After Pretending to be Mute for Eight Years, My Boyfriend Left Me

When Venice opened her eyes again, the blinding white hospital lights stabbed at her vision.

The air reeked of disinfectant—cold, sterile, and painfully familiar.

She tried to move her fingers, just slightly, but even that small motion startled the man slumped beside her bed.

Kevin's eyes were bloodshot, his face weary and haggard. It looked as though he hadn't slept all night.

When he saw her awake, a heavy breath of relief escaped his lips. "Venice, you're finally awake."

His tone softened, gentle, coaxing.

"I know you're angry," he murmured, "but no matter what, you shouldn't have laid hands on Stefanie. I need the Cervantes family's support—Stefanie is a important part of that plan."

Then, in a voice that tried to sound tender, he added, "But remember this, Venice. No matter what I do, I only love you. Everything I'm doing is to help you enter the McAuliffe family sooner."

Venice stared up at the white ceiling, silent. The words reached her ears but not her heart.

Just as Kevin was about to say more, his phone rang sharply.

Through the receiver came Stefanie's delicate, tearful voice. "Kevin... I think I'm having an allergic reaction. My skin is all covered in rashes..."

[Go take care of her.] Venice's eyes were hollow as her fingers formed the words.

Kevin hesitated only a second before standing.

"I'll have one of the maids come and look after you," he said softly. "Rest well."

But no one came.

For days, Venice lay alone in the ward, enduring the pain that clawed through her body.

Every night, her knees throbbed and itched with unbearable intensity. And every morning, the nurse would peel open her scabbed wounds to apply new medication without no anesthesia. She fainted more than once from the agony.

Worse than the physical pain were the photos that arrived every single day.

Stefanie's messages came like clockwork—each one more taunting than the last.

Kevin feeding her soup, peeling her apples, pressed her against the hospital bed, kissing her neck.

Venice scrolled through them one by one until her heart stopped hurting entirely.

Then she typed a single message. [You don't need to show me these. Kevin is yours now. Keep him.]

Almost instantly, another message came through.

[Still want the necklace? Come and get it.]

Without wasting another next second, Venice got out of bed. She didn't even bother with her coat and just ran out.

Every step tore at the stitches in her legs, but she didn't care.

She sprinted through the sterile corridors, blood seeping through her bandages, until she reached the top floor's VIP ward.

When she burst through the door, Stefanie was already waiting, lounging gracefully on the sofa.

"Miss Robles," she greeted sweetly. "You made it."

Panting hard, Venice still forced herself to stay composed, signing, [Where is it? Give it back!]

Stefanie dangled the necklace in her palm, the silver charm gleaming faintly under the light.

"Relax. It's safe," she said with a smirk. "But that's no way to ask for a favor, is it?"

Venice's nails dug deep into her palms. Her chest rose and fell as she fought to stay calm.

[What do you want?]

"I'm craving seafood porridge," Stefanie said lazily. "From that shop on Wilshire Blvd."

Venice's lips tightened. After a long pause, she nodded and turned to leave. The porridge shop on Wilshire Blvd had a two-hour line.

Her leg wound hadn't healed, and the gauze soon turned crimson again. But she gritted her teeth and endured it—she had to get her mother's ashes back.

The first time she brought it, Stefanie wrinkled her nose. "Not fresh enough. I want pickled vegetable porridge instead."

The second time she said, "Too salty. I want century egg porridge."

The third time, she smiled slyly. "Oh, I forgot—I'm allergic to century eggs. Bring me noodles."

...

By the tenth trip, Stefanie sighed theatrically. "Actually, let's go back to the seafood porridge."

By then, Venice's legs were soaked with blood. Still, she limped all the way back to the VIP ward, clutching the steaming bowl.

Just as she reached for the doorknob, laughter drifted out from inside.

"Kevin, did you really make this porridge yourself?"

Kevin's deep voice replied, warm and indulgent. "Yes. I cooked it for two hours. My princess, have a taste."

Venice heard the sound of him blowing on the spoon, feeding it to her.

The bowl in her hands slipped and shattered with a sharp clang.

The smell of seafood filled the hall, mixing with the metallic tang of blood.

She stumbled back, her knees buckling—and a passing doctor caught her just in time.

One glance at her, and the color drained from his face.

"Young Miss?!" he blurted in shock. "What on earth are you doing here?"