The Womanizer's Mute Wife

GENESIS

Three days.

Three endless, suffocating days inside this cold mansion.

It was too quiet here. Too clean. Too perfect.

No Monica. No Mark. No Jimmy. No yelling. No fists. Just silence, sharp enough to cut through my skin.

I thought silence would feel safe. It didn’t. It felt like punishment.

When I first arrived, I waited for rules. Someone to tell me what to do, how to breathe, how to exist. But no one did. They just left food, plates piled high with soft bread, meat glistening under strange sauces, and fruit that smelled too sweet. I stared at them until they went cold.

I wasn’t supposed to eat like this. Monica’s voice still hissed in my head: “Filthy things like you don’t deserve good food.”

So I ate only enough not to faint. My stomach twisted and begged, but I couldn’t. What if it was a test? What if touching the wrong thing meant punishment?

The bathroom was worse. It was bigger than my old room. White tiles, mirrors, lights. I hadn’t dared step inside. I didn’t deserve it. I slept on the floor, wrapped in a bedspread I’d soiled.

The smell was unbearable now, sweat, urine, fear, but no one yelled. No one beat me. That silence pressed down on me harder than any hand ever had.

I wanted to ask someone, “What are the rules here?” but that was not possible . So I waited. Curled up on the cold floor. Waiting for something to break.

Then the door creaked open.

Light spilled into the room. My eyes snapped shut. Maybe if I stayed still, they’d think I was asleep.

A voice cut through the silence, deep, sharp, disbelieving.

“What the fuck.”

My chest seized. Him. My husband.

My body went rigid. I didn’t breathe. That tone, I knew what came next. Words like that always came before pain.

I cracked my eyes open just enough to see him standing there. Tall. Still. His face a storm of confusion and anger as his gaze swept across the room, the untouched food, the filthy sheets, and me, crouched in the corner like a broken thing.

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. My heart hammered so hard I thought I might throw up.

“What the hell is going on here?” His voice was lower now, rough, like he didn’t trust himself.

I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even look up.

Then I felt him kneel beside me. The air shifted. Warm. Heavy. Close.

“Hey.” His tone softened. “Look at me.”

I couldn’t.

“Genesis,” he said again, and my name sounded different in his mouth—less like a command, more like a question.

I turned my head, just enough to see his shoes. My body trembled.

He didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, his voice cracked. “What the hell happened to you?”

The words made my throat ache. I didn’t know if he was angry, disgusted, or—worse—pitying me.

Then his hand moved, and I flinched, curling back instinctively. But there was no blow. Only a long exhale and the sound of his voice, rough and tired.

“Richard!”

I jumped.

Richard appeared in seconds, pale and breathless. “Y–Yes, Young Master?”

“Get this room cleaned up,” Kier barked. “Now. Clothes, food. Something fresh. And hurry.”

Richard hesitated, startled.

“Now!” Kier snapped, voice echoing through the room.

When the butler scurried off, Kier turned back to me. I stared at my hands, fighting tears.

“Come with me,” he said.

I froze. My lungs burned. This is it, I thought. He’s going to hurt me.

But I stood anyway. Because obeying was safer.

He led me to the bathroom and opened the door. “Go in.”

I obeyed. The floor was spotless. The air smelled like soap. I didn’t belong here.

“Take a shower,” he said.

My hands shook. Was it a trick? I hesitated, then began to undress—slow, careful, like I’d done something wrong. When I looked up, he was already turned away, muttering under his breath, “When the hell did you undress so fast?”

Shame burned through me. I knew he’d seen the scars.

He dragged a hand down his face, voice lower now. “Step into the shower. Go on.”

I moved toward the glass stall, confused by all the buttons. At Monica’s, there’d been only a bucket. I pressed one at random.

Scalding water shot out, blasting my skin. I gasped silently, stumbling backward—straight into his chest.

He caught me instantly. His arms tightened, steadying me.

“What happened?” he asked, voice sharp with alarm, not anger.

I trembled, unable to speak.

He guided me gently back to the stall. “Easy. It’s okay. Just water. I’ll help you.”

No one had ever said that to me before.

And that was the moment the walls inside me began to crack.