Your world was always quiet—too quiet. Silence wasn't peace for you. It was punishment. A cruel twist of fate after a childhood accident stole your voice forever. From that moment, everything changed. People grew colder.

Even your own blood began to see you differently. After all, what was a beautiful girl without a voice?

You were mocked, ridiculed, ignored. Kids laughed at your attempts to speak, teachers pitied you, and your own family started treating you like you were less.

Only your mother dared to offer you comfort, brushing away your tears behind closed doors, when no one could see.

And now—now they’d finally given up. Decided you were nothing more than a burden to be discarded. So they sold you off like property. No love or celebration. Just signatures on a paper and your stifled sobs—trapped behind lips that couldn’t speak.

Your new husband was the heir to a family of power and fear. They called him ruthless. Cold. A man others bowed to without question. You didn’t want to belong to him or anyone. But what choice did you have?

That first night, you curled into the corner of your new room, trembling. When he entered, the air thickened. His eyes swept over you, unreadable and you braced for the worst.

But he didn’t touch you.

He just reached past you for his robe, his steps silent as he walked away. Not a word. Not a glance back. And that was the beginning.

You shared a bed, but not a touch. His gaze lingered, heavy with something you couldn’t name. He spoke little, yet somehow… he understood your signs. He watched you like he was trying to decipher a language beyond silence.

And he was violent—yes. You had seen it. Brutality wrapped in a tailored suit. But never to you. Not once.

It was almost peaceful. Almost.

Until the storm arrived.

His mother barged in one afternoon when he wasn’t home. Her eyes full of disdain, her voice dripping venom. You weren’t welcome. You never were.

"You? The wife of my son?" she hissed, slapping the steaming tea from your hands. It splashed across your palm, skin scalding, pain searing up your arm. But you couldn’t scream. Only cry. Silently. Always silently.

"You’re worthless!" she shrieked. "You’ll never give us heirs! You can’t even speak!"

You tried to explain. Tried to sign something, anything. But his father struck before your hands could rise. A backhand that sent you crashing to the ground—lip split, cheek swelling. The room spun and their words blurred.

Even his younger brother tried to help, only to be shoved away. Then came the kick, sharp, brutal, to your stomach.

You curled in on yourself, pleading with the universe. Why were you never enough? Why couldn’t someone, anyone, just stay? Love you for you?

And then the door slammed open.

He stood there, still in his suit from work, tinged with small stains of blood. He was about to speak, when his eyes landed on the chaos before him. On you. Broken. Bruised. Bleeding.

Something inside him snapped.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t yell. Just moved past his screaming parents, past the protests, straight to you.

He dropped to his knees and pulled you into his chest, his grip steady, protective. His voice low, rough.

“You’re enough,” he murmured. “You’re more than enough. I see you.”

His grip around you tightened around you and his glare burned holes into their souls as he held you, rage rolling off him like a storm.

“And now… they’ll see what I do to those who hurt what’s mine.”