My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

—In the past—

The street holds its breath.

Sunlight spills through a break in the clouds—not dramatically, not all at once, but in slow, widening shafts of gold that seem to know exactly where they want to land.

The cobblestones, still damp from a rain that came and went before dawn, catch the light and hold it, each stone a tiny mirror reflecting a sky that can’t decide if it wants to clear or cry.

Flowers hang from baskets in front of the small shop—geraniums in deep crimson, lobelia spilling over the edges in waterfalls of purple, white alyssum so delicate it looks like snow that forgot to melt.

Their fragrance drifts through the quiet air, sweet and patient, waiting for someone to notice.

Someone does.

A boy kneels on the pavement, one knee pressed against the cold stone, completely unaware of anything beyond the small creature sitting in front of him.

His fingers move through the puppy’s fur—slow, careful strokes that start at the crown of its tiny head and travel down the curve of its skull, over the velvet softness of its ears, to the warm pulse beneath its neck.

The puppy’s eyes are closed. Its tail wags in lazy, contented arcs.

The boy smiles.

Not the sharp one. Not the guarded one—the one that keeps the world at a careful distance.

This is something else. Something softer. Something he seems to have forgotten he still possesses.

His eyes are blue.

Not the cold, piercing blue of winter skies or frozen lakes. A softer blue. The blue of morning glories opening to the sun.

The kind of blue that makes people look twice, then look away, then look again because they can’t quite believe what they’ve seen.

His black hair is carefully styled—dark strands swept back from his forehead, glossy beneath the faint sunlight. But a few pieces have escaped, falling across his brow, softening the sharp lines of his face.

His tie hangs loose around his collar, the knot undone, the striped fabric dangling like a half-finished thought.

Ellis Roselle.

Seventeen years old.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of biscuits.

The crinkle of plastic sounds strangely loud in the quiet street—almost like a secret being told in a library. He opens it carefully, breaks off a piece, and holds it between his fingers.

The puppy sniffs once. Twice.

Its nose twitches, whiskers trembling. Then it takes the biscuit gently, almost politely, and crunches it between tiny teeth.

Ellis laughs.

A small sound. Barely more than an exhale. But it changes his whole face—softening the sharpness of it, making him look younger than seventeen.

His fingers return to the puppy’s head, tracing the same gentle paths, learning the geography of something small and trusting.

He doesn’t notice the eyes watching him.

Not far away—close enough to see every detail, far enough to remain invisible—another boy stands with a camera pressed to his face.

Click.

The sound is soft, nearly swallowed by the silence, but it marks each moment like a heartbeat.

Click.

The tilt of Ellis’s head.

Click.

The curve of his smile.

Click.

The way his eyes crinkle at the corners when the puppy licks his palm.

Click.

The way his fingers move through the fur—slow, deliberate, tender.

Click.

The way the sunlight catches his jaw, his throat, the hollow where his collar meets his neck.

The boy lowers the camera.

His eyes stay fixed on the figure kneeling in the golden light.

Brown eyes.

Warm brown. The color of bark still wet from morning rain—quiet, patient, hiding something that burns beneath the surface.

They stay fixed on Ellis without blinking, as if blinking might erase him, might reveal that this moment is only a dream he’s about to wake from.

Silas Stoneheart.

Fifteen years old.

He raises the camera again.

Click.

A smile spreads across his lips—not wide, not dramatic. Private. The kind of smile that belongs to no one but the person wearing it. The kind of smile that holds a secret the heart hasn’t yet learned how to name.

So this is what he looks like.

Not in photographs. Not in memories.

Here. Now. Real.

Soft blue eyes.

A different kind of blue—not cold like the pictures. Warm. Alive.

Pink lips. Soft-looking. Like they’ve never had to be hard. A smile that reaches his eyes.

Behind Silas, a figure stands with perfect posture—shoulders back, chin level, hands clasped behind him. His suit is immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight. His glasses catch the light and throw it back, hiding whatever thoughts move behind them.

Nick.

Twenty-one years old.

Already far too good at keeping secrets.

His voice is low, careful, measured—the voice of someone taught to speak only when necessary, and then only the necessary words.

"Young master. We should head back."

A pause.

He adjusts his glasses.

"If the chairman finds out you snuck out like this... it will become a very big problem."

Silas doesn’t move. His eyes stay fixed on Ellis, drinking him in like water after a long thirst.

"Aren’t you good at your job?"

The words drift through the air—light, almost careless, but carrying the quiet certainty that Nick will handle it. He always does.

Nick looks down. Adjusts his glasses again—a nervous habit he has never managed to break.

"Young master... I’m trying my best to hide it. But it really isn’t easy."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"We’re not just outside the mansion." His voice lowers. "We’re outside X Country."

He lets that sink in.

"If the chairman finds out, he’ll punish you again." His voice softens, almost imperceptibly. "And I don’t want that."

He waits.

"So please. Let’s go back."

Silas raises the camera.

Click.

The smile stays on his lips.

His eyes trace Ellis’s features one by one—the sharp line of his jaw, the soft curve of his cheek, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the careful arch of his brows.

"His lashes are so long," Silas says softly.

"Aren’t they?"

Tiny brushstrokes beneath blue eyes. Like butterfly wings resting against his skin.

Nick’s expression changes—just slightly. A flicker of resignation. Or maybe understanding. The quiet realization of someone who already knows the young master isn’t ready to go back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

He adjusts his glasses again. Then lets out a quiet sigh. Defeated.

Ellis pats the puppy one last time. His fingers linger on its head—a final gentle touch, as if saying goodbye to something he might never see again.

Then he stands.

He glances down at the puppy, a soft smile still resting on his lips—the kind of smile that comes from nowhere and goes nowhere, existing only in the moment it appears.

Then he turns. Starts walking away.

Silas’s eyes follow him.

Ellis passes without noticing—just a few feet away, close enough to touch, close enough to smell.

The air shifts.

Moonflower.

The scent drifts through the space between them—delicate, sweet, almost imperceptible. But something deeper lingers beneath it. Something that belongs to the boy alone.

Silas catches it immediately. His smile widens.

Moonflower.

So this is what he smells like.

Moonflower and something else. Something softer. Something he already wants more of.

Nick opens his mouth. "Young master, should we head—"

Before he can finish, Silas turns and presses the camera into his hands.

Nick catches it clumsily, eyes widening just slightly. Not because the camera is heavy. Because the gesture is unexpected.

Silas steps forward.

Toward the puppy.

Nick follows at a careful distance—two steps behind, the way he was trained. Close enough to protect. Far enough not to intrude.

His eyes dart around the street, scanning for threats, for witnesses, for any sign that the chairman’s reach has crossed borders once again.

Nervous. Worried. Already calculating the cost of this moment.

Silas kneels in front of the puppy.

In the exact spot Ellis occupied moments earlier. The stone is still warm from his presence.

His fingers trace lightly over the puppy’s head. The same gentle motion. The same careful touch. As if he’s trying to learn, through his fingertips, what Ellis had been feeling.

"I want this puppy."

Nick blinks. Confusion flickers across his face, followed quickly by surprise.

"Sir—"

Silas turns and looks up at him. Not angrily. Not impatiently. Just waiting.

Nick straightens immediately. The training takes over. "Yes, young master."

Silas’s gaze shifts back to the puppy. His fingers keep moving—slow, steady strokes through soft fur.

So my Alpha likes cute things.