The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge

The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge

Our Time

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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.

The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge Chapter 1 1

Edlyn Booth adjusted the magnification loupe over her eyes, the world narrowing down to a single square inch of canvas. The smell of solvent was sharp in the air, a chemical 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 painting, and the varnish had yellowed into a sickly amber. Her job was to remove the decay without harming the history beneath. It was the only time she felt in control.

The intercom buzzed, a harsh, electronic intrusion that made her hand freeze mid-air. She exhaled slowly, placed the scalpel on the velvet tray, and tapped the monitor on the wall. It was the concierge, announcing a delivery from Arno's personal assistant.

Send it up, she typed on the keypad. She did not speak. She had not spoken a word in three years.

Moments later, Magda, the housekeeper, bustled in with a garment bag. It was Arno's charcoal suit, the one he had worn yesterday. Magda hung it in the master closet with the reverence due a religious artifact. Edlyn watched from the doorway. Her eyes traced the hem of the jacket. It hung slightly askew. Arno Rutledge did not tolerate asymmetry.

Magda left to start dinner. Edlyn stepped into the closet. The space smelled of cedar and expensive dry cleaning, but underneath, there was a faint, metallic scent. She reached out, her fingers brushing the fine wool. The pocket flap was tucked in, but a corner of white cardstock protruded against the dark fabric.

She held her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She pulled the paper out.

It was a visitor pass. Mount Sinai Hospital. VIP Wing. The time stamp read 11:00 PM last night.

Edlyn stared at the small piece of paper. The edges were sharp against her thumb. Last night, Arno had texted her. Board meeting ran late. Don't wait up.

He had lied.

She pulled out her phone, her hands shaking so badly she almost dropped it. She took a photo of the pass and moved it to a hidden, encrypted folder. She slid the pass back into the pocket, exactly as she had found it.

A notification popped up on her screen. An automated email from the nursing home. Payment Overdue. Final Notice.

The air in the closet felt suddenly thin. The walls were closing in. She needed air. She needed answers.

Edlyn grabbed a nondescript gray trench coat and wrapped a scarf around her lower face. She bypassed the elevator that led to the private garage and took the service exit. She walked four blocks before descending into the subway, merging with the anonymous flow of New York City.

The hospital was a fortress of glass and steel. Edlyn kept her head down, her scarf pulled high. She navigated the lobby, blending into the stream of worried relatives and tired staff. The VIP wing was different. The air was cooler, the lighting softer, the silence heavier.

Two men in dark suits stood guard at the double doors. They were not hospital security. They wore the silver lapel pins of Rutledge Global.

Edlyn stopped by a donor plaque, pretending to read the names. Her pulse roared in her ears. A nurse pushed a cart filled with rare, white orchids past the guards. Edlyn turned slightly, her eyes catching the small card tucked into the blooms.

Get well. A.R.

The initials burned into her retinas. Arno never sent flowers. He considered cut flowers a waste of capital.

She waited for the nurse to swipe her badge, then slipped through the closing doors behind the cart, using the bulk of the flowers as a shield. She followed the cart down the corridor. Room 1208.

The door to 1208 was ajar. Edlyn pressed herself into a recessed alcove. Through the gap, she saw machinery. A ventilator hissed rhythmically. There was a team of doctors in white coats, their voices low and urgent. She could not see the patient, only the sheer volume of technology keeping them alive.

One of the Rutledge guards turned his head. His gaze swept the hallway and locked onto her.

Edlyn froze. Her instinct was to run, but her legs felt like lead.

"Excuse me, ma'am," the guard said, stepping forward. "This is a restricted area."

Edlyn pointed to her throat. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She made a series of frantic, nonsensical gestures with her hands, mimicking confusion.

The guard frowned, his aggression dampening into annoyance. He assumed she was lost and disabled. He pointed firmly toward the elevators.

"Exit is that way."

Edlyn nodded rapidly, playing the part of the frightened, mute woman. She turned and walked to the elevator, her back prickling with the sensation of being watched. Only when the doors slid shut did she allow herself to gasp for air. She leaned against the cold metal wall, seeing her reflection in the polished steel. Her eyes were wide, terrified.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Come home for dinner.

It was Arno. The command was simple, brutal. He was summoning his asset. Edlyn looked at the message, then up at the floor indicator as it descended. She had seen the truth, or at least the edge of it. Now she had to go home and pretend she was blind.

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The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge 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.”
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Chapter 1 1

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Chapter 2 2

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Chapter 3 3

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Chapter 4 4

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Chapter 5 5

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Chapter 6 6

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Chapter 7 7

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Chapter 8 8

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Chapter 9 9

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Chapter 10 10

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Chapter 11 11

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Chapter 12 12

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Chapter 13 13

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Chapter 14 14

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Chapter 15 15

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Chapter 16 16

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Chapter 17 17

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Chapter 18 18

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Chapter 19 19

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Chapter 20 20

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Chapter 21 21

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Chapter 22 22

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Chapter 23 23

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Chapter 24 24

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Chapter 25 25

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Chapter 26 26

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Chapter 27 27

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Chapter 28 28

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Chapter 29 29

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Chapter 30 30

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Chapter 31 31

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Chapter 32 32

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Chapter 33 33

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Chapter 34 34

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Chapter 35 35

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Chapter 36 36

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Chapter 37 37

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Chapter 38 38

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Chapter 39 39

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Chapter 40 40

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