After My Husband Silenced Me, I Destroyed Him

The ballroom lights were blinding.

Rowan stood at the podium in a tailored black tuxedo. A single tear glinted on his cheek, catching the glare of the cameras. His voice swelled through the speakers, rich and warm, thick with manufactured emotion.

"Music isn't about fame," Rowan said softly. He pressed a hand over his heart. "It’s about love. It’s about the people who believed in me when I had nothing. Every note I sing is a thank-you to them."

The crowd erupted in applause. Philanthropists dabbed their eyes. Producers clapped.

Rowan stepped back from the podium, his smile radiant. He reached out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight enough to bruise. He pulled me toward the media backdrop.

Under the roar of the crowd, his lips barely moved.

"Stop standing there like a damn mannequin," he hissed through his teeth. "Smile, Daphne. Flash your teeth. Look like you have a pulse."

I forced the corners of my mouth to lift.

A reporter thrust a microphone toward us. "Rowan! You were incredible up there! Tell us, how does your lovely wife inspire your music?"

Rowan’s eyes softened instantly. He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close against his chest.

"Daphne is my quiet anchor," he said smoothly. His voice carried that honeyed, humble tone the world adored. "She suffers from a rare, tragic vocal condition. She cannot speak. But our bond doesn't need words. I love her beyond words."

"What a saint," the reporter whispered, visibly moved.

The cameraman lowered his lens to adjust his battery pack.

The moment the red light blinked off, Rowan dropped my hand. He let go so fast it felt like I had burned him. He pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his palm, his face twisting in disgust.

He didn't look at me again.

***

In the back of the town car, the silence was heavy.

Rain drummed against the roof. Outside, the streetlights smeared into yellow streaks across the glass. Rowan tore off his bow tie and tossed it onto the leather seat between us.

"You looked pathetic tonight," he said. He stared straight ahead. "You stood there like a ghost. People were looking at you with pity, Daphne. And pity doesn't sell records. You drag down my brand."

I kept my hands folded in my lap. I didn't move.

"I'm done bringing you to these things," he muttered. "From now on, you stay home. Locked away. It’s better for everyone if they just imagine you."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

He didn't wait for the third ring. When the call connected, his entire demeanor shifted. His harsh scowl melted into a lazy, seductive grin.

"Hey, baby," Rowan said. His voice was warm and playful. "Yeah, I just left. It was boring without you."

A high, giggling voice filtered through the speaker. Brooke.

"I'll be home in twenty minutes," Rowan laughed, leaning back against the leather headrest. "Wear the red one. The one with the lace."

He chuckled at whatever she said next. He sounded bright. Happy. Carefree.

I turned my head toward the window. My pale reflection stared back at me against the dark night. I reached up beneath my silk scarf and lightly touched the scar on my neck. The raised skin was cold beneath my fingertips.

*Eleven days.*

***

By morning, Brooke was already marking her territory.

I walked into the sunroom. On the windowsill, my small jade plant and the framed photo of my father were gone.

I found them in the hallway closet, dumped haphazardly into a cardboard box. The glass on the frame was cracked. The dirt from the potted plant had spilled across my father’s smiling face.

In their place on the marble sill, Brooke had arranged her collection of French perfumes, scented candles, and gold jewelry trays.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Brooke called out from the doorway.

She leaned against the jamb, wearing Rowan’s oversized white dress shirt, unbuttoned almost to her waist. Her blonde hair fell over one shoulder in messy waves. In her hands, she held a wrinkled emerald-green silk dress.

"Rowan is taking me to a private dinner with his label tonight," Brooke said. She tossed the dress at my chest.

I caught it before it hit the floor.

"Iron it," she ordered. She pointed to the utility room. "Steam setting. No creases. And be quick about it."

I took the dress to the ironing board. I filled the reservoir with water, waited for the red light to turn green, and pressed the hot plate against the green fabric. The steam hissed.

Ten minutes later, I carried the dress out on a velvet hanger.

Brooke didn't even look up from her phone. She reached out, pinched the sleeve between two manicured nails, and sneered.

"There's a fold right along the seam," she said. She ripped the dress off the hanger and threw it onto the floor at my feet. "Are you blind as well as mute? Do it again."

I picked up the dress. I walked back into the utility room. I pressed it again.

When I brought it back, she clicked her tongue.

"Still crooked," she mocked, knocking the hanger from my hand. "Useless. Absolutely useless. Try again, Daphne. Or maybe I should tell Rowan you're ruining my clothes on purpose?"

My hands were trembling. My wrists burned from the heat of the iron, and my fingers throbbed with a dull ache.

I looked down at the green silk pooling on the hardwood floor.

I didn't scream. I didn't sign a protest. I kept my face blank, like stone.

I bent my knees, picked up the dress for the third time, and turned back toward the steam.

*Ten days.*