His Unwanted Mute Wife's Daring Escape

Julian rose from the tangled king-sized bed, the muscles in his back pulling tight under the pale moonlight.

He didn't look back at Ava.

Not once.

He walked straight to the bathroom, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. The sound of the shower turning on was a wall of water and steam, sealing him in his world and leaving her in hers.

Ava slowly pulled the silk sheet up, covering the red marks blooming across her shoulders.

A cough tickled the back of her throat, a dry, rasping thing. She bit down hard on her lower lip, swallowing the sound until her throat ached with the effort. A sharp, spasming pain shot through her larynx, a physical reminder of the silence that had become her prison.

She glanced at the nightstand. The digital clock glowed: 2:00 AM.

The water in the bathroom stopped. The lock clicked again, sharp and final.

Julian emerged, a towel slung low on his hips. The scent of mint shower gel, cold and sterile, filled the space between them. He walked past the bed to the walk-in closet, pulling on a dark silk robe without bothering to tie it.

Ava lowered her eyes, tracing the pattern on the duvet. His gaze felt like a physical weight, pressing down on her.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at her. There was no warmth in his eyes, only the detached assessment of a man looking at a possession. Her fingers curled into a fist beneath the sheets, her breathing shallow and careful.

"The Thanksgiving dinner is at my mother's estate tomorrow," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floor. "Don't be late."

Ava reached for the phone on her pillow. Her fingers flew across the screen, the pale blue light illuminating her face, washing out what little color she had left.

She held the screen up for him to see.

I'll be there with Leo. On time.

Julian's eyes flickered over the words. A short, sharp sound, something between a scoff and a laugh, escaped his lips. It was a sound of pure contempt.

He turned and walked towards the bedroom door, his steps heavy and measured. Unforgiving.

Ava watched his back, a broad silhouette against the dim light of the hallway. An invisible hand seemed to close around her heart, squeezing until she couldn't breathe.

The door closed. His footsteps faded down the long, empty corridor.

Only then did she move.

She threw back the covers, ignoring the dull ache that spread through her body. Her bare feet met the cold plush of the carpet. She walked into the bathroom he had just left, the air still thick with steam and the scent of him.

She turned on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over her skin. The marks on her shoulders and collarbone stood out, angry and red. She scrubbed at them with a sponge, a mechanical, repetitive motion, as if she could wash away the humiliation along with his touch.

Her fingers touched a bruise below her collarbone, a mark he had left last night. She remembered the unfathomable darkness in his eyes when he pressed down on her, unsure whether it was desire or something else. She had seen the same look in his eyes when dealing with business rivals. She no longer bothered to question the meaning of that look.

The water started to cool. She turned off the tap and wrapped herself in a thick towel.

She stepped out of the bathroom, past the messy bed, and into the spacious walk-in closet. She ignored the row of nameplate dresses and shoes he had bought for her; those silent costumes were symbols of the roles she was forced to play.

At the very back, hidden behind a row of winter clothes, there is a small, locked drawer.

She took a small key from the pocket of her robe. She steadily inserted the key into the lock and turned it.

The drawer slid open silently.

Inside, lying quietly on a black velvet cushion, was only a box. She lifted the lid.

That wasn't jewelry. That was her marriage certificate, torn into hundreds of pieces. A mosaic of their broken contract.

She didn't put them back together. She just looked at the fragments, her fingertips touching the edge of one piece—it had the words "Julian Carlyle IV" and "Ava Davis" printed on it. She had once possessed those two lines completely, like possessing a lie.

Suddenly, a faint sound came from the corridor—the floorboards creaked, and a buzzing sound came from afar.

She suddenly raised her head.

She immediately closed the box, pulled the drawer shut, and turned the key. In the empty, silent apartment, only the click of the lock echoed. She shoved the key back into her pocket, her heart pounding.

She stood pressed against the wardrobe wall for a long time, until the sounds in the hallway completely disappeared. She knew she would be discovered sooner or later. She just hadn't expected it to come so quickly.