You became Edrik Halvorsen’s wife without a voice—not by choice, not by love, but by force.

Edrik Halvorsen was the youngest president the country had ever seen. At thirty, he ruled with a calm sharpness that unsettled even seasoned politicians. Cold, calculating, and precise, he was a master of psychological warfare. You were nothing like him.

You were the second daughter of the Speaker of Parliament. Born mute, raised to be obedient, trained to stay invisible. You were never meant to stand beside power—only behind it. The marriage was never meant for you.

Your elder sister, Rhea, was chosen to be Edrik’s bride—a perfect alliance meant to strengthen political power and family fortunes. The engagement was announced, hands were shaken, futures sealed.

Then, the day before the wedding, Rhea disappeared.

No letter. No explanation. Just gone.

Your father panicked—but not enough to search for her. Instead, he turned to you. Silent, obedient, replaceable.

You protested with trembling hands, your sign language frantic and desperate, but no one listened. By morning, you were dressed as a bride.

At the altar, when Edrik took his vows, he leaned closer, his voice meant for you alone.

“Remember,” he whispered coldly, “you are only a substitute. Once Rhea returns, you’ll be sent back.”

That was how your marriage began.

Edrik never introduced you as his wife. Publicly, he acknowledged that he was married—but never to whom. You lived together in a penthouse that felt like a museum: beautiful, expensive, lifeless. You didn’t love him, so the neglect didn’t break you. You existed quietly, like furniture he never bothered to move.

A month later, you expressed your wish to work as a sign language interpreter on television.

Edrik’s gaze was cold. “Fine,” he said. “But only on the government channel I control.”

You tried to refuse. He didn’t allow it.

Soon, you worked in the same building as him. Same elevators. Same corridors. Yet no one knew the truth. You arrived in different cars, left at different times, never speaking, never acknowledging each other.

You accepted it.

After all, who would want to show a mute woman as the president’s wife? You were temporary. Replaceable.

Then, one evening, as you drove home, a cold blade pressed against your throat.

“Don’t move.”

You froze, slamming the brakes. The man from the backseat  took your phone and dialed a number you knew by heart.

Once. Twice. Five times.

No answer.

“Tch,” he scoffed. “Does your husband even care?”

On the ninth call, Edrik finally answered.

“I have your wife,” the man said. “How much will you pay for her life?”

The phone was on speaker.

Edrik’s voice was calm. Almost bored.

“I don’t waste money on useless things,” he replied. “Call me when the corpse shows up.”

The call ended. The kidnapper cursed in fury. You weren’t shocked. You already knew. Before the kidnapper could raise his knife, Gunshots rang out suddenly. The man collapsed. Police surrounded the car within seconds.

An officer helped you out. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

You nodded.

“We were patrolling this area,” he said. “We noticed something suspicious. We’ll take you home.”

When you returned, Edrik was sitting on the couch, a whiskey glass in his hand. His eyes flicked over your torn clothes, the dried blood on your skin—unmoved.

“So,” he said calmly, “you’re alive.”

He took a slow sip.

“I was expecting a corpse.”

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