My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats and fresh herbs, mingling with the faint, sweet perfume of the flowers arranged at the center of the table—white roses and pale pink peonies.

I sit at the dining table, my posture rigid, my jaw tight. Beside me, Silas sips his water with an infuriating calmness—his movements slow, deliberate, unhurried, as though he has all the time in the world.

Beneath the table, his hand finds mine again and again, like we’re children playing under the table. I push it away. He takes it again. Finally, his fingers intertwine with mine, squeezing softly—a quiet claim.

My brows twist in anger. I try to pull my hand free.

Mom’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the room, warm and bright, making both of us freeze.

"Ellis, son..."

I blink and look up at her.

"Why aren’t you eating? I made this dinner myself."

I glance down at my plate. The food is artfully arranged—roasted vegetables caramelized to perfection, everything prepared with careful attention. She made it with her own hands. I can see it in the way the herbs are scattered, the care behind every detail.

But the nausea sits low in my stomach, a quiet, persistent presence that has turned food into an enemy these past few weeks.

I pull my hand free from Silas’s grip. He lets it go without protest.

I pick up my fork and cut a small piece. I lift it to my lips, my face calm and composed—a mask I’ve learned to wear well.

But inside, everything is twisting, churning, fighting against me.

I chew slowly, forcing myself to swallow against the rising tide in my throat. My grip tightens around the fork, my knuckles paling.

Mom watches me, her eyes searching mine, a flicker of concern passing across her face.

"Do you like it?"

I nod slowly.

"Hmm..."

A servant appears, moving with quiet efficiency, and sets a bowl of soup in front of Silas. Steam curls upward, carrying the scent of fresh vegetables and warm broth—something simple, soothing, made with care.

Mom’s voice softens, wrapping around the words like a warm blanket.

"Son, this is my mother’s recipe—special veggie soup. I made it just for you."

She pours a glass of juice and sets it beside him, the glass catching the light, the liquid a deep, vibrant amber.

"And here—drink this. No wine for you, you know..."

Silas nods slowly, looking down, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. The shy, demure smile tugging at his lips is almost convincing.

I blink, confusion threading through my thoughts.

Soup. No wine. What is this?

"Mom," I say, my voice flat, edged with something I can’t quite name, "why are you treating him like he’s sick? He’s completely fine."

Mom looks at me, a teasing smile curling at the corners of her lips, her eyes dancing with a knowing light.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

Her eyes narrow playfully.

"What? You think we don’t know?"

The words settle between us, heavy with hidden meaning. Frustration rises in me, mixing with the nausea I’ve been forcing down, tightening something in my chest.

"What do you mean, ’you don’t know’?"

She glances at Dad, then back at me, her smile widening.

"We know everything."

I lean forward slightly, my voice tightening.

"Can you just tell me straight?"

Dad sets down his glass. The crystal meets the wood with a soft, deliberate click.

His voice is calm and measured—the voice of a man who has been waiting to say these words for longer than he’ll admit.

"We’re going to be grandparents soon."

The words hit me like a bucket of ice water.

My fork slips from my fingers and clatters against the plate, the sharp sound cutting through the quiet room.

Every sense in my body goes still.

The nausea. The frustration. The anger I’d been holding onto.

Everything disappears beneath one sudden, terrifying thought.

How do they know?

My pregnancy...

They know about my pregnancy.

Mom turns to Silas, her hand reaching out to pat his head gently, her touch soft and proud, like she’s touching something precious.

"We know Silas is pregnant."

Wait.

What?

I turn to Silas, my eyes wide, my breath caught somewhere in my chest. He smiles—shy and demure, playing the part of the sweet, obedient husband with almost unsettling perfection. A quiet, knowing glint flickers in the depths of his eyes.

He’s pregnant?

Dad chuckles, a low, warm sound that seems to fill the room.

"Silas told us. He’s pregnant." He shakes his head lightly, still smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "And you’re both a little shocked because you didn’t plan this."

I open my mouth, but no words come. Just a whisper, barely audible.

"Pregnant..."

Mom nods, her smile bright and genuine.

"Yes. We’ve known for a while." She pauses, her eyes softening. "We were just waiting for you to tell us yourselves." A soft laugh escapes her. "But you’re so stubborn."

I stare at Silas.

So that’s what he told them.

The corner of his lips lifts just slightly.

That bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

Mom reaches across the table, her hand brushing mine, grounding me.

"Ellis, you’re really my shy boy." Her voice is gentle, teasing, wrapped in affection. "Silas told us you were too shy to say anything, so we thought we’d celebrate privately first—just us. Then we’ll plan something grand."

Dad’s smile is warm, almost proud—a rare softness in his expression.

"Even if you didn’t tell us yourself, I’m still so happy." He glances at Mom, a quiet memory passing between them, something from their shared past that I’m only beginning to understand. "They’re young. It’s natural to feel shy." He chuckles, the sound low and warm.

"Do you remember when Everic was born? You didn’t even leave the room for three days."

Mom slaps his shoulder lightly, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Elias..."

Dad laughs, the sound open and unguarded. Then he looks at me, his usual guarded expression nowhere to be seen.

"Ellis, you have no idea how much happiness you two have given us." His voice softens. "A grandson. A new heir for the Roselle family."

I just stare at them.

Speechless.

Silas... is pregnant.

Mom claps her hands lightly, her excitement spilling over, bright and uncontainable.

"I can’t wait to see my little Ellis again."

Dad raises a brow, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

"Really?"

"Yes!" Her voice is bright and certain. "I’m sure the baby will look just like him." She turns to Silas, her eyes shining. "You know, when Ellis was little, he was unbearably cute. I’ll show you all his childhood pictures."

Silas nods, his shy smile still in place, playing the part of the perfect pregnant wife.

I slowly turn my head toward him. Our eyes meet.

I glare at him.

You’re dead, Silas Stoneheart.

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