My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot! Chapter 86: What Happened To Him?

The projector screen dies.

A flicker. A final shudder of light against the wall. Then darkness swallows the last pie chart, the last graph, the last carefully constructed lie.

The room lights hum back to life.

Papers shuffle. Pens click. Throats clear.

The executive team exchanges quick, practiced glances—the kind that say everything and nothing at the sa ti.

Everic sits at the head of the long table, the city skyline stretching beyond the glass wall behind him. Relaxed. Composed. Beside him, I sit. At the other end, our "business partners" smile with their mouths while their eyes calculate sothing else entirely.

Sothing hungry.

Sothing hidden.

For two hours, I’ve been drowning.

Not in their words. Not in their proposals or their counteroffers or their carefully constructed argunts.

Their minds.

The screaming, clawing, hungry noise of their thoughts crashing against the inside of my skull like birds trapped in a burning building. Wingbeats against bone. Beaks pecking at the soft places I thought I’d sealed long ago.

{Why is he here?}

{I never see him at etings.}

{Everic is the smart one. The other one is just decoration.}

{If I play this right, I can walk away with twice what I ca for.}

{Look at him. Sitting there like a prince. What does he know about business?}

{So that’s Elias Roselle’s younger son?}

{He’s just listening. He hasn’t said a word the entire eting. Then why did he co?}

{His father should’ve sent the older one alone.}

{Why is he so silent?}

{Does he even understand what we’re discussing?}

{The eting can’t fail. Not after everything we’ve invested.}

{Why isn’t Elias here himself?}

{Does he think we’re beneath him?}

{Elias Roselle... what ga are you playing?}

{We can push for a better percentage.}

Every thought presses against my skull, and I cannot close the door.

I press my fingers against my temple. The skin is warm—too warm. Almost feverish. My pulse thrums beneath my fingertips like a warning.

The pressure behind my eyes has been building for weeks—months, maybe—but today it’s unbearable. A hamr against the inside of my forehead. A vice squeezing slow, steady, rciless.

So noisy.

I grit my teeth.

So fucking noisy.

I can’t bear it anymore.

I stand.

The chair scrapes against the marble floor. The sound is too loud—too sharp, too sudden—splitting the careful silence like an axe through glass.

Every head turns. Every eye finds .

Even Everic.

His mask cracks just enough for to catch the concern beneath. The tightening around his jaw. The question he won’t ask in front of all these people.

"Ellis..."

My voice is quiet. The kind of calm that cos right before sothing breaks.

"I need a break."

I don’t wait for his permission. I don’t wait for his response. I turn my back on the table, on the hungry eyes, on the invisible hands reaching for things that don’t belong to them.

The glass door closes behind with a soft, final click.

The hallway is empty.

My steps echo—too loud, too hollow, each one a small betrayal of how unsteady I’ve beco. The polished marble reflects the ceiling lights in long, distorted lines. My shadow stretches and shrinks as I move.

The silence should be a relief after two hours of noise. It isn’t. It’s just another kind of pressure. Another weight pressing down on my chest.

I need sothing to stop this headache. It’s been years since I felt pain like this.

My steps falter. Just for a mont. The world tilts slightly beneath my feet. Enough to notice. Enough to know sothing is wrong.

What the hell is happening to ?

Then—

Warmth.

Spilling from my nose.

Slow at first, like the first drop of rain before a storm. I feel it land on my upper lip. Taste it before I understand what it is.

Salty. Copper-sweet. The taste of sothing breaking inside .

Then faster. A drip. Another. Then a steady stream. It pools at the edge of my nostril before falling—onto my lips, down my chin, onto the white of my shirt. The fabric drinks it in, dark and blooming, spreading like a flower opening in fast motion.

I touch my fingers to my face.

Look at them.

Red.

Blood.

My steps don’t stop. I don’t know why. Every instinct tells to stop. To press sothing against my nose. To tilt my head back and wait for it to pass.

But my body keeps moving. One foot in front of the other. Like I’m trying to outrun the blood itself.

A staff girl passes . Young. Nervous. She slows. Bows automatically in greeting. Then her eyes lift. Freeze. She sees it.

The blood. The shirt.

"Mr. Ellis..."

I don’t look at her. I keep walking.

Why the hell am I bleeding?

The restroom door swings open under my palm.

Marble and glass gleam beneath the recessed lighting, every surface pristine, expensive, and impossible to hide from. Soft light spills from behind the mirror, washing the room in pale gold.

I turn on the tap. Water rushes into the black stone basin. I wash my hands first, watching pink water swirl toward the drain.

Then I look up.

My reflection stares back. And for a mont, I don’t recognize myself. The mirror shows everything I don’t want to see.

Blood drips from my nose—not fast, but steady. Relentless. It trails over my lips, down my chin, pooling in the hollow of my throat before finding its way to my collar.

My eyes are too bright. My face is too pale.

Too much negativity.

Too much noise.

Too many thoughts pressing against the inside of my skull until sothing cracks.

I’ve always been like this. Since I was a child. Whenever I bear too much—too many secrets, too many ugly hungers, too many minds screaming all at once—this happens. My body rembers what my mind tries to forget.

It bleeds.

It breaks.

It reminds that no matter how strong I pretend to be, there are limits to what I can endure.

I cup my hands beneath the cold water and splash it onto my face. The blood washes away—pink swirling down the drain—but more takes its place imdiately.

Unstoppable. Relentless.

No matter how much I wipe away, more follows.

What the hell?

I grab tissues.

My movents are rough. Angry. Desperate. I press them against my nose, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to feel sothing other than the pressure building behind my eyes.

It’s been years since this last happened. I’m not a child anymore. So why the hell am I bleeding like one?

I grab more tissues and wipe away the fresh blood. My hands shake. Just a little. Just enough to notice. Just enough to hate.

The door opens.

Not slow. Not hesitant. Not the careful, asured entrance of soone who respects closed doors.

Fast. Urgent. Desperate.

The door hits the wall. The sound echoes.

I turn.

Silas stands in the doorway.

His chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths—like nothing mattered except getting here. His hair is ssy, strands falling across his forehead. His cheeks are flushed.

His eyes...

His eyes find mine.

I blink.

What is he doing here?

How did he know I was here? Why does he look like that—like soone who’s been holding their breath and just ran out of air?

His gaze moves. Slowly. Deliberately. Taking in every detail. The blood on my shirt—dark red against white, spreading like a stain that won’t stop growing.

The tissues pressed against my nose—the red seeping through, dripping between my fingers. The red staining my lips. My chin. The hollow of my throat.

My hands. My wrists. The way I’m holding myself together like sothing fragile.

I stare at him.

His face has changed.

Not the soft smile. Not the calm patience. Not the gentle obedience he wears like a second skin, the quiet acceptance that both infuriates and unsettles .

Sothing else. His eyes are wide—too wide. And in them, I see sothing I’ve never seen before.

Fear.

He looks afraid.

Before I can move—before I can speak—he steps forward.

And hugs .

His chest ets mine with a soft thud. His arms wrap around . Tight. Stubborn. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

The tissues slip from my hand and fall to the floor. A small surrender.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

His grip is too tight. His body is too close. His heart is beating too fast against my chest.

His face presses into my shoulder. His breath is warm, uneven, still catching up from the run. His fingers clutch the fabric of my ruined shirt like they’re afraid to lose their hold.

He’s trembling. Just slightly. Just enough to feel.

What happened to him?