My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The dining room hums with warmth—not just from the food, but from the easy, unhurried rhythm of conversation that flows like a gentle current beneath the flicker of candlelight.

Mom’s voice is the thread that holds everything together. She speaks of Crystal Country’s first snow—of how the world goes still and silent when the first flake falls, how the entire city seems to hold its breath, and how families gather as old traditions come alive.

Then she tells him about Dad.

Every year, without fail, he proposed to her on the first snowfall. He would kneel in the cold, his breath curling into the winter air, and offer her a ring again, as though marking time not in years but in winters—each one a new beginning, a promise renewed.

Silas listens like he’s memorizing every word, his head tilted slightly, his smile soft and open, his fingers curled around the stem of his glass. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t look away. He nods when she pauses and smiles when she laughs. He gives her the kind of attention that feels rare, precious, like he understands that some stories are gifts, not just words.

I watch him from the corner of my eye.

Does he even remember I’m sitting right beside him?

The thought is petulant, and I know it.

But it’s there all the same—a quiet, stubborn ache lodged behind my ribs, unfamiliar and unwelcome. I’m not used to being overlooked. I’m not used to being second.

Yet here, with his attention wrapped so completely around my mother’s stories, I feel like a ghost at my own table.

A sigh slips from my lips—softer than I intended, barely audible, like a secret I never meant to share.

Then, beneath the table, I feel it.

His hand slides into mine. His fingers find the spaces between my own, intertwining with quiet certainty. A gentle squeeze.

I turn to look at him.

His gaze remains on Mom, still listening, still smiling. His eyes never leave her. And somehow...

It feels like all of his attention is still on me.

A soft, almost invisible smile touches my lips. I tighten my fingers around his, holding on to the quiet warmth of his hand beneath the table.

Dad’s voice cuts through the warmth so suddenly.

"Ellis."

I blink, pulled from my quiet reverie and back to the dining table.

He’s watching me from the head of the table, his gaze steady and knowing, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then his eyes drift pointedly to my untouched plate.

"You haven’t touched your food."

Mom follows his gaze, her brow furrowing with concern.

"Yes, son. Is it not to your taste? I asked the kitchen to prepare it the way you like."

"No." I lower my gaze. "It’s not that."

The meal is flawless—a perfectly seared cut of meat resting in a pool of rich, glossy jus, roasted vegetables glistening with butter, golden potatoes crisp at the edges, and a dark sauce fragrant with herbs. Steam rises in slow, curling ribbons, carrying a scent that should make my mouth water.

Instead, my stomach twists.

I pick up my fork and cut off a small piece. The meat yields effortlessly beneath the blade. I lift it to my lips and chew.

The flavor touches my tongue—

And the world tilts.

It’s not the taste itself. The meat is perfect—seasoned with care, cooked to perfection.

But my body rejects it.

A violent wave of nausea surges through me, swift and merciless, clawing its way up my throat. I try to swallow, but the effort is useless. My stomach clenches hard, a warning I can’t ignore.

I press a hand over my mouth and shove my chair back. The sharp scrape of wood against polished marble cuts through the warmth of the room, silencing every conversation.

Everyone is looking at me.

Mom’s smile vanishes. Dad’s brow furrows. Beside me, Silas instinctively reaches for me, worry flashing across his face.

I don’t stop.

I push myself away from the table and hurry into the hallway, my steps quick and uneven. The warm lights, polished marble, and elegant silence blur together as I force myself forward. My breathing grows ragged, each uneven breath pounding louder than my footsteps.

The restroom door clicks shut behind me. The warmth and laughter from the dining room vanish all at once.

I stop in front of the mirror.

My face is flushed—too red, the color of fever. Sweat beads along my temples, dampening the strands of hair clinging to my forehead. My eyes are too bright, too wide, staring back at me like they belong to someone else.

I grip the edge of the sink and bend over as the bite comes back up. The bitter taste burns my throat, and my stomach heaves again, empty but relentless, until all that’s left is the tremor running through my hands.

I turn on the faucet. Cold water rushes over my fingers. I cup my hands beneath the stream and splash it across my face, letting the chill sink into my burning skin.

Slowly, I lift my head.

Water drips from my chin, trailing into the porcelain sink. I stare at my reflection.

What the hell is happening to me?

A soft knock comes at the door.

I know who it is before I open it.

I dry my face with a towel, my movements slow and deliberate. Taking one deep breath, I force the tremor from my hands and bury the uncertainty deep inside my chest.

Then I open the door.

Silas stands there.

Worry is written across every line of his face. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes search me from head to toe. Without hesitation, he reaches for my hands, wrapping them gently in his own.

His eyes ask the question his voice cannot.

What happened?

I force a smile.

"Nothing. I’m fine."

He shakes his head. A small, stubborn refusal. He doesn’t believe me. His thumb brushes slowly across the back of my hand, gentle and insistent, as though trying to reassure himself that I’m really standing here.

Before he can reach into his pocket for his notebook, I step forward and pull him into my arms.

His body stiffens for the briefest moment, then slowly melts against mine. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding on quietly.

I close my eyes and pat his back in a slow, gentle rhythm. "I’m completely fine," I murmur beside his ear. "There’s nothing to worry about."

He doesn’t move. He simply holds me a little tighter.

"Just let me hold you for a moment."