Deafened By His Hateful Words
For eight years, I gave up my family fortune and my hearing to help my boyfriend, Emiliano Reed, become a rock star. I was his muse, his guardian angel, the silent partner in his success.
Then, a miracle happened: my hearing returned. Just in time to catch him with a college student, and hear him call me a "burden" and a "charity case."
The betrayal didn't end there. When his new girl wrecked the vintage car my late father gave me, I confronted her at the police station. Emiliano rushed in, not to defend me, but to protect her. He shoved me so hard I hit the floor, and the world went silent again. My hearing was gone, for a second time, because of him.
"Are you deaf?" he roared at me, furious that I wouldn't just forgive him. "I gave you everything! It was exhausting, suffocating!"
I looked at the man I had sacrificed everything for, the man who had just destroyed me all over again. He had no idea I'd heard every single, hateful word.
"No, Emiliano," I said, my voice clear and steady. "The question is, are you deaf? Or are you just a coward?"
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Chapter 2
He' d knelt by my hospital bed and placed a hand over my good ear, signing furiously, "I promise you, Adell. For better or worse. You are my forever." His words had echoed in my mind, a sacred vow.
And he had kept his promise, in a way. His career skyrocketed. The struggling musician became a global sensation. Platinum albums, sold-out arenas, a sprawling loft in SoHo that now felt more like a sanctuary than a home. He adorned me with designer clothes, glittering jewelry, and a life of effortless luxury. Everything I' d ever needed, materially, was at my fingertips. Our wedding, a grand affair planned for next month, was the culmination of our journey, a celebration of eight years of sacrifice and success.
I was scrolling through my feed, looking for inspiration for the wedding favors, when the pop-up hit. "Emiliano Reed's Secret Love: A College Student's Confession." My thumb froze. My stomach clenched. It was a blog post, a long, rambling thread by someone named Keisha Duke.
"OMG, you guys, Emiliano is the sweetest! He totally gets me. Unlike some people..." The vague post hinted at something more, a secret relationship, veiled jabs. My heart started to beat a frantic rhythm. It felt like I was back in the burning studio, only this time the fire was in my chest.
The comments section was a viper's nest. "Is this about his deaf fiancée? Poor Adell." "He definitely deserves someone better than a broken woman." "Guess he got tired of shouting, huh?" The words, cruel and casual, lashed at me. They discussed my relationship, my hearing loss, as if I were a distant, pathetic figure.
"Betrayal," one comment read, "is a song best sung by two. But only one gets to dance." The implication was clear: Emiliano was cheating. And this Keisha Duke was reveling in it.
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7.9
The first thing I noticed was the beeping. Steady, mechanical, irritating. My eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead, but I forced them open anyway, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. A hospital room. White walls. The antiseptic smell that never quite leaves your nostrils. Three years. For three long years, I'd been trapped in this unresponsive body, my mind perfectly alert while my limbs refused to obey. Three years of watching, listening, understanding everything happening around me while being unable to scream, to cry, to rage. Three years of watching my husband betray me with Cali Rogers.
8.2
The front door swung open with a familiar creak. I knew what was coming before I even turned around. The same performance, the same script, the same cruel charade I'd endured ninety-eight times before. I set down my coffee mug and braced myself, smoothing my trembling hands against my apron. Robert stumbled through the doorway, one hand clutching his temple dramatically. His military fatigues were pristine—too pristine for someone just returning from a dangerous mission. Behind him stood Cassidy Shaw, her hand resting protectively over her belly, eyes wide with practiced concern. "Where am I?" Robert's voice cracked with confusion that I knew was entirely fabricated. "Who are you?"
I felt something break inside me—not suddenly, but like the final thread of a rope that had been fraying for years. Ninety-nine times.
7.5
I was the invisible daughter of the Hayes crime family, secretly painting portraits of Marcus, the Underboss. He was the man who had once protected me from the world, the man I loved from the shadows.
But he chose power over affection. To secure an alliance, he engaged Isabella.
Threatened by my existence, Isabella staged a fake miscarriage and framed me for destroying her heirloom wedding dress.
Marcus didn't ask for my side of the story. Blinded by rage over his "lost heir," he ordered his guards to drag me to the Ice Cellar—a freezing underground torture chamber used for traitors.
For days, I shivered in the absolute darkness, listening to the water drip, realizing the man I worshiped was actually my jailer. My father, protecting his own millions, let it happen.
In that cold, the girl who loved Marcus died.
When he finally released me, he expected me to be broken, obedient, and grateful for his mercy.
Instead, I burned every painting I had ever made of him. I packed a single bag and vanished into the night, escaping to a rugged ranch in Montana where no one knew my name.
Three years later, the truth about Isabella’s lies finally surfaced.
Marcus tracked me down. The King of New York fell to his knees in the dirt and cow manure of my new home, weeping, begging, and offering me the entire world to come back.
I looked down at the man who once owned my heart.
"You can't un-shatter a glass, Marcus," I said coldly. "I'm not coming home."
9.3
I fell for Kade Livingston, the campus king. To protect his family's reputation, he asked me to be his "shield," making me endure vicious bullying and even a kidnapping as a supposed test of my love.
I endured it all, until his fragile stepsister, Dani, stole my most personal work—a photography series honoring my late mother.
She didn't just steal it; she twisted my art into a grotesque, pornographic mockery of her memory. When I tried to expose her, Kade destroyed all my evidence. He then had me kidnapped and beaten, leaving me for dead, all to protect his stepsister's crime and hide the twisted nature of their bond.
Lying bruised in a hospital bed, I finally understood. He never loved me. I was just a disposable pawn in his family's sick game. My disguise as a plain student, meant to keep me safe, had only made me a target for her jealousy.
But they made one fatal mistake. They thought they were destroying Holly Erickson, a quiet, unremarkable girl.
They had no idea they were messing with K.B. Barry, the secretly world-famous author with the power to ruin them all.
Today, at the photography competition where they plan to celebrate their crime, I will make my first-ever public appearance and show them what happens when you break a queen.
9.8
I arrived at the office an hour before anyone else, just like I did every morning. The quiet hum of fluorescent lights welcomed me as I made my way to the kitchen, my heels clicking against the polished floor. This morning ritual had become second nature—preparing Colson's coffee exactly how he liked it before the chaos of the day began. I measured the coffee grounds carefully, watching the dark liquid drip into his favorite mug—the one I'd given him on our third anniversary. As I reached for the sugar, I hesitated. Colson had seemed particularly exhausted lately, staying up late reviewing quarterly projections. The shadows under his eyes this morning had been deeper than usual. 'One extra cube won't hurt,' I murmured to myself, dropping it in and stirring until it dissolved completely. 'Playing housewife again, Gloria?'
I stiffened at the familiar voice, sweet as poison. Turning around, I found Skylar leaning against the doorframe in a dress that seemed more appropriate for a cocktail party than a corporate office.
9.2
My arranged marriage had a cruel condition. My husband, Rico, had to pass nine "loyalty tests" designed by his childhood obsession, Sofia. Nine times, he had to choose her over me, his wife.
On our anniversary, he made his final choice, leaving me sick and bleeding on the side of a highway in a storm.
He raced to her side simply because she called, claiming to be scared of the thunder. He’d done this before—abandoning my gallery opening for her nightmare, my grandmother’s funeral for her conveniently broken-down car. My entire life was a footnote in their story, a role Sofia later admitted she had hand-picked for me.
After four years of being a consolation prize, my heart was a block of ice. There was no more warmth left to give, no more hope left to crush. I was finally done.
So when Sofia summoned me to my own art gallery for a final act of humiliation, I was ready. I calmly watched as my husband, desperate to please her, signed the document she slid in front of him without a glance. He thought he was signing an investment. He had no idea it was the divorce agreement I’d slipped into the folder an hour before.