My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot! Chapter 41: Tale Of Nine Flowers

The room is dim.

Not the dimness of night falling, but the dimness of a room that has been deliberately sealed—heavy curtains drawn tight across the glass wall, their thick fabric swallowing the moonlight before it can enter, before it can touch anything.

The only light cos from above: a polished golden glow, soft and distant, like sothing preserved in amber. Like sothing that hasn’t changed in years.

I sit on my bed, leaning back.

A book rests in my hands. Old. The spine cracked in places, the pages yellowed at the edges, softened by ti. But clean. Carefully kept.

Tale Of Nine Flowers.

My favorite.

Since I was little, this book was my escape. Mom used to read it to before bed—her voice soft, her fingers tracing the illustrations, her warmth beside . Every night. Without fail. Until I turned ten.

That was the year everything changed. The year I started hearing them.

The thoughts.

The noise of other people’s minds pressing against my own—loud, relentless, impossible to shut out. At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. I thought I was going mad—hearing whispers that weren’t there, feeling presences that had no bodies.

But then my parents found out. And they weren’t afraid for . They were excited.

Soon, they began using . As a tool. A weapon.

Whenever they needed to know sothing—whenever a deal hung in the balance, whenever soone sat across from them with secrets hidden behind their smiles—they would bring into the room.

Force to listen to things I never wanted to hear. And I would listen. And I would tell them everything.

What is he thinking, Ellis?

Is she lying, Ellis?

Tell us what they want, Ellis.

Their behavior changed after that. The warmth in their voices cooled. The gentle hands beca calculating. The bedti stories stopped—not abruptly, but slowly, like a river drying up.

Sotis, I think people are like that. No matter how beautiful they seem, there’s always sothing hidden underneath. Sothing ugly.

Even my family. At first, they tried to hide it from . Then they stopped trying.

Sotis, late at night like this, when the house is silent and the only sound is my own breathing, I wonder if this ability is a gift at all.

Or if it’s always been a curse—dressed up in golden light, pretending to be sothing precious.

Knock.

I blink.

The sound pulls back—sharp, sudden, splintering through my thoughts like glass breaking.

I look at the door.

What is he doing now?

"Co in."

The door opens slowly.

Silas steps inside, holding his notebook and pencil the way a child holds sothing fragile—close, careful, like he’s afraid to drop it.

He closes the door behind him. The soft click echoes in the quiet.

"What now?"

He steps forward and hands a note—already written, the ink still faintly wet in the golden light.

I can’t sleep. Can we talk for a while?

I glance at the book in my lap, then back at him. "But I’m sleepy."

Silas looks down. His fingers tighten around the pencil. He writes quickly—small, hurried strokes—and hands another note.

Please. Just for a while.

I look at his face.

There’s sothing in his expression. Sothing quiet. Fragile in a way that doesn’t ask for pity—only a mont. He’s not demanding. Not pushing. Just asking.

I offer him the book.

"If you can’t sleep, read this."

Silas looks at the book. Then back at . He writes again.

But I want to talk with you. You said you wouldn’t push away. Don’t step back from your words.

I sigh. The sound slips out before I can stop it—quiet, tired.

How did I end up here?

"Fine." The word leaves my mouth flat, reluctant. "But only for a mont."

His face changes.

The sadness lifts—not all at once, but slowly, like morning breaking through fog. Sothing softer takes its place. Lighter.

He smiles. Bright. Unfiltered.

For a second, it catches off guard.

He sits beside on the bed, leaving a careful distance between us—as if he’s morizing the boundaries I’ve drawn.

I turn to look at him.

"What do you want to talk about?"

He writes quickly—excited now, his pencil moving with purpose—and hands the note.

Let’s talk about your childhood.

My voice is flat. Final.

"No."

He blinks. His gaze shifts to the book resting on my lap—the worn cover, the gold lettering faded with age. He writes another note.

Then tell about the book you’re reading.

I look down at it. Then back at him. My expression is annoyed—but beneath the annoyance, sothing else. Sothing I don’t want to na.

"Why can’t you just read it yourself?"

Silas turns the notebook toward .

Please...

I look away. The curtain. The wall. Anything but his face.

"Fine."

I don’t open the book. I don’t need to. I’ve read it so many tis the words are etched into my mory, like the lines on my palms.

"It’s called Tale of Nine Flowers."

Silas leans back against the pillows. His body sinks into them—relaxed, trusting. His eyes stay on , bright and attentive, like a child waiting for a bedti story.

Like I used to be.

My gaze drifts to the curtain. The heavy fabric. The way it doesn’t move.

"An old woman lived alone on a mountain. Her na was Viala. She was kind—the kind of kindness that asked for nothing in return. She loved nature. The way the wind moved through the trees. The way rain fell against the earth."

I pause. The silence between my words stretches, quiet and thin.

"Down in the village, people called her cruel nas. Said she had no family. No child. No one who loved her. They laughed when she walked through the market. Whispered behind her back, thinking she couldn’t hear."

Another pause.

"Viala didn’t care. She had her garden. Her flowers. A small patch of earth she tended with hands that had only ever known soil and seeds."

My voice softens without aning to.

"One night—when the moon was bright enough to read by—she found nine flowers blooming in her garden. They were different. Not ordinary. Each one held its own light—faint at first, then growing, until the whole garden glowed as if morning had co early."

I glance at Silas.

"She was happy. She took care of them every day—watered them, spoke to them, protected them from the wind. And as the days passed, they grew. Taller. Stronger. Until each flower held sothing inside it—sothing waiting to be born."

I pause. The room is quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat.

"And when they finally blood—"

I look at him. He’s asleep. Peacefully.

His head rests against the pillow at an angle that should be uncomfortable, but he looks... soft. Curled slightly, his body folded in on itself, like a child seeking warmth. His breathing is even, barely stirring the air. His lips are parted just a little, and in the golden light, I can see the faint shadow of his lashes against his cheeks.

I watch him for a long mont.

He fell asleep. Just like that.

And he said he wanted to talk.