My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot! Chapter 53: Stubborn.... But Mine

Flashback — Wedding Night

The room holds its breath.

Silas sits on the bed, his eyes scanning the room slowly, deliberately—taking in every detail. White roses everywhere.

Clustered in crystal vases so tall they seem to scrape the ceiling. Spilling from urns in the corners like frozen waterfalls.

Petals litter the marble. Thousands of them. Soft and fragrant, pale as fresh snow, scattered by hands that cared too much about appearances and too little about the two people who would lie here tonight.

A perfect wedding chamber.

Beautiful. Cold. Waiting.

His hands rest on his lap, one folded over the other, fingers tapping lightly against his own skin.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

His gaze shifts to the empty space beside him. The white sheets are covered with more petals—hundreds more, delicate and trembling, arranged with obsessive precision by servants too afraid to fail.

Silas reaches out and takes a single petal between his fingers. He turns it slowly beneath the dim golden light, watching the edges glow translucent, the delicate veins visible like tiny rivers on a map.

His brown eyes reflect the light.

How much longer are you going to avoid ?

He stares at the petal, turning it slowly beneath the golden light.

Still refusing .

A smile spreads across his lips—slow and knowing, soft at the edges but sharp sowhere deeper. A smile that has seen sothing the rest of the world has missed.

How stubborn.

He rises from the bed. The white petals crumple softly beneath his footsteps as he walks toward the door and steps into the hallway beyond.

The mansion lights are dim now. Golden. Subdued. The kind of lighting that softens edges and hides secrets.

Silas’s footsteps are soft against the polished marble—barely a whisper, barely a presence.

A servant passes by. She stops quickly when she sees him, startled for just a mont before bowing lightly.

"Sir." Her voice is breathless, apologetic. "Did you need sothing?"

Silas looks at her. His face remains calm, unreadable. He shakes his head—just a little, just enough.

No. Nothing.

She blinks. A soft smile touches her lips—uncertain at first, then warr, as if she’s decided he isn’t as frightening as she expected.

"Then..." A slight tilt of her head. "Are you searching for Mr. Ellis?"

Silas nods.

Her smile widens—warm, knowing, a little conspiratorial. "He’s in the private bar." She gestures respectfully down the hallway.

A pause.

"I can take you, if you’d like."

Silas gives her a soft smile in return.

They walk together—the maid leading, Silas following, his footsteps still silent, his presence barely there.

The maid glances at him from the corner of her eye.

From up close, he looks even more beautiful.

She stops in front of a dark wooden door and opens it carefully—almost silently, like she’s afraid of disturbing sothing sacred.

"Please," she says softly.

Silas steps inside.

The room is dim. The scent of alcohol hangs heavy in the air—whiskey, wine, sothing sharper beneath. And beneath it all—

Moonflower.

Ellis’s pheromones.

Rich. Sweet. Intoxicating.

His gaze shifts to the couch.

Ellis is sleeping there.

His shirt is stained with wine and blood—dark red spreading across the white fabric like a wound that refuses to close. A broken wine glass lies on the floor beside him, shards glittering across the marble beneath the dim light.

One of his hands rests loosely against his chest, still bleeding. A thin line of red trails down his palm, dripping slowly onto the floor.

Silas stares at him. Calm.

Behind him, the maid covers her mouth with both hands, her eyes widening in shock.

"Oh no—Mr. Ellis..." Her voice drops into panic. "I’ll bring a first-aid kit. And warm water."

Silas nods once. His eyes never leave Ellis.

The maid hurries away. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

Silas steps forward.

His footsteps make no sound against the marble. He moves like water—smooth and inevitable, drawn toward the place Ellis rests.

He stops beside the couch.

His eyes stay on Ellis. Pinned. Unwavering. Like looking away, even for a mont, might make him disappear.

Ellis’s breathing is deep and steady. His black hair is slightly ssy, spread across the cushion and falling over his eyes. His lips are parted faintly in sleep, soft beneath the dim light.

Silas reaches out.

Slowly. His fingers brush against Ellis’s skin as he gently slides the dark strands away from his face. The hair slips through his fingers like silk.

Ellis doesn’t move.

Still sleeping.

Peacefully.

Silas smiles.

His lips curl softly—not the practiced smile he wears for servants and strangers, but sothing smaller. Sothing private. Sothing that belongs only to this mont.

Stubborn.

His fingers linger near Ellis’s temple, not quite touching, just hovering.

But mine.

One arm slips beneath Ellis’s waist. The other beneath his knees. Then, carefully, Silas lifts him into his arms.

Ellis’s head falls against his chest, warm and heavy with sleep. His breathing brushes softly against Silas’s collarbone.

Silas walks.

Out of the private bar. Down the hallway. His steps remain soft. Silent. As if the house itself has agreed to keep their secret.

He steps into the wedding chamber. The white petals on the floor crumple softly beneath his shoes—a quiet sound in the stillness.

He lowers Ellis onto the bed. Carefully. Gently.

Like placing sothing precious where it belongs. Like handling sothing that might shatter if held too carelessly.

The white rose petals shift beneath Ellis’s body, cradling him softly as they fold around his weight.

A soft knock sounds at the door.

The maid enters carrying a first-aid kit, a bowl of warm water, and a folded towel. She sets the tray down on the table beside the bed. Her hand reaches toward Ellis—

"Sir, let —"

Silas catches her wrist before she can touch him.

His gaze lifts to hers. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes are sharp—not angry, not cruel. Just clear. A warning without words.

Don’t.

She flinches slightly and pulls her hand back as if she’s touched sothing forbidden. Bowing quickly, she lowers her gaze, her voice trembling at the edges.

"Please... call if you need anything."

She leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Silas turns back to Ellis.

Still sleeping. Still peaceful. Still unaware.

He opens the first-aid kit and takes out the antiseptic and bandages.

He lifts Ellis’s hand carefully, as if it were sothing borrowed, and turns it palm-up beneath the light. Small cuts scatter across his skin where the broken glass bit into him—shallow, but enough to leave traces of blood along his palm.

Silas dips a cotton bud into the antiseptic. The clear liquid darkens the white tip before he presses it gently against the wound.

Ellis shifts slightly in his sleep. A faint crease forms between his brows, a quiet breath slipping past his lips before the tension eases from him once more.

Silas waits. Only when Ellis settles again does he continue.

He cleans the wound with slow, deliberate movents, spreading ointnt carefully across the cuts. His fingertip traces the injured skin with impossible care.

Then he wraps the hand in a bandage, smoothing the edges lightly to keep it in place.

For a mont, he simply holds Ellis’s hand in his own. Then he lifts it to his lips. And presses a soft kiss against the bandage.

His lips linger there for a mont—warm against the gauze, against the skin beneath.

His eyes stay on Ellis’s face.

And sothing shifts. The brown of his irises flickers. Deepens. For just a mont—brief as a heartbeat, brief as a held breath—they turn to gold.

Shining.

Burning.

Alive.

His hand reaches for Ellis’s face. His fingers touch his cheek gently, tracing the warmth beneath skin flushed from sleep and wine.

Silas’s thumb slides down. Traces Ellis’s lower lip. Soft. Slightly parted. He traces the curve of it slowly. Gently. Like he’s morizing it.

The air in the room shifts. The scent of white roses fades—replaced by sothing else. Sothing deeper. Sothing that does not belong to flowers.

Silas leans down.

His lips find Ellis’s. Soft. Brief. The barest press of skin against skin.

He stays like that for a long mont—forever, or only a heartbeat, it’s impossible to tell.

Then he pulls back. Just an inch. Just enough to see Ellis’s face. To watch the slow rhythm of his breathing, to morize the way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

His voice is barely a sound—a thread of breath given shape.

"Now our wedding is complete."

A pause.

"My bride."