The Billionaire's Deaf Wife

Maria's POV

They had all stared at us the moment we entered. Or rather, they all stared at my husband. Not me; never me.

The ballroom was bright, loud with music I couldn't hear, and brimming with faces I couldn't read. Laughter dripped from red-painted lips and swirled around tall champagne flutes. Shoes clicked across the marble like some distant storm. I felt it in the vibration of the floor. I felt it in the way people's eyes flicked toward me, then quickly away again.

He stood beside me.

My husband.

Elias Moreno.

Everything about him drew attention. His tailored black suit, the kind that wrapped around him like it was made from silk and sin. His clean-cut jawline, eyes darker than midnight, lips that looked like they were designed to whisper things only hearts could understand. He was the tallest in the room, the brightest. His family's money may have opened the doors, but it was his presence that filled the room.

They didn't see me, not really. They saw him. And then they saw me, and I knew what they thought: Poor man. Such a waste. Married to a mute, deaf doll.

I kept my smile small. I kept my hands folded. I kept my hearing aids turned off.

Elias didn't look at me.

He hadn't, not since we'd stepped out of the car and the cameras began to flash. He held my arm, like he was afraid I'd float away, or like he was holding me in place for the world to see. His grip had been careful, too careful. Like I was breakable. Like I was foreign. Like he was afraid I wasn't real, or too real. Defects and all.

I hated this.

I hated how I loved him.

The first time I saw Elias, I thought he was untouchable. Untouchable things should stay in stories. But there he was. My husband. Given to me like a trophy or punishment, I was still not sure which.

He looked straight ahead as we walked past a crowd of gold-drenched socialites. His expression didn't change when they waved. He nodded like a king, like a man used to being worshipped.

He was perfect.

And I was a mistake in his otherwise perfect life.

A waiter bumped into my shoulder and I flinched. He apologized. I knew, because I could read his lips. I nodded politely, signing "it's okay" even though I knew no one would bother to respond with their hands.

No one ever did.

We reached the center of the room and paused beneath a chandelier the size of my old bedroom. Elias leaned close to me, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, his lips spreading to smile.

"Smile," he said quietly.

He didn't know I could hear him.

I tilted my face toward the camera just in time. A flash went off. My mouth curved into something empty. A rehearsed smile. A deaf woman's smile. A grateful wife's smile.

I felt hollow.

He never smiled for me.

He hadn't touched me, not really, not since our wedding night. And even then, it had been soft. Too soft. Like he was afraid of breaking something he never asked for. He never looked me in the eyes again after that night.

I knew he pitied me.

I knew he resented me.

Sometimes I caught the way his jaw tightened when I signed instead of spoke. Sometimes I felt the distance in his voice when he told people I was resting at home, when I wasn't. When he forgot I was in the same room.

But I knew things.

I knew everything.

I heard it all.

When I wanted to.

But that day, like most days, I pretended. I kept the tiny blockers tucked in my ears, right beneath the round hearing aids. Not even Elias knew. Not even the doctors. They all thought I'd accepted my fate. They all thought I was fated to die deaf, that it ran in my blood.

I let them.

It was safer that way.

A man approached us then, someone from Elias's circle. His hair was silver at the temples, and his smile was full of money and secrets. His name was probably something old and powerful. He spoke, but not to me. Never to me.

Elias answered. Calm, confident, cool.

And I listened.

My eyes were glued to their lips as they conversed.

"...She's beautiful," the man said. "Shame about the hearing."

Elias didn't flinch. He glared. "She's more than that."

My heart thudded. It was a whisper. A low one. One he thought I'd never hear. But I did.

The man raised an eyebrow, amused. "You surprise me, Moreno."

Elias lifted his glass. "I surprise myself."

They chuckled.

I didn't.

Because I didn't know what he meant. Was that love? Was that irritation? Was it kindness born from duty or something deeper?

He turned to look at me, finally. His eyes lingered for half a second longer than usual.

It burned. I took a startled breath, his eyes on me doing more harm than good.

I looked away. I pretended not to see him. Not to hear him.

But my head was spinning.

They left us alone again. I shifted on my feet, my heels aching, my hands clutching the sides of my dress like it was the only thing holding me together.

The crowd shifted. A woman with red lipstick whispered something behind her hand. A man in a navy suit chuckled. Another lifted a phone and took a photo of Elias, then of me. The contrast.

The Billionaire and the Broken Bride.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I signed to Elias, slowly: "Can we go home now?"

He blinked. His jaw tightened.

He signed back: "Soon."

He wasn't fluent. But he tried. He always tried. That was the cruel part.

I nodded and pretended to smile again. I didn't know how much longer I could keep it up.

I loved my husband.

But I was drowning.

In silence.

In secrets.

In the sound of his voice, whispered when he thought I couldn't hear it.

That night, he would hold me like glass. He would kiss my forehead like I was something to protect, not want. And I would close my eyes and pretend.

Pretend I was enough.

Pretend I wasn't broken.

Pretend I wasn't about to do the one thing I swore I never would.

Leave.

On the way home, Elias resigned to one end of the limousine while I stayed at the other. There was more than enough space between us, enough to fit the silence, the stares, and everything we never said.

My heart thudded in the quiet. It always did when I was close to him.

I sat perfectly still, hands folded on my lap like a proper wife. I didn't look at him, but I felt him. I always did. His presence crawled over my skin like static, warm and cold at the same time. My body ached to touch him. Or be touched by him. But Elias wanted nothing to do with a deaf wife.

He never had.

Outside, city lights smeared against the tinted windows, blurry streaks of gold and white. My reflection stared back at me, eyes too tired for someone my age, mouth pressed in a straight line, trying not to shake.

From the front seat, Carla glanced at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes met mine, soft, weathered, kind. Pitying.

Always pity.

Carla had driven Elias for years. He was a middle-aged man with calloused hands and a voice that carried wisdom. Sometimes, I imagined he was my father. Not in blood, but in how he treated me, with something close to respect. He never shouted, never talked to me like I was broken, never looked away when I signed.

I lifted the corner of my mouth in a small smile, our silent code. A little signal to let him know I was okay.

He nodded gently. But we both knew I was lying.

I'm okay, I repeated in my head. I'm okay but I'm drowning inside.

"Drop Maria at home, Carla," Elias said suddenly, his voice low.

I froze.

Not we. Not let's go home. Just drop Maria.

Where was he going?

I glanced sideways, but Elias didn't look at me. His face was unreadable, eyes glued to his phone as he typed away. He didn't spare me a glance. He treated me like I was just cargo to be dropped off. Something fragile. Something inconvenient.

The car slowed as we approached the gate of our estate. My chest tightened. I wanted to ask where he was going. I wanted to ask if it was a woman, or business, or something else entirely. But I stayed quiet. Even if I could speak, I wouldn't. I knew better by now.

Carla pulled up and got out to open my door. I gave him a smile, too weak to sign thank you. But he understood. He always did.

I stepped out, my heels clicking on the stone path, the night breeze brushing against my face like a cold slap. Elias didn't follow. The door shut, and the limousine glided away into the dark.

He was gone.

Again.

I knew he was always busy, but it was already half past eleven at night. I couldn't help but wonder where he was going so late. I had half a mind to chase after him, the way I had been doing since we got married, too curious to ignore and too scared to ask. But I was too tired, and I had someone waiting in on me.

Inside the house, everything was silent, truly silent. Not just for me, but for everyone. The staff had gone to bed. The chandeliers hummed softly overhead. I slipped off my shoes and walked barefoot through the wide, empty hallway.

I found him in his nursery.

My heart.

My son.

Isaac.

He was five years old, curled up like a little starfish in his bed, the covers kicked to the floor like they always were. His small chest rose and fell, lips parted, one chubby hand resting on his stuffed elephant. The nightlight glowed blue, casting soft shadows on his cheeks. He looked so much like his father and that brought tears to my eyes and warmth to my heart.

I knelt beside him and brushed his hair back with trembling fingers. My throat tightened. I spoke softly, knowing he couldn't hear me in his sleep, but needing to say the words anyway.

"I'm here, baby. Mommy's here."

My voice cracked. I rested my head beside him on the mattress, breathing him in. He smelled like powder and milk and something only babies had. I stared at his face and wondered how I'd ever say goodbye.

Because that was what I was thinking about now. Leaving.

I closed my eyes, memories flooding in.

Elias on our wedding day, looking at me like I was a puzzle he wasn't sure how to solve.

Elias brushing my fingers during dinner one night and pulling away too quickly, like he'd touched fire.

Elias holding Isaac for the first time, his face soft, unguarded, beautiful.

And now, Elias turning his back to me in the limousine like I was invisible.

I wanted to hate him. I tried to. But I couldn't. I loved him.

I loved the way he read the news out loud in the mornings when he thought I couldn't hear. I loved the way he smelled after a long day, like cologne and stress and skin. I loved how he signed thank you every time I handed him something, even if his fingers were clumsy. I loved how he always instructed the cook to make me coffee the exact way I liked it, even when I couldn't tell her myself.

But love didn't fix things.

I whispered to Isaac, "Would you still love me if Mommy went away for a while?"

He stirred, but didn't wake.

Tears stung my eyes. I hadn't made a plan. Not really. I'd only been thinking about it, spinning the idea around in my mind like a coin I was afraid to spend. The idea of switching places. Letting someone else take my place. Someone loud. Someone bold. Someone not deaf.

My twin.

My other half.

I hadn't seen her since I left the orphanage. She'd disappeared the night we turned eighteen, while I got placed in this marriage.

We used to be everything to each other.

She was the voice I didn't have.

I didn't even know where she was. Or if she'd even come. Or what kind of life she was living now.

But I was desperate.

I pressed a kiss to Isaac's cheek and rose to my feet, wiping my face with the sleeve of my dress.

Maybe she'd laugh in my face.

Maybe she'd help me.

Maybe she'd take my life and never give it back.

I didn't know.

But I knew I couldn't keep living like this.

Tomorrow, I would begin looking for her.