My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

Hmm...

The sound comes from somewhere deep in my chest—not a word, not a thought, just a breath given shape. My lips part. The air leaves me. And with it, the last thread of whatever dream I was drowning in.

My eyes open. Slowly.

Not because I want to, but because the light forces them. Something bright presses against my lids, warm and insistent, the way summer presses against the last days of spring—warm, inevitable, alive.

Too bright.

Everything is too bright. I blink. Once. Twice. My vision swims, then settles. And I see them.

Leaves.

Green. Hundreds of them. Thousands. A canopy of shifting, rustling green suspended above me like a ceiling made of living things. Sunlight pours through the gaps between them—not in steady streams, but in broken pieces, fractured and golden, spilling across my face in patterns that shift with every breath of wind.

I raise my hand. Cover my eyes. Peek through the gap between my fingers. The leaves shuffle above me. Whispering secrets I’ll never understand.

I blink again.

Where am I?

The thought comes slowly, lazily, like waking from anesthesia. My body feels heavy. Grounded.

I become aware of the grass beneath me—soft, cool, slightly damp against my back. The earth smells fresh, turned, alive in a way that dirt in a garden shouldn’t smell.

I look down at myself.

A book rests on my chest. Its weight is familiar—worn leather, soft pages, the slight bulge where a ribbon bookmark has pressed into the spine for years.

Tale of Nine Flowers.

My book.

I take it in my hands. Sit up slowly. The world tilts, then rights itself. Grass clings to the back of my shirt. A few blades stick to my palm when I push myself upright.

I look around.

The garden.

Roselle Mansion’s garden.

But different. Softer.

The hedges are taller than I remember, softer around the edges than the perfectly sculpted ones that exist now. Flowers spill across the stone pathways in rich clusters of white and lavender, arranged beautifully but without the rigid symmetry the mansion favors today.

Roses climb the marble walls in loose spirals, their petals heavy with sunlight. Lavender sways beside the fountains, releasing its scent into the air with every passing breeze.

Roselle Mansion’s old garden.

The old garden doesn’t exist anymore. My father had it destroyed years ago. Rebuilt into something cleaner. Sharper. More expensive.

Then how—

how is it still breathing?

I sit there for a moment, just breathing. Just being. The air is clean here. Quiet. Just wind. Just leaves. Just the distant hum of bees.

And then—

"Ellis... my love."

The voice comes from behind me. Soft. Unhurried. The kind of voice that doesn’t need to announce itself because it knows it will be recognized.

I turn my head.

And my breath catches.

Mom.

She walks toward me through the grass. Not the woman I see at dinner tables—not the one with the sunglasses and the forced smiles and the cat clutched to her chest like a shield against the world.

This is someone else.

She wears a pale blue dress—silk, I think, the kind that catches the light and holds it, the kind that flows behind her like water. Her hair is dark and loose, falling past her shoulders in waves I’d forgotten she had.

She moves slowly, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world and nothing else to do with it but spend it with me.

She looks young.

When she was a model.

Before my father. Before the Roselle name.

She smiles—a real smile, the kind that reaches her eyes, the kind that crinkles the corners in a way I haven’t seen in years.

"Ellis."

She sits beside me. The grass bends beneath her weight. Her dress spreads across the ground like spilled water.

Her hand rises. Touches my head. Fingers threading through my hair—gently, carefully, the way she used to when I was small enough to curl up in her lap.

"My dear son." Her voice is soft as velvet, warm as summer. "Why are you sleeping here on the grass?"

I stare at her.

What is this?

Why does Mom look so young?

Why is she here, in this garden?

Why is she touching me like she used to—like I’m something precious, something worth holding?

"If you’re sleepy," she continues, her fingers still moving through my hair, "sleep in your room. Not here."

She glances down at the grass beneath us, then back at me. "The grass is uncomfortable, my love."

I can’t speak. My throat is tight. My chest aches with something I can’t name.

She takes the book from my hands. Her fingers brush against mine—warm, familiar, real.

A soft laugh slips from her lips. Light as air. Sweet as honey.

"My baby." She turns the book over in her hands, running her palm across the worn cover. "You’re still reading this?"

I stare at her eyes. There’s silence there.

No noise. No static. No hidden thoughts spilling out like water through cracks in a dam. No screaming, no whispers, no tangled threads of fear and desire and calculation.

Just quiet. Just her.

The leaves rustle overhead. The wind carries the scent of roses. Somewhere behind us, a bird sings.

Mom’s hand reaches to my cheek. Her palm is warm—so warm—and I lean into it without meaning to, without thinking, without caring.

Her thumb brushes my skin.

"Son." Her voice drops to something softer, something meant only for me. "Let’s go inside. I’ll read it to you."

My voice is barely a whisper. Fragile. Small. The voice of a boy who still believes in happy endings.

"Mom..."

She tilts her head. A strand of dark hair falls across her cheek. Her eyes—her eyes—hold mine with a patience I haven’t seen in years.

"Yes, son?"

"Are you... really going to read it to me?"

Her smile widens. It softens her whole face. Reaches her eyes. Crinkles the corners in a way I’d forgotten she could.

"Yes."

She stands. Brushes the grass from her dress. The silk catches the light and glows. She offers me her hand.

"Let’s go."

I look at her hand. Slender fingers. Pale skin. The silver ring she always wore on her middle finger—the one with the small sapphire, the one she said her mother gave her before she died.

Then at her face. Soft. Waiting. Patient. The way she used to look at me. Before everything changed.

Something in my chest softens. A smile rises before I can stop it—warm, unguarded, unfamiliar against my face.

I take her hand. My fingers curl around hers—smaller against her palm, the way a child’s fingers curl around a parent’s.

I stand.

She looks down at me. Her eyes are soft. Her smile is soft. Everything about her is soft in this place that doesn’t feel entirely real.

"Let’s go."

We start walking.

The grass whispers beneath our feet. The flowers turn their faces toward us as we pass—white roses, pink peonies, lavender releasing its scent into the air with every step.

Mom is going to read me a story.

The thought fills my chest with something warm. Something I don’t have a name for. Something that feels like being small and safe and loved.

Then—

The ground begins to vanish.

I look down.

No.

The grass is dissolving beneath my feet—turning to mist, to nothing, to something I can’t hold onto. The flowers fade at their edges, their colors bleeding into white, into gray, into empty air.

No, no—

I look up. My mother is fading too.

Her smile first—softening at the edges, growing translucent, like I’m watching her through a veil of tears I haven’t cried yet.

Then her hand. It slips through my fingers like water. I try to hold on—I grip—but there’s nothing there.

Her dress loses its color. Pale blue bleeding into white, into gray, into nothing at all.

No—

Her eyes meet mine. Still warm. Still kind. Still her.

"Ellis..."

I fall.

Into nothing. Into silence. Into the dark.

GASP—

My eyes open.

Sharp. Sudden. Violent.

I stare at the ceiling.

My ceiling. My room. The familiar polished gold lines running across the ceiling I’ve traced a hundred times on sleepless nights. Soft ambient lighting glows along the walls, dim and warm against the dark.

My temple is wet with sweat. My heart pounds against my ribs—too fast, too loud, like something trying to escape.

What a strange dream.

So vivid.

So real.

The sheets are tangled around my legs, twisted like I’ve been fighting something in my sleep.

I sit up slowly. The sheets fall away from my chest. Cold air slips through the open collar of my nightshirt, brushing against my damp skin.

Too cold.

My breathing comes unevenly.

I rub my temple. The headache from before I fell asleep is still there—throbbing lightly behind my eyes, dull but persistent.

I need some fresh air.

I turn my face—

And freeze.

What the hell...?