My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot! Chapter 7: Was He… Trying To Smell Me?

The door closes behind him. Soft. Final.

I stand there, staring at the space where he was.

Just a glance—and his secretary understood.

No words. No gestures.

Just... presence.

I look at Silas.

He’s still standing there. Bag in hand. That soft smile still on his lips. Still watching like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.

The silence stretches between us. Filling the space. Pressing against my skin.

He steps closer.

Closes the distance between us like it’s nothing. Like stepping into my space costs him nothing at all.

His footsteps don’t echo. They just... arrive.

He offers the bag. Fine leather. Expensive. The kind of gift that ans sothing.

I look down at it. Then back at his face.

Why is he giving this?

My face twists with curiosity before I can stop it. I hate that he sees it. I hate that he sees anything.

"What is it?"

His brown eyes catch the light. Warm. Deep. Like embers that never went out.

He doesn’t answer.

Of course he doesn’t—he never does.

But he gestures—just a small tilt of his head toward the bag. Take it.

I look down at the bag again.

Is this for ?

He just stands there. Waiting. Patient. Like he has all the ti in the world—and he’s willing to spend it here. On .

On standing in my room, holding out a bag, waiting for to accept sothing I never asked for.

Fine. Just take it. Whatever this is. Get it done. I want to go to the club. I want to forget today happened. I want to drown in whiskey until his face blurs.

I take the bag. Quick. Rough. My fingers brush his. I pretend not to notice.

"Thank you."

My voice is flat. Dead. My expression says everything my voice won’t—I’m not interested. Not in you. Not in your things. Not in any of this. This marriage. This gift. This performance.

"I have sothing urgent." The lie tastes like ash. "I need to go."

I don’t wait for his response. Don’t look at his face. Don’t give him the chance to stop .

I turn. Step toward the door. Freedom is three steps away. Two steps. One—

His hand reaches out.

Catches mine.

Fingers wrapping around my wrist. Warm. Steady. Not grabbing—holding. Like he’s asking permission without words.

I stop.

My jaw tightens. My teeth grind together. The muscle in my cheek jumps.

I wasted my ti on him. Showing him around this mansion. Playing the good host. Playing the obedient son. I even accepted whatever gift he’s forcing on .

And now—now what? What more does he want from ? What more can he possibly take?

A frustrated breath leaves my lips. Loud. Deliberate. Sharp enough for him to hear. I don’t hide it. Don’t soften it. Don’t care anymore.

Better if he understands. Better if he sees.

I’m fed up with everything. With him. With this marriage. With this whole performance my life has beco. With the flowers. With the smiles. With the way everyone looks at him like he’s salvation—and at like I’m the problem.

I turn. Look back at him.

Try to calm my face. Try to smooth the fury from my features. Try to rember that Dad’s threat still hangs over like a blade.

Disown. Poverty. Waiter.

The words cool my blood.

"What happened?"

My voice cos out quieter than I intended.

Silas’s gaze shifts down—to the bag in my hand. Then back to my face. Then down again. Then up.

Bag. Face. Bag. Face.

Like he’s trying to speak without a voice. Like his silence is a language I’m supposed to understand.

I blink. Completely lost.

My brows lift.

What is he saying? Is he... trying to tell to open it? Here? Now?

"Do you want to open this?"

Silas nods. Quick. Eager. His eyes brighten—just slightly. Like this matters more than it should.

He’s... excited. About giving sothing. About watching take it.

The thought lands sowhere soft. I crush it imdiately.

"I have no ti now." My voice flat. Dismissive. The voice I use to end conversations.

"I’ll open it later. I need to go."

I turn—

His grip tightens.

Not hard. Not painful. Not demanding. Just... firm. Squeezing gently. A silent please I feel in my bones. In my chest. In the space between my ribs where I don’t let anyone live.

I roll my eyes.

Ellis. You have no options. You have no choices. You have no way out.

I turn back. Face him fully.

Free my hand with a sharp jerk—like his skin burned mine. Like touching him too long might leave a mark I can’t explain.

"Fine. I’ll open it."

The bag opens. My fingers stiff, impatient.

Inside, a box rests perfectly. Nestled in black silk. Waiting. Patient.

I take it out.

The box is heavy. Dense. Expensive in a way that doesn’t need a price tag.

I open the lid.

Sothing catches the light.

Holds it. Bends it. Sends it back different.

I look down.

A pendant. Red. Beautiful. Resting in velvet like a heart carved from stone.

The color is deep—wine-dark, almost alive. The stone inside isn’t ordinary. It shifts. Catches the light... and keeps it a second too long.

I stare at it.

What is this?

Before I can react—before I can speak, before I can step back—

Silas steps closer.

He takes the pendant from the box. His fingers graceful. Unhurried. Like he’s handling sothing that matters. The clasp clicks open—soft, final. His hands co up. Around my neck.

I flinch.

Caught completely off guard.

He’s close now. Too close. I can see the small mole beneath his eye. The shadows his lashes cast against his skin.

His breath brushes my neck. Warm.

His fingers are cool against my throat. Steady. Certain.

He clasps the pendant around my neck. Calm. Deliberate.

His fingers brush the back of my neck—warm, careful—and I feel the clasp click shut.

Like he’s been waiting for this. Like the pendant was always ant to hang here—against my chest, against my skin, against everything I’ve built to keep people out.

My fists clench at my sides.

How dare he. How dare he touch like this—like I’m his. Like he has a right.

The pendant settles against my chest. Heavy. Warm. The stone pulses against my skin—or maybe that’s my heartbeat. I can’t tell.

His fingers linger for a mont at my throat. Light as breath. Warm as sunlight.

His face is close to mine now.

Too close.

I feel his breath warm against my neck. See the faint flush on his cheeks—pink spreading across pale skin like dawn. The way his lips part slightly. The way he looks at like I’m sothing precious.

Then—

He inhales.

Deep. Slow. Deliberate.

His nose brushes my skin—barely there. His chest rises against mine. His breath warm at my throat.

He’s slling . Like he’s trying to rember it. Keep it.

I shove him back.

Hard.

My palms slam against his chest. He stumbles—just a step—and I put distance between us. Three feet. Four. The width of a grave.

My pulse jumps. I force it down.

Silas’s expression changes.

His smile fades. Sothing flickers in his eyes—hurt? Confusion? I don’t stay long enough to find out.

I step out of the room. Fast. Too fast. The door slams behind . My footsteps echo down the hallway. Faster. Sharper.

What the hell was that?

Was he... trying to sll ?

Like I’m sothing to be hunted.