The Deaf Wife He Never Valued

I saved Ryder Torres from a car crash, and in return, I lost my hearing in my left ear forever.

In our five years of marriage, I told him the story of how I saved his life thirty-three times.

But it never seemed to register.

He’d grow impatient in noisy ballrooms when I had to tilt my head, my reactions a beat too slow.

"Willow, can't you just focus? It's so rude when you can't even hear people talking to you."

He even complained to his friends: "See? She’s always a beat behind. So annoying."

It wasn't until the company's charity gala that I saw it with my own eyes. He’d lower his head to his assistant, Scarlett Monroe, his lips almost brushing her ear as he patiently repeated every word, terrified she might miss a single detail.

He shielded another woman from the slightest discomfort, yet the world of silence I had entered to save him was, in his eyes, nothing more than a personal flaw.

In that moment, a sharp ringing pierced my head.

I finally understood. In his eyes, this deaf ear wasn't a badge of honor; it was a mark of shame.

And my love, it seemed, was just as worthless.

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1

My heart shattering, I stumbled out onto the hotel terrace, desperate for air.

Suddenly, I bumped into two drunk men.

They seized my wrists, their leering eyes raking over my body.

"Well, hello there, gorgeous. Don't cozy up to us and then play coy."

I struggled fiercely, but their grip was like iron.

My struggles only seemed to amuse them. "Oh, playing hard to get? We know all about rich wives like you. You're wilder than anyone when no one's looking."

With that, the two of them began dragging me toward a dark corner of the terrace.

Fear, cold and sharp, consumed me. My eyes darted around frantically until I spotted Ryder approaching, with Scarlett Monroe tucked under his arm.

Scarlett seemed to have twisted her ankle and was leaning heavily against him.

I screamed with all my might, "Ryder, save me!"

Ryder heard me. His head snapped up, but the moment he saw me, his brow knitted in annoyance.

Scarlett, however, spoke first. Even from a distance, I could read the faint trace of malice on her lips.

"Ryder, I just saw Willow smiling at them. They must know each other. Maybe we shouldn't interrupt?"

Ryder's expression instantly hardened, his eyes icing over with disgust.

The two men immediately chimed in, "Yeah, yeah, we know her! Just fooling around!"

"No! I don't know them!" I tried desperately to explain, but a sharp pain shot through my arm as one of them tightened his grip.

"Willow Hayes, how long are you going to make a scene?"

Ryder's voice was low, seething with anger. He didn't believe a word I said.

"Resorting to such a pathetic trick just to get my attention? Getting mixed up with this kind of trash?"

My arm throbbed with a searing pain as humiliation washed over me in a suffocating wave.

By the time I looked up, he was already turning away, his arm wrapped securely around Scarlett.

Scarlett even glanced back timidly and said, "Ryder, do you think Willow will be mad at me? The way she looked at me was so scary..."

"I'm here. She wouldn't dare."

Anger and grief surged through me, and all my pent-up frustrations erupted. I screamed at his retreating back with every ounce of strength I had left:

"Ryder Torres, if you walk away today, we are getting a divorce!"

His steps faltered for a second, but he didn't look back, just tossed a cold sentence over his shoulder. "Divorce? Grow up, Willow. That threat stopped working on me years ago."

Without another glance, he led Scarlett away, disappearing into the brilliant lights of the ballroom.

Without Ryder's intimidating presence, the two men grew bolder, dragging me toward a car parked by the road.

"You hear that? Your husband doesn't even want you. Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll take good care of you!"

While they fumbled to open the car door, I slipped off my high heel and smashed it against one of their heads with all my might, then ran for my life into the crowded square.

Only when I was sure I wasn't being followed did I collapse onto a park bench, barefoot and trembling, hugging my arms to my chest.

My phone lit up. Scarlett had updated her Instagram.

In the photo, Ryder sat in the car, gently draping his own suit jacket over her shoulders.

It was a tenderness I hadn't received once in five years.

A moment later, a message from Ryder buzzed on my phone:

"Scarlett was frightened by your outburst. I'm taking her home. I'll have the driver pick you up."

Fighting back the pain in my wrist and the acid of humiliation in my throat, I wiped away my tears and replied:

"Don't bother, Ryder. This time, I mean it. Let's get a divorce."