Chapter 1

I wasn't born mute, but my husband, Edward Grant, always said he preferred my silence. It made his life easier.

His cousin Matthew pressed a lit cigarette against the back of my hand, betting I wouldn't make a sound.

Cold sweat drenched me from the pain, my mouth gaping open yet completely silent.

When Edward saw it, he didn't care about the burn. He only frowned and scolded me, "Anna, the look on your face was hideous. You've unsettled our guest."

In his eyes, my pain was mere theatrics, and my silence was nothing more than dullness.

Even as I lay on the floor miscarrying, writhing in agony, he only glanced coldly at his documents and muttered, "Enough theatrics. Go and get me a glass of water."

In that moment, the last impulse to cry out died in my throat, buried alongside the child within me.

Eventually, I disappeared. He searched for me obsessively. Three years later, he finally found me at a school for the deaf and mute.

Through the window, he watched as I told a story in sign language, my smile radiant with a warmth he had never seen.

He pushed through the door, his eyes bloodshot, begging me to speak to him.

I lifted my hands and signed a slow response.

The mute woman who had once adored him now spoke to him in a language he could not understand. My hands formed the words "We are strangers."

*****

The VIP lounge on the top floor of the club was shrouded in dim light.

I sat silently beside Edward, my spine held stiff and straight.

His long fingers slid through my hair, tracing the curve of my ear with a light touch.

"You are most agreeable in your silence," he remarked.

"Edward, Anna hasn't changed a bit, still as dull as ever," Matthew said, his tone laced with mockery.

He swirled his drink, his gaze wandering over me with a suggestive leer.

My fingers tightened instinctively on the hem of my dress. The dead silence in my throat made even a defensive glance seem pointless.

This silence had taken hold of me three years earlier, following the car accident.

The doctors said my muteness might only improve with care and affection.

Edward, however, considered it perfect as it was. A wife who couldn't talk back. To him, that was perfection.

From then on, I became like a bird in a gilded cage, its tongue torn out.

Edward remained silent. He simply slid an arm around my waist and replied indifferently, "I prefer her this way."

Matthew let out a derisive snort, clearly finding the whole thing tedious.

He took a lit cigarette from a friend. The crimson ember pulsed rhythmically in the low light.

Suddenly, he leaned in close, a vicious grin spreading across his face. "Anna," he said, "how about a little bet?"

I lifted my eyes to meet his, every fiber of my body tense.

The people around Matthew stirred at once, urging him on with rowdy encouragement.

"What's the game this time, Matthew?" one called out, his voice thick with anticipation.

Matthew waved the cigarette casually, its tip tracing a faint red arc in the air.

A cruel smile played on his lips. "I'll bet," he said, "that if I press this cigarette into her hand, she won't make a sound."

The lounge fell silent. All eyes were fixed on me, charged with voyeuristic excitement.

My stomach lurched. Instinctively, I tried to pull my hand away.

But Edward's arm around my waist tightened like a vise, pinning me against him and denying me any movement.

I looked up at him, my eyes wide with terror, pleading silently.

In that moment, a pathetic shred of hope still flickered inside me.

I had loved him for five long years. I remembered the man who once drove through the night to a neighboring state to bring me my favorite cake for my birthday.

He wouldn't let this happen. Not him. Not the man I remembered.

But then Edward's attention shifted from his drink to my face.

His expression showed a flicker of annoyance.

His lips barely moved as he uttered two cold, flat words, "Let him."

Those two words pierced me like a shard of ice.

With Edward's permission, Matthew's grin widened into something truly predatory.

He seized my wrist, forced my palm open, and slammed it down onto the glass tabletop, holding it there.

I struggled wildly, soundless gasps tearing from my throat. I couldn't even form the word "no," couldn't voice any protest.

The glowing red tip of the cigarette loomed larger in my vision.

A sickening hiss pierced the air, followed by the acrid, greasy stench of searing flesh.

But the true agony was not in my hand. It was as if a white-hot nail had been driven straight through the core of my being, pinning every foolish hope and cherished memory to the stark humiliation of that moment.

My body convulsed with pain. Cold sweat erupted across my skin, plastering my clothes to my back.

My mouth stretched open in a silent scream, every muscle straining to produce a cry, but only a desperate whimper emerged.

Tears streamed down my face, blurring the scene before me.

"Damn, she really didn't make a sound," Matthew said, releasing my wrist with genuine astonishment.

The surrounding crowd erupted in coarse laughter.

Just then, the lounge door swung open, and one of Edward's most important clients entered.

Perhaps it was my disheveled state, my tear-streaked face, and frantic demeanor, but the man halted, his expression shifting to acute discomfort.

Edward's gaze snapped toward me.

He took in the angry, blistering burn on my hand, the tears and sweat streaking my face.

Not a flicker of concern crossed his face. Instead, his brow furrowed in displeasure, his voice laced with reproach as he said, "Anna, the expression you wore was monstrous. You've unsettled our guest."

For a moment, the fiery agony in my hand was eclipsed by the soul-rending pain his words inflicted.

"Get out," he commanded, his voice icy. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."

I stumbled back, my eyes lifting to the man I had loved for five long years.

His face was as handsome as ever, but his eyes were glacial. In their depths, I saw no reflection of myself, only the stain I had left upon his pride.

Clutching my seared hand with my uninjured one, I walked out of that lounge, that gilded hell, one painful step at a time.

As the door clicked shut behind me, it severed the raucous laughter within from the tomblike silence outside.

My back slid down the cold door until I collapsed to the floor. I looked down at my hand, a ruin of blistered and broken skin.

In that moment, the searing pain was the sole tangible truth in that hell.