My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The car hums low beneath me—a deep, steady thrum that vibrates through the seat, through my bones, through the quiet dark of the night. I sit in the driver’s seat, calm, my hands resting loose on the wheel. The road stretches ahead, slick with the memory of rain, streetlights bleeding gold across the asphalt.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat. The screen lights up the empty space beside me. Sum’s name flashes across it.

Ellis, why aren’t you replying? Are you coming to the club or not?

I glance at it for a moment—just a moment—then shift my gaze back to the road. The glow of the screen fades. The message waits, unanswered.

Should I go to the club?

The thought comes easily. Familiar. The club is safe. The club is noise and darkness and drinks that burn going down. The club asks nothing of me.

But... Silas...

I stop the thought mid-way. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. The leather creaks beneath my grip.

Why the hell am I thinking so much about him?

It’s not the first time he’s waited.

He always waits.

I come home late—hours late—and there he is, sitting in the dim light, the dinner cold on the table, his eyes soft and patient and asking for nothing.

It’s not a big deal.

But his expression...

The way he refused to make eye contact with me.

The signal light ahead blinks from green to yellow to red. The car slows. Glides to a stop beneath the muted glow of the traffic light, suspended above the intersection like a silent sentinel.

The city shines around me. Buildings lit with warm windows. Shopfronts glowing beneath strings of fairy lights. The whole world glittering like scattered stars against the night.

I lean back in my seat.

My fingers tap lightly against the steering wheel—an uneven rhythm. Restless. Searching.

The way you ignored him this morning...

The words refuse to leave. They coil around my thoughts, tightening, squeezing.

He still cares about you. More than he should.

Why does he always run to you? No matter what you do?

My gaze stays fixed on the signal light. Still red. The seconds stretch—long and slow, like time itself is holding its breath.

Why is he so calm?

If he were angry—if he were hurt—he should say something. Complain. Shout. Throw something. Anything. Say something ugly that I can hold against him.

But he doesn’t.

He just stays calm. Quiet. Soft. Like water that never breaks, never boils, never fights back.

My brows twist. Annoyance prickles at the back of my neck.

It’s fucking annoying.

Not being able to understand him. Not being able to hear him. Not knowing what’s going on inside that head of his.

Why is his mind so silent?

Why is he so silent?

A soft knock on the car window.

I blink. The thought scatters. I turn my head.

A girl stands outside.

Young—maybe sixteen, maybe less. Her face is small beneath the hood of her jacket, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. A basket hangs from her arm—overflowing with flowers, their colors muted in the darkness but still vivid enough to catch the streetlight’s glow.

A soft smile rests on her lips. Unhurried. Innocent.

I stare at her.

What is...

She knocks again. Gentle. Her breath fogs the glass. She gestures for me to lower the window, her small hand curling in the air.

I press the button.

The glass slides down with a soft electric hum. Cold air rushes in immediately—sharp, biting, laced with the faint sweetness of petals and night dew.

"Hello, brother..." Her voice is light, bright, untouched by the weight of the night. "Do you want some flowers?"

I look at the basket. Fresh. Colorful. The red roses at the front catch the light—velvet dark, almost black at the edges, bleeding into crimson near the heart of each bloom.

Then back at her.

"Little girl, do you know how cold the night is?" My voice is quieter than I expect. "Where are your parents?"

Her smile widens. She turns and points—not far, just down the street—to a small flower shop tucked between two taller buildings. Warm light spills from its windows. Through the glass, I can see an old woman arranging stems, her movements slow and careful.

"My grandmother’s shop." The girl’s voice is proud. "I’m helping her."

She looks at me, her eyes bright, and shifts the basket on her arm, readjusting the weight.

"Today is Rose Day. We’re giving everyone a free rose." She pauses. "So they can give it to someone they love."

She glances at the passenger seat beside me—empty, save for my phone.

"Oh..." Her smile softens, just a fraction.

"You’re alone."

I don’t answer.

Her smile returns—wider now, brighter, as if she’s decided something.

She reaches into the basket and pulls out a single red rose. Its stem is long, its petals dark as crushed velvet, its fragrance faint and sweet.

She offers it to me.

"Here. Take one. Give it to your partner when you see them."

I don’t take it. I just stare at the rose. Then back at her.

Her mind whispers—soft and innocent.

{Today I’m going to finish my task. One hundred couples. One hundred flowers. One hundred smiles.}

She pushes the rose a little closer. Her gloved fingers curl carefully around the stem.

"Take it, brother."

"No." My voice is flat. "I don’t want it."

She blinks. Innocent. Unfazed.

"Why?"

I look away.

My gaze drifts to the dark stretch of road ahead. To the golden streetlights. To the red signal that still hasn’t turned green.

"Because I don’t have a partner."

Her smile falters. Just for a moment. A flicker of something uncertain. Something almost sad. Then her face lights up again.

"Brother..." She tilts her head, her voice warm with quiet conviction. "Maybe you’ll find one."

A pause.

"Please take it."

I look at her. She blinks. Hopeful.

Her mind whispers:

{Forty-four left... Come on, big brother. Just one flower. Please... I want to finish before Grandma closes the shop.}

A sigh slips from my lips—long, slow, defeated in a way I don’t fully understand.

I take the rose. Reluctantly. My fingers close around the stem, careful and light. I set it on the passenger seat. It rests there, dark against the gray leather, fragile and out of place.

Her smile widens—so wide her eyes crinkle at the corners.

I reach for my wallet.

Pull out some cash—more than the rose is worth, more than a child should be carrying around at this hour—and offer it to her.

She looks down at the money, then back at me. Shakes her head quickly, her curls bouncing with the motion.

"Brother, it’s free. I told you—"

"Take it." My voice is softer now. "Think of it as a reward. You’re a hardworking girl."

She hesitates. Her fingers hover in the cold air between us, uncertain. Then she takes the money, clutching it in her small gloved hand like something precious.

"Thank you, big brother."

The light turns green.

She steps back and turns toward the shop. Her feet skip lightly across the pavement. Before leaving, she looks back and waves. Her smile is still bright.

"Come visit our shop again sometime! Have a great night! Bye-bye!"

The window slides up. The cold air seals itself outside again. The car rolls forward.

I drive.

My gaze drifts to the flower resting on the passenger seat. Dark red. Almost black in the dim light. Its petals tremble softly with the movement of the car.

Give it to someone you love...

Why the hell did I take it?

🌸— Bonus Scene —🌸

The dinner table is set perfectly.

Dinner waits beneath the soft golden light spilling from the modern pendant fixtures above. Crystal wine glasses catch the glow, scattering reflections across the polished marble surface. Everything is ready.

Everything except the person Silas is waiting for.

Silas sits at the table.

His posture is calm. Relaxed.

One hand rests on the polished wood. The other moves slowly—deliberately—arranging flowers in a crystal vase.

White roses. Fresh.

Their petals still cool from the evening air. His fingers trace the curve of each bloom.

Gently. Almost reverently.

Behind him, his secretary stands.

Nick’s posture is perfect—shoulders back, hands clasped behind him, feet planted at a precise angle. His glasses catch the light, hiding his eyes behind a thin sheen of reflection.

His voice is careful.

Measured.

Each word weighed before it’s released.

"Boss..." A pause. "Mr. Ellis bled after the meeting. From what I gathered, it happened after the session. Likely triggered by the overwhelming negativity in the room."

Nick adjusts his glasses.

"Mr. Elias deliberately brought him to the meeting. He wanted Mr. Ellis to hear their thoughts and know what the shareholders were plotting behind his back."

Silas doesn’t look up.

His eyes stay on the flowers—on the white petals, on the way they curl inward at the edges, on the dewdrops still clinging to their stems like tiny, trembling stars.

His voice comes out low. Soft. But something beneath it—something cold, something sharp—threads through the words like thorns hidden among rose petals.

"Nick."

A pause. His fingers still on the white petal. Waiting.

"My Alpha was hurt."

His voice drops—barely a whisper now.

"Because of their filthy thoughts."

He tilts his head slowly, studying the rose before him as if it holds the face of someone he’s about to destroy.

Nick’s gaze shifts to the flower. Then back to his boss.

Silas’s fingertips resume their slow path along the edge of the bloom.

"I want them."

His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t tremble. It’s quiet in the way a held breath is quiet.

"All of them."

He lifts the rose from the vase and holds it between his fingers. The white petals brush against his skin like something sacred.

"Everyone who made my Alpha hurt."