Divorce to Revenge: Mute Wife Striking Back

Evelyn POV

It was my birthday, and the house was silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. I sat at the kitchen table, the phone in my trembling hands, its cold glass screen reflecting my tired face. Bryce promised he'd be home tonight, but the clock ticked past midnight, and he wasn't there.

I couldn't speak, hadn't been able to since the accident years ago, but I could still reach him. I opened the video call app, my heart thudding, hoping he'd pick up and explain—a late meeting, a delayed flight, anything.

The call connected, but instead of Bryce's face, Serena appeared on my screen. Her perfect blonde hair was tousled, her makeup smudged around the eyes. Behind her, soft hotel lighting cast shadows across the luxurious suite.

"Well, well," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "It's the mute wife."

My breath caught in my throat. Thinking quickly, I tapped the screen record button before she could hang up. My hands formed the signs automatically: [Where is Bryce?] I knew she wouldn't understand sign language, but the question was obvious in this context.

Serena's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Looking for your husband?" She tilted the phone away from her face, panning across the rumpled sheets until the camera revealed Bryce.

He was naked, sprawled across the king-sized bed, fast asleep. One arm stretched beneath Serena's neck, the other hand rested possessively on her bare breast. The sheet barely covered his lower half, revealing the muscled torso I once traced with fingers.

"He's exhausted," Serena whispered, the camera returning to her smirking face. "We've been at it for hours. Did you know he calls my name when he comes? Has he ever done that with you?"

I kept my face perfectly still, my eyes fixed on the screen. Don't show her anything. Don't give her the satisfaction.

"You know he never loved you, right?" Serena continued, her voice softening in mock sympathy. "Everyone knows it was his grandfather's arrangement. The precious family company needed protecting." She laughed lightly. "You're just a business transaction, honey. A walking, well... not talking... contract."

My chest tightened, but I refused to blink, refused to show a single tear.

"Stop embarrassing yourself," she sighed. "This sad little routine of calling him, waiting up—it's pathetic. He's with me now. He's always been with me." She leaned closer to the camera. "Happy birthday, by the way. Your gift is knowing exactly where your husband prefers to spend his nights."

She ended the call with a wink, and I sat frozen, the "Recording Saved" notification flashing on my screen. The evidence was secured, but the pain—the pain was unbearable.

The moment the call ended, something inside me snapped. I slammed my fist on the table. Hard. Once. Twice. The sting spread through my knuckles. Good. I needed to feel something besides this betrayal. I grabbed the nearest object—a crystal paperweight Bryce's mother gave us as a wedding gift—and hurled it at the wall. It made a satisfying crack before falling to the floor in pieces.

My body shook with silent sobs. This was the worst part of being mute—I couldn't even scream. The rage had nowhere to go. It just bounced around inside me, growing bigger, hotter. I knocked over a chair. I swept my arm across the counter, sending glasses crashing to the floor. I wanted noise. I needed noise.

I wandered through the empty apartment, broken glass crunching beneath my feet. The place felt huge and hollow, like a mausoleum. I caught glimpses of myself in the mirrors and windows—a ghost haunting rooms that had never felt like home. A silent specter in an empty space.

I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. Red face. Swollen eyes. Tears streaming down my cheeks.

I sank to the kitchen floor, my back against the refrigerator, glass shards all around me.

As I sat there amidst the wreckage, my mind drifted back to the first time my world had shattered. The accident that took my voice wasn't really an accident at all. I was twelve when my father remarried. My stepmother hated me from day one. When my father's business started failing, she got worse. One day, she accused me of stealing her diamond earrings—earrings she had pawned for cash. When I denied it, she hit me repeatedly, screaming that I was a liar and a thief. I stopped talking that night. The next morning, when I tried to tell my father what happened, no words came out. Just broken sounds.

The doctors called it conversion disorder. By the time I got proper therapy, it seemed the damage had become permanent. Now I use sign language and text to communicate.

To Bryce Finch, CEO of Finch Fashion Designs, I was just damaged goods he was stuck with.

Yes, we'd had sex after marriage—mechanical, emotionless encounters where he treated my body like another possession. He never kissed me deeply, never looked into my eyes. Always with protection, always quick, always followed by him immediately showering as if to wash away the evidence. Not once did he hold me afterward. Not once did he try to make it good for me. It was just release for him, a bodily function like any other.

Two months ago was the breaking point. Bryce stumbled into our apartment well past midnight, reeking of expensive whiskey and barely able to stand. I was still awake, curled up on the window seat with a book. From his disheveled appearance and the dark cloud of anger surrounding him, I could tell something had gone wrong with Serena.

I carefully set my book aside and started to move toward the bedroom, hoping to avoid his drunken rage. He blocked my path, swaying slightly.

"Where do you think you're going?" His words slurred together. "I'm talking to you."

I gestured that I was tired, attempting to step around him. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my skin.

His eyes were unfocused, seeing me but not seeing me. In that moment, I wasn't his wife—I was simply a female body, a convenient target for his frustration. When he kissed me, it was brutal, tasting of whiskey and rage. When I tried to push him away, his grip tightened.

What followed haunts my nightmares. I tried to fight, to scream, but only broken sounds emerged—sounds no one would hear, sounds no one would come running to investigate.

The next morning, he left without acknowledgment, without apology, as if nothing had happened. In that moment, I knew I had to end this nightmare.

I looked at my phone, the video still saved there. Three years of this sham marriage. I'd had enough.

The fire of my rage didn't die out; it cooled into steel. My hands stopped shaking. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and took a deep breath. Then I picked up my phone and texted the one person I could trust: Cassidy. I asked her to meet me tomorrow. I needed to bring some papers to her husband, Connor. Legal papers.

I crawled to the counter drawer and pulled out Connor's business card. I'd kept it hidden behind the electric bill for months, afraid of what would happen if Bryce found it. I'd memorized every word on it, but had been too afraid to call. Not anymore.

I looked around at the broken glass, at the pristine apartment Bryce was so proud of. By this time next week, everything would change. I'd make sure of it.

I wasn't just Bryce's silent wife anymore. I was a woman with evidence, with a plan, and with absolutely nothing left to lose.