The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge

Author: Our Time

Chapter 1 1

Word Count: 900 | Released on: 03/02/2026

emical comfort she had known since childhood. She held the scalpel with a steadiness that defied the tremors in her chest. This was a seventeenth-century Dutch oil pai

She exhaled slowly, placed the scalpel on the velvet tray, and tapped the monitor on

pad. She did not speak. She had

orn yesterday. Magda hung it in the master closet with the reverence due a religious artifact. Edlyn watched from t

leaning, but underneath, there was a faint, metallic scent. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fin

against her ribs, a frantic bird trapp

nai Hospital. VIP Wing. The tim

were sharp against her thumb. Last night, Arno had

ad l

it. She took a photo of the pass and moved it to a hidden, encrypted fol

n. An automated email from the nursin

y thin. The walls were closing in.

ypassed the elevator that led to the private garage and took the service exit. She walked fou

high. She navigated the lobby, blending into the stream of worried relatives and tired staf

e doors. They were not hospital security. They

n her ears. A nurse pushed a cart filled with rare, white orchids past the guards

well

. Arno never sent flowers. He consid

the closing doors behind the cart, using the bulk of the flowers

chinery. A ventilator hissed rhythmically. There was a team of doctors in white coats, their voices

ned his head. His gaze swept t

nct was to run, but he

rd said, stepping forward.

t no sound came out. She made a series of frantic, no

nto annoyance. He assumed she was lost and di

is tha

k prickling with the sensation of being watched. Only when the doors slid shut did she allow herself to gasp for air

buzzed in

me for

ed at the message, then up at the floor indicator as it descended. She had seen the

Chapter End

Claim Your Bonus at the APP

Open

The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge

Our Time Modern

“I haven't spoken a word in three years. As a professional art restorer, I spent my days fixing seventeenth-century Dutch oils and playing the role of the perfect, silent wife to billionaire Arno Rutledge. I thought our marriage was a cold but stable arrangement, a gilded cage I had accepted to keep my father's medical bills paid. That illusion shattered when I found a VIP hospital pass in Arno's suit pocket. Following the trail, I discovered my husband was keeping a woman named Serena on life support in a restricted wing. He wasn't just paying for her care; he was micromanaging her vitals from a tablet like a volatile stock portfolio, obsessed with controlling her every breath while lying to me about late-night board meetings. When I confronted him at the hospital, the mask of the refined businessman slipped. He didn't offer an apology; he offered a violent shove. I crashed into a glass display case, the shards slicing deep into my dominant hand-the hand I used to restore history. As blood pulsed onto the white tiles, Arno didn't even look back. He was too busy cradling the other woman's hand, leaving me to stitch my own mangled flesh together with industrial glue in a public restroom. Back at the penthouse, the nightmare only escalated. When I tried to pack my bags, Arno froze my bank accounts and reminded me that he controlled the ventilator keeping my father alive. He dragged me into my studio, snapped my custom sable brushes in front of my face, and forced himself on me atop my own workbench. "You're an asset, Edlyn," he whispered against my skin. "And right now, you're underperforming." He told me that since my hands were now "broken equipment," I had to find other ways to compensate for my lack of value. He thought he had successfully liquidated my soul, leaving me a hollow shell trapped in his high-rise fortress. But Arno made one fatal mistake. He thinks because I am mute, I am also blind. He thinks because he broke my hand, I have lost my touch. He doesn't realize that a restorer's greatest skill isn't her hands-it's her ability to see the hidden rot beneath the surface. He wants to treat me like a line item on a balance sheet? Fine. I'm about to show him exactly what happens when an asset decides to set the entire portfolio on fire.”