My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

I sit on the edge of the bed.

My nightshirt hangs open, the buttons still undone, the fabric loose against my chest. I don’t bother fixing it. The room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you hear your own heartbeat.

My eyes stay fixed on Silas.

He’s still sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up, the pillow clutched against his chest like a shield. His face is turned away—toward the glass wall, where moonlight spills across the room in cold silver. His eyes are wet. Even from here, I can see the shine of unshed tears.

It’s been almost half an hour.

Half an hour of him sitting like this. Half an hour of me staring at him, trying to figure out what changed. Trying to find the crack where all that obedience leaked out.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye—just for a second. Then quickly looks away.

I didn’t expect this from him.

Not from the boy who nods at everything I say. Who smiles when I glare. Who follows me around like a shadow that doesn’t know how to leave.

He’s always so obedient.

But now—

Now he’s sitting on the floor, clutching that pillow like it’s the only thing holding him together. A tantrum made of stillness. A rebellion wrapped in a pillow and silence.

And I have absolutely no idea what to do with this version of him.

Is this his anger?

The thought should make me feel something. Satisfaction, maybe. Proof that I’ve finally gotten under his skin.

But all I feel is... Tired.

My voice comes out flat when I speak. Hollow. Like something borrowed.

"How much longer are you going to sit here like this?"

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for his notebook or pencil. Doesn’t even look at me. Just stays still—frozen, like a statue carved from stubbornness and something else I can’t name.

I look down at my hands. A sigh slips from my lips.

Where the hell am I stuck?

"Stand up." My voice is quieter now. Softer than I meant it to be. "The floor is cold."

Nothing.

His fingers tighten around the pillow—knuckles pale, gripping like he’s’s afraid someone might take it. His lower lip pushes out just a little more. Just enough to notice. Just enough to make him look younger. Smaller. More fragile than he already is.

Without looking at me, he slowly shakes his head.

No.

My eyes stay on him.

A child’s pout.

His expression...

This is kind of funny.

Before I can stop it—before I can catch myself—a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Small. Uninvited.

I bite my lower lip and quickly hide it. Force my voice into something sharp. Something cold.

"If you don’t stand up, I’ll drag you out of this room myself."

Silas doesn’t move. His gaze remains fixed on the glass wall, watching the moonlight spill across the floor like water.

My hand reaches for my nightshirt. I button it slowly—one button, two, three—calm, deliberate.

Then I reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed. It’s thick and heavy, woven with threads of gold and cream.

I throw it over him.

The fabric drops over his head and shoulders, swallowing him completely beneath a mountain of wool.

Silas flinches. Just a little. Just enough to make the pillow shift in his arms.

"Fine." My voice is cold now. I make it cold. "Freeze to death on the floor. See if I care."

Immediately, the blanket starts moving. A hand appears. Then another.

Silas fumbles with the fabric, pushing and tugging at it until the blanket slides off his head.

His hair sticks out in every direction. His cheeks are red.

And somehow, he still isn’t done.

He shoves the blanket off his shoulders. Off his arms. Off his lap. His movements are jerky and frustrated, like the blanket personally offended him.

The wool crumples beside him. He pushes it farther away. Then farther. Like he wants it as far from himself as possible.

I stare at him.

What is he doing?

He looks like a puppy.

A small, angry puppy tangled in something too big for him, pushing and pulling and somehow making everything worse.

His cheeks are red now—flushed with frustration or cold or something else entirely. His face is still set in that stubborn pout, lower lip pushed out, jaw tight.

A hopelessly stubborn thing that doesn’t know how to bite but refuses to stop trying.

I blink.

I try not to laugh. I really do.

Then—

I lose.

A laugh escapes me. Not the dry, hollow laugh. Not the cruel smirk I wear like armor.

Something else. Something genuine. It rises from my chest without permission and spills into the quiet room.

I laugh.

Hard.

My shoulders shake. My palms press against the mattress to keep myself steady. My head tips back, hair falling away from my face, and I laugh until the corners of my eyes grow wet.

I wipe them slowly. Still smiling.

And look at him.

He’s staring at me.

Without blinking. Without moving. Just staring. His eyes stay fixed on my face like he’s seeing something he hasn’t seen before.

The pout is gone. The stubbornness too. In its place is something softer. Something I don’t recognize. A smile slowly spreads across his lips.

Small. Gentle.

My own smile fades. Slowly.

"Why are you staring?"

Silas sets the pillow aside. It lands on the floor with a soft thump, forgotten. Then he picks up his notebook and pencil. His movements are slow and deliberate, as though he’s carefully choosing what to say.

He writes.

The soft scratch of pencil against paper fills the room. I watch him for a moment.

Now what?

What happened to him all of a sudden?

He stands up. He walks toward me—slow, deliberate—and offers me the note.

My face twists with confusion. I look at his face—at the soft smile still resting there—then down at the note. Slowly, reluctantly, I take it from his hand.

His fingers brush against mine. Just a touch. Just a whisper of warmth. His skin is cold against mine.

Then Silas turns. Walks to the door.

I look at him.

He’s leaving? Just like that?

He opens the door. Steps out. The door closes behind him with a soft click—so soft it barely exists, like a sigh at the end of something.

I stare at the door.

Didn’t he say he wanted to sleep here? Then why leave so easily?

My gaze shifts down. To the note in my hand. The paper is cold and slightly crumpled around the edges. I unfold it slowly, carefully.

I’m sorry for bothering you like this.

A pause in the writing...

But your smile is so beautiful. Please smile more often. It suits you.

I stare at the words.

My smile?

—Bonus Scene— 🌸

Silas climbs the stairs slowly, one step at a time. Bare feet against cold marble—no sound, no echo, as if the house itself is holding its breath around him.

His face is unreadable.

His fingers trail along the railing as he walks. Not gripping. Not steadying himself. Just touching. Feeling the cold steel beneath his fingertips.

The ceiling lights cast their dim golden glow.

His eyes are brown.

But not soft. Not warm.

Not the way they are when he looks at Ellis and folds himself into something small and harmless.

Here, in the silence of the staircase, they burn. Gold-brown. Sharp. Awake.

The soft smile that always rests on his lips is gone. Vanished. Somewhere between the doorway of Ellis’s room and the first stair.

What remains is nothing.

He stops in front of his room.

The polished wooden door reflects the soft golden light of the hallway. He reaches out. Slow. Deliberate. His fingers curl around the handle. He opens the door.

Steps inside.

The door closes behind him with a soft click—final, private, a door closing not just on a room but on the world outside.

He sits on the bed.

The mattress receives him without complaint. For a moment—just a moment—nothing happens. He sits there, hands resting in his lap, head tilted slightly, staring at the wall across from him.

Then the air changes.

It starts slowly. A shift in pressure. A thickening, like the room is holding its breath. Then the scent comes.

Oleander.

Sweet. Poisonous. Beautiful in the way that dangerous things are beautiful.

It spreads from him like smoke from a fire no one sees—rippling outward, curling through the air, filling every corner of the room.

Thick. Heavy. Unmistakable.

His pheromones drift through the darkness.

Silas lies back on the bed. The sheets shift beneath him—soft, white, indifferent.

His body sinks into the mattress, slow and deliberate, like he’s finally letting go of something he’s been carrying all day.

He stares at the ceiling.

Doesn’t blink. His eyes are still burning. Brown-gold. Bright in the darkness.

"His smile..."

The whisper escapes him. Soft. Barely a sound. The kind of voice reserved for things he treasures.

A pause.

"It’s so beautiful."

His hand rises slowly.

His fingers find the back of his neck, rubbing the warm skin there in slow, absent circles.

Calm. Deliberate.

As though soothing something only he can feel.

His eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. The scent of oleander thickens around him, heavy and sweet.

"What should I do?"

His voice is quiet.

Lost.

A question asked to the ceiling, to the darkness, to himself.

"How do I make my Alpha smile like that again?"