My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

I sit on the couch, leaning back into the leather. It’s warm beneath me. Comfortable.

The headache has finally eased, receding like a tide pulling back from shore. The bleeding has stopped too. My nose still feels raw, the inside of my nostrils tender, but the metallic taste has faded from my tongue.

I’m feeling better.

Not good. But better.

Silas sits beside me. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, but not so close that we touch. His movements are soft—deliberate, like he’s handling something fragile, something that might break if he presses too hard. He wipes the bloodstains from my face with a damp cloth, dabbing gently at the corner of my mouth, along my jaw, beneath my nose.

His expression is strange. Blank in a way I haven’t seen before. Not the usual calm that drapes over him like a second skin. This is something else.

Something hollow. Distant.

I stare at him, studying the slight furrow between his brows, the tension lingering around his eyes, the way he keeps avoiding my gaze.

What happened to him?

What made him look like this?

His hand moves down to my chin. He tilts my face slightly, wiping away a streak of dried blood I hadn’t noticed.

Then his gaze drops to my neck.

My shirt is ruined—crimson stains blooming across the white fabric, spreading from the collar down to my chest. The damp material clings to my skin, cold and uncomfortable.

His fingers reach for the top button. Then they stop. Hesitate.

Hover there, trembling just barely, like he’s standing at the edge of something he’s not sure he should cross.

His gaze lifts to mine. Searching. Asking. A question without words.

I don’t move. I don’t speak.

I just look at him, steady and unblinking, letting him read whatever answer he needs from my silence.

My face remains unreadable.

My heart, however, is doing something I don’t want to examine too closely.

His gaze drops back to his hands. He unbuttons the first button. Slowly. Deliberately. The fabric parts with a soft whisper.

Then the second.

Then the third.

The shirt begins to fall open, revealing my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, the pale skin below. Still damp from the earlier mess. Still cold against my skin.

He reaches for a tissue—

Before it touches me, my hand closes around his wrist.

He flinches.

Just a little. A small, startled jerk, like a deer sensing danger in the tall grass. He looks up at me quickly, his eyes wide, something vulnerable flickering there.

"No need." My voice comes out calm. Steady. "I’ll take a shower."

Silas holds my gaze for a long moment. Something shifts in his eyes.

Relief? Disappointment?

I can’t tell. His face has always been a closed door, and I’ve never been given the key.

Then he looks down, breaking the connection. He pulls his hand back slowly.

I watch him.

Why is he acting like this?

A soft knock at the executive office door.

Respectful. Perfectly timed—the kind of knock that comes from years of training and knowing exactly when to interrupt.

The door opens, and a staff member steps inside carrying a garment bag over one arm. Inside hangs a deep charcoal suit, nearly black, with thin pinstripes that catch the light. A fresh white shirt rests neatly beneath it, crisp and untouched.

He bows lightly.

"Sir, Mr. Everic sent this for you."

I gesture toward the other couch with a lazy tilt of my head. He nods, sets the suit down with careful precision, bows again, and retreats. The door closes behind him with a soft click, sealing us back into our private silence.

My gaze shifts back to Silas. He’s still looking down—at his hands, at the floor, at anything that isn’t me.

I unbutton the rest of my shirt. The fabric falls open, exposing my chest to the cool air of the room.

"What happened to you?"

Silas blinks. He looks up—and his face changes. Just a fraction.

His eyes catch on my bare skin, on my fingers as they work the last buttons loose. A flush creeps up his neck, spreading across his cheeks like sunrise.

He looks down quickly and shakes his head.

Nothing.

My eyes stay on his face. The color keeps spreading across his cheeks. He doesn’t look up again.

Is he blushing?

A smirk spreads across my lips, slow and deliberate.

Interesting.

Calmly. Unbothered.

I shrug the shirt from my shoulders.

The fabric slides down my arms, catching on my elbows for a moment before falling to the floor with a soft shuffle. The sound seems too loud in the quiet room.

Silas’s hands are clenched on his lap. His fingers twist in the fabric of his trousers—folding, unfolding, searching for something to hold on to. His knuckles are white.

I take a fresh tissue from the table and drag it across my neck, wiping away the last traces of blood.

"Why did you come here?" I ask. "And how did you know I was in the restroom?"

Silas keeps his eyes down. But I can see the heat rushing to his ears—the tips are red now, almost translucent in the afternoon light.

He reaches for the notebook and pencil on the table, his movements quick, almost desperate. He writes something, his hand shaking just slightly. Without looking at me, he offers the note.

My smirk widens.

He looks almost boyish like this.

Flustered. Unsteady.

Nothing like the calm, composed boy who slid notes beneath my door at midnight.

I take the note from his fingers.

You didn’t eat breakfast. So I came here to pick you up for lunch. But a staff member told me she saw you bleeding. That you were walking toward the restroom. So I came to find you.

A pause in the writing.

I’m sorry for reacting like that. I was just... scared. When I heard you were bleeding.

I shift my gaze from the note to Silas’s face.

He was scared. For me. That’s why he hugged me so tightly.

I set the notebook down on the table. The cover makes a soft sound against the wood.

"Give me the shirt."

Silas nods—still avoiding my eyes—and rises from the couch. His movements are jittery. Nervous. Like a bird trapped in a room with all the windows closed.

He walks to the garment bag, unzips it, and pulls out the fresh shirt. The fabric rustles softly in his hands.

Then he turns and offers it to me.

I don’t take it.

I just look at him.

His face is still flushed, the color lingering stubbornly across his cheeks. The heat has spread down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

He doesn’t look up.

The shirt hangs between us, forgotten. His fingers tighten around the fabric. Waiting.

A teasing smile curls at the corners of my mouth.

Let’s push him a little.