand again. Slowly, he shakes his head.

No.

My expression twists—confusion, irritation, something else I don’t want to name.

"What do you mean no?" My voice sharpens slightly. "Don’t you want to go to the hospital?"

Silas reaches toward the bedside table. His fingers fumble clumsily for the notebook and pencil, knocking lightly against the lamp before finally grabbing them.

He writes slowly. Carefully. Each letter looks exhausting. Then he tears the page free and hands it to me.

No. I’m fine. Just stay with me for a while.

I stare at the words before looking back up at him.

Fine?

"Look at yourself." My voice stays cold, but something beneath it shifts uncomfortably. "Does this look fine to you?"

I pause.

"Get up. We’re going."

Silas lowers his gaze and writes again. Slower this time. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Please. Stay with me.

My anger twists inside me—not the clean, sharp anger I’m used to, but something muddier. Heavier.

"Fine."

The word comes out sharp enough to cut.

"If you want to die like this, then die. I’m not staying."

I turn away from him. Walk toward the door. My hand closes around the doorknob. I twist it open.

Cool air slips in from the hallway, brushing against my skin, carrying the quiet scent of the sleeping house and the distant approach of night.

I stop.

Something holds me there. Not his hand—he’s too far away. Something else.

I look back.

Silas sits on the bed with his head lowered, shoulders curved inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Tears slip silently from his face onto the open pages of his notebook, catching the dim light like shattered glass.

He doesn’t look up.Doesn’t try to stop me. He just sits there.

Crying.

Alone.

My anger doesn’t fade—it changes into something heavier. Something that settles hard against my ribs and refuses to move.

He’s crying.

Why is he crying?