My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The room breathes around me.

It is wide and quiet, stripped of the usual opulence that drips from every other corner of this mansion. No gilded frames. No crystal chandeliers. No portraits. Just space. Just stillness. The kind of silence that feels deliberate.

My footsteps are soft against the thick rug—barely a whisper, barely a presence. I move slowly, letting my gaze wander across the room, tracing the edges of the furniture, the curves of the walls.

So this is Silas’s room.

Yet it reveals nothing about him.

No photographs. No keepsakes. No trace of the boy who grew up within these walls.

It’s strange. This mansion is grand, steeped in old money and centuries of legacy, its halls heavy with history and hidden things. Yet this room is simple. Almost bare.

I stop before the floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavy curtains hang loosely on either side, parted just enough to reveal the night beyond. The sky stretches wide and endless, scattered with stars so vivid they feel close enough to touch. They gleam like diamonds scattered across black velvet—ancient, distant, and indifferent.

The glass is cool beneath my fingers as I unlock the balcony door and step outside.

The air greets me gently—neither warm nor cold, simply present. It wraps around my skin like a quiet acknowledgment, a soft hand resting on my shoulder. I lean against the railing, my hands settling on the cool metal, and let my gaze drift downward.

The garden unfolds below, vast and meticulously kept, bathed in the soft golden glow of lamps lining the winding paths. Every bloom, every leaf, seems to hold its breath, waiting for something. Then a breeze passes through—slow, unhurried, almost reverent—and the flowers sway in a single, graceful wave, like a whispered secret passing from one bloom to the next.

X Country is known for its greenery.

I’d heard that before, usually while listening to my parents talk, though I never paid much attention. But seeing it now, beneath this endless canopy of stars, I finally understand why. There is a lushness here that feels almost deliberate, as though the land itself was cultivated not merely to flourish, but to be admired.

I lift my gaze to the sky again.

The stars are too many to count, scattered like seeds of light across the darkness. I stare at them until my vision begins to blur, until they seem to pulse with a quiet rhythm of their own.

And beneath them, my thoughts drift back to Silas.

Since we arrived, something has changed in him. I notice it in the way he looks at me—longer than usual, deeper, as though he’s quietly committing every detail of my face, every expression, every small movement I make. It’s different from the gaze I’ve grown used to.

There’s a weight behind it I can’t name, a quiet intensity that lingers even after he looks away.

Maybe I’m overthinking.

But the feeling lingers, lodged somewhere beneath my ribs, refusing to leave. It curls around my thoughts like smoke—persistent, elusive.

Then I feel it.

Two hands slide around my waist, gentle and certain, fingers resting lightly against my stomach through the fabric of my shirt. Slow. Unhurried. As though they’ve been waiting for permission.

The warmth of him reaches me before I fully register his presence.

I don’t move. I simply let his arms settle around me, let his chest rest against my back. His chin finds my shoulder as though it has always belonged there.

A smile tugs at my lips—small, quiet, almost involuntary.

"When did you come back?"

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his grip tightens—just slightly—as if pulling me closer without moving me at all. A silent plea. A quiet need. I feel the slow rhythm of his breath against my neck, the steady beat of his heart against my spine.

I reach down, gently prying his fingers apart before turning in his arms, slow and unhurried, until I’m facing him.

His eyes meet mine.

They look tired—soft around the edges, something unspoken lingering in their depths. The moonlight catches the flecks of gold in his irises, turning them to liquid amber.

My hand rises, my fingertips tracing the curve of his cheek.

"Seems like someone needs a reminder."

He blinks, tilting his head in that innocent way of his—confused, curious, waiting.

My hands slide to his waist. In one smooth motion, I lift him into my arms. A soft gasp escapes his lips. His arms instinctively wrap around my neck for balance, his eyes widening with surprise. But he doesn’t resist.

I carry him back inside.

"You covered the entrance with flowers for me," I murmur, my voice low and teasing. "Like I’m some kind of Omega being courted."

I glance down at him in my arms, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

"Then you gave me a romantic dinner under candlelight."

I stop beside the bed, still holding him.

"You’ve been treating me like an Omega all day."

I lower him onto the mattress. He lands with a soft thud, the sheets shifting beneath him. He looks up at me with wide, watchful eyes, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

I unbutton my shirt—slowly, deliberately, one button at a time—letting the silence stretch between us. The fabric slips from my shoulders and pools at my feet. I toss it aside.

Then I lean over him, bracing my hands on either side of his body, caging him in.

"Let me remind you that your husband is an Alpha."

His breath catches—a soft hitch in the quiet room, barely audible, yet impossible to miss.

I press my lips to his, slow and unhurried. The kiss lingers, deliberate, each gentle movement speaking louder than words. His fists curl into the sheets, fingers twisting the fabric as his body trembles beneath me. His lips part beneath mine, soft and yielding.

My kisses drift from his mouth to the line of his jaw, then lower to the curve of his neck. I feel his pulse flutter beneath my lips, quick and fragile. My fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one with patient care, revealing the pale line of his collarbones and the skin beneath.

Then my hand moves lower.

The instant my fingers brush lower, his body goes rigid beneath my touch.

His hand closes gently around my wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop me.

I still immediately, then pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

His breath is uneven. His cheeks are flushed deep red, the color spreading down his neck. He turns his face away, biting his lower lip, a faint tremor running through him. His hand remains around my wrist—not pushing me away, just holding me there.

Then, slowly, his grip loosens.

I look at him—really look at him—and see the nervousness in the way he holds himself, the fear he’s trying to hide behind his lashes.

He’s nervous.

Maybe... a little scared.

Without a word, I lower myself beside him and wrap my arms around him, pulling him gently against my chest. I feel the frantic beat of his heart against mine, a wild rhythm that slowly begins to steady.

I lower my head, my lips brushing his ear.

"I can wait. Until you’re ready."