The Dead Son Wasn’t His

After our son died in a fire, I lost my voice for half a year due to extreme trauma.

In order to "cure" me, my husband listened to the instigations of a manipulative woman. He became convinced our son wasn't his, publicly dumped our son's ashes down the drain, and threw me to five drunk men to do as they pleased.

He sneered and locked the front door: "Do whatever you want with her. She is already dead to me."

He thought this extreme "exposure therapy" would force me to kneel and beg for his forgiveness.

Little did he know, when that door opened again, the one who took me away was a Wall Street tycoon he could never afford to offend in this lifetime.

Half a month later, when he finally learned that everything was the other woman's scam, he knelt in the rain like a madman, begging me to come home.

But I just hid in the arms of my immensely powerful new husband and calmly handed him a court summons.

Chapter 1

I haven't been able to utter a single syllable for exactly half a year.

Late one night six months ago, the basement of our villa exploded in flames.

By the time the firefighters had me pinned outside the ambulance, they carried out my five-year-old son, Leo.

In his tiny hand, he tightly clutched the birthday drawing he was going to give me the next day. Under his fingernails were blood and black ash from his desperate struggle.

At that moment, I wanted to scream for a doctor, scream his name, scream for my husband, Adrian... but the extreme terror and agony instantly burned away my speech center.

My voice died that day, right alongside my child.

And because of our child's death and my loss of voice, Adrian gradually grew cold toward me.

Just tonight, he messaged me saying he was hosting a gathering at home and told me to prepare well.

I sliced the steak, arranged rosemary on the edge of the plate, and untied my apron.

Even though I was now a mute, I still wanted to try hard to be a "normal" wife, using a dinner of Adrian's favorites to fill the ever-growing hole between us.

Click. The front door unlocked.

I quickly dried my hands, used the glass reflection to pull up a smile I had practiced countless times, and walked toward the entryway.

The door was pushed completely open.

"Adrian, you're walking way too slow today. Do you really think you're still a twenty-year-old kid?"

Accompanied by a string of hearty, somewhat wild laughter, Blaire came in practically hanging on Adrian's back.

She was Adrian's good friend from college. Dressed in a crisp short jacket, looking like a tomboy straight off a sports field, she had both arms wrapped around my husband’s neck, her chin resting unashamedly on his shoulder.

As she complained, she carelessly patted his chest, her entire body pressed flush against his.

Instead of pushing her away, Adrian reached a hand back to support her waist so she wouldn't slip. The indulgence and doting look on his face was something I hadn't seen in half a year.

Following behind them were five partners from Adrian’s fund circle.

These executives in suits were smiling as they watched the pair's intimate horseplay.

Hearing the noise, the men’s gazes moved past Blaire and landed in unison on me—the wife standing there clutching a dishcloth.

A layer of undisguised teasing and amusement surfaced in their eyes.

I froze in place as the despairing spasms deep in my throat struck again.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt sealed tight with glue. I could only let out faint, pathetic, breathy gasps.

Hearing the noise, Adrian turned his head.

The moment he saw me clearly, the smile on his face vanished completely, replaced by a deep frown of disgust. "Elena, what are you doing? Didn't I have my assistant inform you that tonight's gathering was changed to a psychotherapy session? Why is the house smelling of cooking grease?"

I stood stunned, pointing frantically at the kitchen and shaking my head.

I had never received any message.

"Oh, come on, Big A, don't be so fierce." Blaire jumped down from his back nimbly, showing zero embarrassment at being caught.

She walked over and gave my shoulder a buddy-like pat. "Hey, Elena. Forget about the food. Tonight isn't a dinner party. It's a 'Psychological Trauma Healing Salon' we prepared especially for you."

Psychological trauma healing?

I snapped my head to look at Adrian.

"I've had enough of you acting like a mute, wallowing in the past and refusing to communicate," Adrian said as he loosened his tie and walked straight into the living room. "Blaire just got her advanced psychotherapist certification. We're going to put you through exposure therapy."

I shook my head frantically and backed away.

Exposure therapy?

In my desperate attempts to cure my aphasia, I had researched many treatments. Exposure therapy was the one that terrified me the most—it required stripping away my sense of security and constantly tearing me apart within my deepest fears!

The men easily made themselves comfortable on the leather sofas; some even poured themselves glasses of whiskey.

"Alright, boys, watching the show is fine, but it's time to get to work." Blaire stood in the center of the living room, clapping her hands, completely taking control of the room.

"Leave it to me, Big A. I guarantee I'll cure your wife and turn her back into that hot little darling in bed." Blaire winked at Adrian.

The corners of Adrian's mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile, but he quickly suppressed it and coldly ordered me, "Go. Sit in that single chair in the middle."

I backed away in resistance until my back hit the cold marble wall.

"Look, this is extreme resistance to reality. Complete immersion in physical dependency," Blaire skillfully threw out medical jargon and pulled two medical restraint straps from her bag. "Come give me a hand!"

Adrian put down his whiskey glass and walked right up to me himself.

He grabbed my wrist. His masculine strength formed an absolute suppression. Like a broken rag doll, I was half-dragged, half-pushed, and forcefully pinned down onto the chair.

"Ah..." I opened my mouth, tears crashing down frantically as I looked at him pleadingly.

He merely pressed my shoulders down hard: "Don't blame me, Elena. To cure you, I have to be cruel. This is also for everyone's dignity."

Click!

Blaire expertly looped the nylon strap around my left wrist and locked it dead to the metal armrest.

The rough edges instantly bit into my flushed skin.

Then my right hand, and finally, a wide strap strapped across my throat, thoroughly pinning me against the backrest.

The men on the sofa all quieted down. Holding their glasses, they watched with relish as I was bound to the chair without a shred of dignity.

Blaire walked up to me.

She snatched the small canvas bag I always kept strapped to my chest. Without even looking at my desperately bulging eyes, she dumped the bag upside down onto the transparent glass coffee table.

Clatter.

Leo’s broken little toys and a drawing with scorched, yellowed edges fell out.

"The core of exposure therapy is to sever the patient's pathological attachment to the deceased," Blaire’s tone was as casual as if she were discussing today’s stock market.

She extended two fingers and picked up the drawing Leo had risked his life to leave for me.

The ugly sun on the drawing faced straight into the blinding cold lights.

Blaire looked down at me, shivering helplessly in the chair, and a cold, sterile smile curled her lips.

Her hands grasped the two opposite ends of the drawing paper.

"Then let's start by tearing this apart."

Under the condescending, silent gazes filling the room, the drawing let out an extremely crisp, violently sharp tearing sound— rip!