My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The car engine dies with a low, reluctant hum—like it’s sighing after a long journey. Everything falls into silence. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, thick and alive.

My hands stay on the steering wheel, fingers curled around the leather, not ready to let go. I just sit there for a moment. Staring at nothing. The dashboard lights glow faintly, casting soft shadows across the empty passenger seat.

I blink.

My gaze shifts. The passenger seat. My phone rests there—screen black, lifeless. Beside it, the rose. Still fresh.

Its petals are dark red, almost black in the dim light, curled inward like they’re sleeping. Its fragrance is faint but present—threading through the air, curling around me, refusing to be ignored.

I take my phone from the seat. Open the car door and step out. The cold night air rushes in, sharp against my skin, waking me up in ways I didn’t ask for.

I close the door—

Then stop. My gaze catches on the flower again through the window.

What am I supposed to do with it now?

Without thinking—without letting myself think—I lean forward and take the rose from the passenger seat.

The stem is cool beneath my fingers. The petals are still a little wet, like they’ve been kissed by dew or rain or something I don’t have a name for.

I close the door and walk toward the house.

The gravel crunches beneath my shoes, loud in the stillness—a small betrayal of my own restlessness. The air bites at my cheeks, my ears, the exposed skin of my wrists.

The world feels paused. Waiting for something.

I stop in front of the door. Dial the passcode—the familiar click of each number loud in the quiet—and the lock releases with a soft, almost apologetic sound.

The door opens.

I step inside.

The house welcomes me with warmth and the soft glow of golden lights, dimmed low as if the walls themselves are settling into sleep.

Silence.

No sound from the kitchen. No clatter of pots. No movement.

I close the door behind me, and the sound lingers for a moment before fading into the stillness.

I walk forward. My eyes search for him.

Where is he?

The living room is empty. The couch cushions are undisturbed, the blanket folded neatly over the armrest.

No sign of him.

Is he sleeping?

I take off my coat and throw it onto the couch. It lands with a soft thud—too loud in the quiet.

Then I turn toward the kitchen. My steps are silent on the polished marble. Careful. Measured.

The kitchen door stands open. I step inside.

Silence. Empty.

My gaze shifts to the table.

Dinner is set perfectly. Plates arranged. Glasses gleaming. Candles unlit but waiting. Everything ready.

Then where is he?

Maybe in his room. Sleeping.

I came here like a fool. Because I thought he was waiting.

My brows twist. Anger flares in my chest—sharp, sudden, unwelcome. My fingers clutch the rose stem tighter than necessary.

I should have gone to the club.

I turn toward the dustbin in the corner of the kitchen. My steps are sharp. Decisive.

Why the hell do I care?

Anger burns in my chest—hot, restless, eating away at something I don’t want to name.

Who cares, anyway?

My arm rises.

The rose hangs between my fingers for a moment—suspended, uncertain, caught between my hand and the darkness of the bin below.

Before it leaves my grip, a hand catches mine.

Warm. Gentle.

Pale fingers wrapping around my own, soft but sure.

A chest presses against my back. Soft. Warm. Solid.

I freeze.

The grip is soft. Gentle.

His breath brushes against the back of my neck—warm, ticklish, sending something strange down my spine.

I blink. Stare at the hand wrapped around mine.

What the hell is this?

Slowly—so slowly—I turn.

Silas stands behind me.

Too close.

His eyes are soft in the dim light, holding something I can’t name. His fingers are still wrapped around mine, the rose trapped between us like a secret.

I stare at him.

Where did he come from?

His fingers shift against mine—not pulling, not pushing, just... holding. Then he takes the rose from my hand.

My eyes stay on him. Unblinking.

He steps back. His gaze drops to the rose in his hand.

A soft smile spreads across his lips—not the polite one he wears for strangers, but something quieter. Something real.

He lifts the flower to his nose and inhales deeply.

His smile widens. Like he’s found something he didn’t realize he was looking for.

My face feels warm. Heat rises to my cheeks, spreading to my ears. I touch my face.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I step back. Put some distance between us. Though I’m not sure if the distance is for him or for me.

My voice comes out cold. Forced. Sharper than I intended.

"I thought you were sleeping."

Silas’s gaze shifts from the flower to me. He shakes his head.

No.

Calm. Unbothered.

His gaze drops back to the rose. A soft smile lingers on his lips. He looks oddly pleased, as if the flower in his hand is far more valuable than it should be.

I look away.

"Don’t think it’s for you. Someone forced it on me." My voice hardens. "Don’t get the wrong idea."

Silas doesn’t react. The smile remains. Soft. Steady. Untouched. As if my words change nothing.

He turns and walks toward the dining table.

I watch him.

What is he doing?

His fingers trace the fresh white roses in the crystal vase—gentle, almost reverent. The white petals glow in the golden light, fragile and pure.

Then he sets the red rose between them. Carefully. Deliberately. Like he’s placing something exactly where it belongs. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂

The red rose catches the light differently. It stands out—darker, deeper, more alive. Foreign among the white ones.

Unmatched. Unapologetic.

It draws the eye. Holds it. Refuses to be ignored.

Silas’s gaze lingers on it, as though he doesn’t want to look away. As though the rest of the world has fallen silent and only this remains.

I watch him. My voice is quiet—but beneath it, something else. Something I don’t recognize.

"Why are you looking at it like that?"

Silas blinks. His gaze shifts to me.

The soft smile is still there—but gentler now, fading into something I can’t quite place.

He reaches for the notebook and pencil. Writes. Slowly. Carefully. Like each word matters. He tears off the page and offers it to me.

I take it. Tired. Annoyed. Curious despite myself.

It looks like you.

Among the white flowers.

My eyes linger on the words.

What the hell is this?

I look up at him and snap—though the snap feels weaker than I meant it to.

"Do you think I’m an Omega? That I look like a flower?"

Silas doesn’t react. He just stays still—calm, patient, unhurried. Like he has all the time in the world and he’s willing to spend every second on me.

He writes another note and hands it to me.

I take it. Angrily—though the anger is already slipping through my fingers like water.

No.

It reminds me of you.

The only red rose among white ones. Different. Impossible to ignore. The same way you’re different from everyone else.

To me.

You’re the only one.

I look up from the note.

The soft smile still rests on his lips. His eyes stay on me—the same way he looked at the red rose.

Steady. Certain.

Like I’m the only one in the room.

Like I’m the only one in the world.