My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

Tonight, the Roselle Mansion breathes differently.

It’s not just the lights—though they are softer, warmer, more golden, spilling from every sconce and chandelier like honey left too long in the sun. It’s not just the roses—though they are everywhere, cascading down the banisters in creamy white waterfalls. It’s not even the candles flickering in their glass holders, their flames steady and patient.

It’s the air itself. Something has shifted. Something has softened.

I feel it as Silas and I walk through the hallway together, our hands joined, our fingers laced together so naturally I almost forget to notice it. His palm is warm against mine, his grip light but certain. When I glance down at our hands, I catch the way his fingers curl around mine, as though they’ve already memorized the shape of them.

Then I glance up at his face.

He’s still smiling.

That soft, unguarded smile that’s been there since we left the flower shop. Since the little girl tucked a rose behind his ear without asking. Since he blushed but didn’t pull away.

His eyes are still bright—still holding the echo of her laughter, the warmth of her tiny hands pressing a bloom into his palm as though she were giving him something precious.

In his other hand, he carries the bouquet he chose for my mother.

I watched him choose it.

The careful way he turned each stem, studying every petal, holding each flower up to the light as though it might whisper the answer to him. The way his brow furrowed in concentration before softening when he finally found the right ones—white roses, pale pink peonies, and delicate sprigs of baby’s breath that looked as though they might drift away with the slightest breeze.

He even arranged them himself with the old grandmother’s help, his fingers moving with quiet, practiced gentleness.

Like he wanted it to be perfect.

For her.

I squeeze his hand gently, and he looks up at me. "Do you like the flowers?"

He nods—a small, eager movement that makes his hair catch the golden light. His smile widens just a fraction, as though the question itself makes him happy.

I look ahead, but my thoughts linger on him. On the way he held those flowers as though they truly mattered. On the way he always holds things like they matter—like everything he touches is something worth protecting.

I never realized he loved flowers this much.

Maybe I should buy him a garden.

A whole field of roses—white, pink, red... all of them. Just so I can watch him smile like this every day.

The dining room doors open before us, smooth and silent, as though the mansion itself is welcoming us home.

Tonight, the room feels different.

Warmer. Softer.

Nothing like the cold, rigid dinners of last year—the ones where I sat in stubborn silence, drowning in resentment.

Now...

It almost feels like home.

The long dining table stretches before us, dressed in cream linen and polished silver. Soft golden light spills across the marble floor, while a low arrangement of white roses and winter jasmine decorates the center of the table with understated elegance.

Mom and Dad are already seated.

Mom’s eyes find us the moment we step inside, and her whole face lights up. The lines around her eyes soften, and a smile blooms across her features like dawn after a long night.

"Finally," she breathes, her voice catching just slightly. "I thought you weren’t coming."

Silas steps forward and offers her the bouquet with a soft, quiet grace. His movements are careful, deliberate, as though he’s presenting something precious.

Mom accepts it with both hands, her fingers brushing gently over the petals.

"Thank you, my sweet son," she says, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Then her gaze shifts to me. Expectant. Hopeful. Waiting.

I feel Silas’s fingers brush against mine. Then he gives the sleeve of my coat a gentle tug.

A quiet reminder. A gentle anchor.

Earlier, in the quiet of the car, he had slipped a note onto my lap.

When we get there, apologize for being late. Talk to them gently. Please.

I had read it in silence, my jaw tight, my pride bristling. But I hadn’t crumpled it. I hadn’t thrown it away.

Now, standing here, I let out a slow breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

"We... apologize for being late."

The words come slowly, like I’m learning a language I never thought I’d speak. They feel foreign on my tongue, clumsy and unfamiliar.

But they’re real.

"We were choosing flowers."

The silence that follows is louder than any argument I’ve ever had in this room.

Mom stares at me. Her lips part slightly, as though she’s trying to hold on to something she thought she’d lost—something she’d long since given up hoping to hear. For a brief moment, her eyes glisten.

Dad slowly lifts his gaze to me. There’s no suspicion in his eyes. No cold, assessing look. Just something quieter. Something I can’t quite read.

"What did you just say?"

I turn my gaze away, fixing it on the vase of white roses at the center of the table.

"I said... we’re sorry for being late."

Another silence follows. The longest one yet. I can feel their gazes pinned on me, unwavering.

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

Mom blinks, as though waking from a dream, then quickly gestures toward the chairs with a gentle smile.

"Ah... it’s alright, son." Her voice wavers. "I’m just happy you came. Usually... you don’t."

Silas and I take our seats. He sits close enough that I can feel the quiet warmth of his presence. Beneath the table, his knee brushes lightly against mine—a small, reassuring touch.

Dad leans back slowly, his gaze still on me. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—almost hidden, almost reluctant, but there. As though he’s trying to suppress it and failing.

"This is the first time I’ve heard an apology from your mouth," he says. "I don’t believe you actually said it."

I glance at him before looking away. His gaze shifts to Silas.

"It must be your influence, son."

I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I glance at Silas from the corner of my eye. He’s smiling softly, his shoulders lifting just a little—almost proud.

Traitor. Team player.

Little cherry tomato.

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