My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The wardrobe room is bathed in soft, golden light. Rows of suits hang in perfect order along the walls, their dark fabrics catching the glow.

I stand before the full-length mirror, staring at a version of myself I barely recognize.

I hate wearing this kind of business suit. Perfect. Cold. Strict. Everything the Roselle name demands.

My fingers move to the collar, adjusting it with practiced indifference. I leave the top two buttons open—a small rebellion, a breath of air against my throat. The tie hangs loose around my neck, black silk against white fabric.

I don’t like wearing ties. They feel like leashes.

My face twists with annoyance as I study my reflection. The man looking back at me has sharp cheekbones and tired eyes. He looks like his father. He hates that.

It’s been a while since I’ve worn something like this. The fabric feels foreign against my skin—too structured, too precise, too perfect. But this is my father’s order. His command. His will pressing down on me like a hand on my shoulder.

I have to attend the meeting.

Another display of Roselle perfection.

I glance at the drawer beside me. Without much thought, I reach for a watch. My fingers close around the first one they find, the metal cool against my palm, the weight familiar and grounding. I fasten it around my wrist.

The clasp clicks into place. Final.

My movements are calm. Slow. Deliberate.

I’ll just go. Attend it. Finish it. Leave.

My phone begins to ring on the table behind me, the sound sharp and insistent, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

I glance at the screen.

Dad.

Of course.

His fourteenth call since morning. Maybe more. I’ve lost count—stopped caring around the seventh.

I pick up the phone and answer.

"Hello."

Dad’s voice comes through calm and measured. Controlled. But I’ve known this man my entire life. I know what hides beneath.

"Are you still at your place?"

I stay silent.

He asked me the same question fifteen minutes ago. Now he’s asking again.

The silence stretches between us, thin and brittle. My voice, when I finally speak, is flat. Empty. A door pulled shut.

"I’m leaving. You don’t need to call me again and again."

"Ellis."

A pause. The kind that comes before something sharp.

"You make me call you again and again. I don’t know when you’ll learn to manage your time. Be punctual—"

I don’t let him finish. My thumb presses the screen. The call ends. His voice vanishes into silence.

I slip the phone into my pocket.

I don’t want to be punctual. I don’t want to be perfect. I don’t want any of this.

I set my cufflinks one last time. The metal clicks into place. Cold. Final. A small sound that echoes in the quiet like a door locking.

I should leave now. Before he calls again.

My gaze drifts back to the mirror. For a moment, I just stare at my reflection.

Then—

Last night slips back into my mind. Uninvited.

Silas sitting on the floor beside my bed.

His knees drawn up, the pillow clutched against his chest like a shield. His cheeks flushed. His lower lip pushed out in that stubborn pout. His eyes shining with tears he refused to let fall.

And then—

The fight drained out of him. All that stubbornness. All that silent resistance. Gone.

He stood. He walked to the door. He left without a word. Just a note left behind.

Your smile is beautiful.

My eyes stay fixed on the mirror. Slowly, my gaze shifts downward. To my lips.

My smile...?

Did he really.....?

I blink. Then shake my head.

What the hell am I thinking?

I turn away from the mirror.

It’s all nonsense.

I step out of the wardrobe room. My bedroom is quiet. Morning light spills through the glass walls, stretching across the dark floor in pale bands of gold.

I feel sleepy. Last night—after his tantrum, after his stubborn silence—I couldn’t sleep well.

My gaze drifts toward the spot beside the bed where he’d been sitting. Unbidden. I look away and step out into the hallway.

Where is he?

That stubborn puppy.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips—small, reluctant, there before I can stop it.

Last night, I should have taken a picture. That tantrum. That pout. Those shining eyes.

It was almost funny.

But...

My steps slow slightly.

Why did he suddenly start that tantrum? And why did he give up so quickly afterward? The stubbornness was gone almost instantly.

I should ask him about it.

I walk toward the kitchen.

He’s probably there. Of course he is. Making breakfast. Standing over the stove with that soft, unshakable smile on his lips—the one that never seems to fade no matter how many times I push him away.

I keep walking. My eyes search for him.

Then—

A voice.

Cheerful. Laughing. Floating out of the kitchen like music drifting through an open window.

Who is that?

I step into the kitchen.

And stop.

The smirk vanishes from my face—wiped clean, like chalk erased from a board.

My gaze moves across the room. Slowly. Taking in every detail. Every small offense.

Everic sits at the breakfast table. Smiling. Comfortable. He’s eating breakfast, his fork moving lazily across the plate. His eyes are fixed on the person across from him. Talking. Laughing.

His whole body angled forward, like he’s leaning into something warm, something he wants to absorb.

And Silas sits across from him.

Listening. Smiling.

Replying with his little notes—the ones he writes so carefully, so earnestly. His pencil moves across the page in quick strokes before he tears it free and slides it across the table.

Everic takes one of the notes. Reads it. His smile widens—soft, almost tender.

"Your handwriting is really cute."

His voice is soft. Intimate. Like they share a secret I’m not meant to hear.

I stare at them.

What the hell is he doing here?