Chapter 2
I paused for a bit. Dashiell opened his mouth, but didn't say a word.
He was probably about to ask why I hadn't told him earlier, or maybe he was waiting for me to say something else. But he forgot I couldn't speak. All I could give him were written words and silence.
I brushed his hand aside, grabbed my bag, and walked out the door.
As I passed Tamsin, I stopped for a beat. She instinctively shrank back. I flashed her a soundless smile. The kind that still managed to crawl right under a person's skin.
The door closed behind me. Three years ago, I walked in wearing a wedding dress. Today, I walked out with nothing but wounds.
No regrets.
*****
The divorce news spread through the circle like wildfire, way faster than I had seen coming.
By the next day, the whole city was talking: Dashiell Vance dumped his mute wife and put his first love back in her place.
Some people felt bad for me. Some people laughed. Most people didn't give a damn. A woman who couldn't talk couldn't even make for good gossip.
I moved into an apartment I'd rented ahead of time. 430 square feet. North-facing. The window looked out onto a narrow alley.
Margo Holloway, our housekeeper, snuck over to see me and brought a jar of homemade soup. Her eyes were red and swollen, like she'd been crying for hours.
"Sweetheart, why didn't you just tell him the truth?" Her voice cracked. "Back then, you saved his life. The doctor said if you didn't have surgery right away, you'd lose your voice forever.
"You begged us to spend the money on him first. You let your own window close—"
I picked up my phone and typed out a message for her to see. [And what? He stays out of guilt? I don't want that.]
Margo started crying even harder. I patted her hand, smiled, and took a sip of the soup.
Salty. She'd cried right into it.
*****
After that, I went back to my old trade. I had a background in architecture, but after I lost my voice, I pivoted to interior design. Turned out to be a blessing in disguise—I couldn't talk anymore, so I poured everything into my drawings.
My design approach was so meticulous that every angle of light had a rationale behind it.
I slowly built a reputation in the industry under the pseudonym "Mute," and no one knew that behind the name was the freshly dumped ex-Mrs. Vance.
Fate always loved to deal a person a good hand right when they were at their lowest.
Five days after the divorce, I got a shot at bidding for the interior design of the Shaw Group's headquarters.
The Shaw Group was Dashiell's archrival.
I didn't overthink it when I took the job. The design was interesting. That was all.
But when I walked into the Shaw Group's conference room and saw the man sitting at the head of the long table, I realized this was way bigger than I'd expected.
It was Lysander Shaw.
The stories about him went around the circle like ghost stories.
He was known as the Ice Prince who showed no mercy. His business tactics were so ruthless that his enemies could smell trouble from a mile away.
He and Dashiell had been at each other's throats for five years. Real estate, finance, every sector imaginable.
He sat there, flicking through my design proposal with slender fingers, his face giving nothing away.
I sat across from him, tablet open, ready to type out my pitch.
"No need," he said suddenly, his voice low and smooth. "I get your proposal."
I paused, surprised.
He looked up at me. His eyes were a cold, sharp blue, like a winter sky just before a storm.
"Your designs speak," he said. "Every line has something to say."
My heart skipped a beat.
It wasn't that his words were beautiful. It was that, in three years, he was the first to ever hear the voice in my work. Dashiell had stared at my designs for three years and never heard a single word.
I looked down and typed out a message on my tablet. [Thank you.]
He glanced at it. But instead of giving me that pitying look people always did when I had to type instead of talk, he just gave a simple nod and went right back to flipping through my proposal.
"There are a few things I want to change," he said, pointing at a section of the layout. "The flow here isn't right. The fire exit and the evacuation route are off by about 2.5 feet. Your concept is great, but it's not quite workable yet."
My eyes sparkled.
He got it. Not just my design, but every subtle detail I'd woven into them. The things Dashiell never noticed: the breathing of the space, the narrative of light and shadow, the dialogue between materials. Lysander grasped it all in just one afternoon.
I typed out a message. [You're the first person who's ever truly understood my designs.]
He glanced at the screen, the faintest hint of a smile at his lips.
"You're the first designer who's ever sat through a whole meeting typing at me without speaking."