My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

Silas does not respond.

His brush moves across the canvas, adding light to the eyes, depth to the gaze. He looks like he is alone in the room. Like Soren does not exist. Like the funeral, the rage, the grief—none of it touches him.

A smile touches his lips. He completes the painting.

Beautiful.

So beautiful.

Soren’s anger breaks.

"Are you listening to me?" His voice rises to a shout, raw and desperate. "Are you hearing anything I am saying?"

Silas does not respond.

Soren steps forward. Grabs the glass of water from the table—full, cold, trembling in his grip. The water sloshes over the rim, dripping onto the polished wood.

And throws it at the painting.

The water hits the canvas in a violent splash—cold and final. The colors run instantly.

The blue eyes dissolve into rivers of azure streaming down the white surface, bleeding across the marble floor. Ellis’s face melts—the smile, the gaze, the warmth—all of it washing away in seconds, destroyed.

The brush stops.

Silas’s hand freezes mid-stroke. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

His eyes stare at the ruined painting—at the blue running like tears down the canvas, at the colors bleeding into each other, at the face dissolving into blue and ruin.

The silence is absolute.

"Sign the papers," Soren says, breathing hard, his chest heaving. "Quickly. I do not have time for this."

Silas’s eyes shift.

Slowly.

He looks at Soren. Without blinking. The smile is gone from his lips.

He stands up. Slowly. Calmly. His movements are unhurried, almost graceful—but something has changed.

The air in the room shifts. Thickens. Grows heavy with an invisible weight.

Soren blinks.

"What the hell are you staring at?" His voice wavers, just a little. "I told you to sign the—"

Silas steps closer.

Soren’s breath catches.

"Silas... what are you doing?"

Silas’s eyes begin to burn.

Golden.

Not brown. Not warm. Burning—like embers catching flame, like fire behind glass, like something ancient waking from a long and patient sleep.

The air in the room grows denser, pressing down from all sides, invisible and suffocating. A pressure builds—weight without form, violence without motion.

Soren’s hand goes to his collar. He loosens his tie. His skin breaks out in sweat. Tremors ripple through his hands.

He takes a step back.

Then another.

The scent fills the room.

Oleander.

Sweet. Poisonous. Unmistakable.

It unfurls from Silas like poisonous smoke, spreading through the air, coating every surface, filling every breath. The sweetness clings to the back of the throat, cloys at the lungs, makes the head spin and the knees weaken.

Soren’s knees buckle.

Air refuses to enter his lungs.

His vision blurs at the edges—darkness creeping in from the corners, hungry and patient. He tries to speak, tries to force words past his lips, but they stick in his throat, swallowed by the pressure filling the room.

Silas raises his hand.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

He grips Soren’s chin.

His fingers are cold. Strong. Unyielding. His nails press into the skin, leaving crescent moons of red, drawing thin lines of blood.

Soren’s eyes widen.

He tries to pull away.

Cannot.

Tries to speak.

Cannot.

Silas’s burning golden eyes trap Soren where he stands. Then he speaks.

His voice comes out low. Almost a whisper. Calm. Controlled. Deadly.

"How dare you."

A pause. The air grows heavier.

"Destroy my Alpha’s beautiful eyes."

Soren’s eyes widen further.

He can speak.

He can—

He tries to free himself. Pulls against Silas’s grip. Twists. Strains. Desperate. His nails scratch against Silas’s skin, leaving pale lines that fade almost immediately.

Silas does not move.

Does not yield.

Soren’s every attempt to escape is useless. Silas’s strength is unnatural—impossible—pressing down on him like the weight of something that should not exist.

Something warm drips from Soren’s nose.

Red.

Blood.

Falling onto the white marble.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound is soft, rhythmic, almost gentle. Each drop a small death.

Soren’s eyes grow dizzy. His body sways. The room collapses into a single point of light.

Then Silas releases him.

Soren stumbles back—coughing, gagging, clutching his chest. His legs give way. He falls to the floor, crumpled, gasping, trembling.

Broken.

Silas turns.

Walks back to the painting.

He sits on the chair. Calmly. His fingers are stained with blood now—Soren’s blood, red and wet, seeping into the lines of his palms, dripping onto the white of his sleeve.

He picks up the brush from the table. And begins to paint again.

Blue eyes.

Stroke by stroke, the azure rises from the ruin, rebuilding what was destroyed. The color flows from his brush like water finding its way downhill—inevitable, unstoppable.

Ellis’s gaze returns to the canvas, patient and waiting, untouched by the violence staining the room.

The door opens.

Nick enters.

His eyes sweep over the room—landing first on Soren sprawled across the marble floor, bleeding and barely conscious. Then on Silas. Then on the painting, already healing beneath his boss’s hands.

Behind Nick, two guards stand at attention, waiting.

Nick gestures.

The guards move immediately. They lift Soren—one under each arm—and carry him out of the room. His feet drag across the marble, leaving faint trails of blood.

The door closes.

Nick looks at Silas.

Still painting.

Still calm.

The blood on his fingers smears across the brush, mixing with the blue, turning it violet in places.

He paints through it without pause.

Nick steps forward. Stops near Silas. His voice is careful. Measured. The voice of a man who has learned exactly how close he is allowed to stand.

"Apologies, young master. Mr. Soren entered against the guards’ permission. They tried to stop him, but he would not listen."

Silas’s fingers stop.

Just for a moment.

He turns his gaze to Nick.

Calmly.

His eyes are no longer burning—just brown now, soft, almost gentle. The gold has receded like tide pulling back from shore.

His voice is low. Almost silent.

"What did you call me?"

Nick blinks.

A pause.

Then understanding dawns—a flicker across his face, quickly suppressed. He bows immediately, deep enough that his forehead nearly touches his knees.

"Forgive me, boss."

Silas holds his gaze for a moment longer. Then turns back to the painting.

A smile curves across his lips—soft with something dangerously close to devotion.

He lifts the brush to the canvas, adding another layer of light to Ellis’s eyes.

"My Alpha," he says softly, as if speaking to the paint, to the canvas, to the face watching him from the colors. "Is so beautiful."

He dips the brush into the blue.

And continues painting.