The Compliant Wife’s Secret Revenge

At the same time, a message popped up on my phone:

Flight's booked. See you on the Sorala Coast in a month.

That night, Julian appeared in my dreams.

Not the arrogant bastard he'd become—but the Julian from our childhood.

"Aria, your eyes are so pretty. Can I look at them when I talk to you?"

"Aria, your paintings are amazing. Can I come see them every day?"

"Aria, I like you more than anyone! When we grow up, I'm going to marry you!"

I liked him, too.

We grew up together on the family estate, playing after school.

Even on the day my family was wiped out, I was in his family's car, playing with him.

We were playing rock, paper, scissors when the truck packed with explosives came out of nowhere.

BOOM—

My parents. My brother. Even my dog. All gone.

The two cars were so close—I watched helplessly as my entire family was consumed by flames.

After that, I couldn't speak.

I couldn't sleep unless Julian was near.

He wasn't always like this. He used to be gentle, patient.

He helped me learn to speak again, told me stories when I had nightmares.

He would beat up anyone who called me a "mute." Without hesitation.

Marrying him? At the time, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The day after my college graduation, he leaned over me at dawn.

"Aria, let's get married."

So, we married. An alliance, just like that.

In my dream, there were roses everywhere—blood-red, drowning the large bed we once shared.

He was on his knees on the bed, kissing me.

"Aria, we'll be this happy forever."

Then I woke up.

Pitch black.

I fumbled for my phone.

New message—from Hailey.

A photo.

She was wearing a ring.

The signet ring reserved for the wife of the Caldwell heir.

My stomach churned.

I ran to the bathroom and dry heaved into the sink.

Nothing came up—only tears.

I slid to the floor, hugging my knees on the cold tile.

My hand brushed against the screen, and then—

A low voice.

"Aria?"

My heart skipped a beat.

I snatched up my phone. "Ci-Cian?"

Cian Donovan was just another name on a support group list. One of us.

Three years of intensive therapy, and yes, the selective mutism still flared up, but I could speak again. Mostly.

Unless I was emotionally overwhelmed.

In the early days of my marriage, I was doing okay. Life felt… breathable. So I joined an anonymous online support group for victims of mob violence and was paired with a check-in partner.

That partner? Cian.

For the better part of two years, I thought he was a girl.

His profile picture was a simple line drawing of wings.

His username? "Angel."

At first, "she" barely responded.

But I understood.

We don't stay silent because we want to. Sometimes, life just beats the words right out of you.

We might not say much, but that doesn't mean we don't need company.

So I kept messaging.

Little bits and pieces of my life.

Voice memos, silly selfies, snapshots of my art.

Before I knew it, it felt like we were lifelong best friends.

Then we had our first call—and it turned out there’d been a mix-up.

He was a guy.

"S-sorry," I whispered, clutching the phone. "I… I didn't mean to bother you…"

"You didn't," he said. "It's nine p.m. here."

He was so fluent now.

And this was only our second time talking.

Ever since I found out he wasn't a girl, I'd kept my distance—hadn't messaged or called him in about a month.

This was a total accident.

Last time, Julian had handed me the separation papers.

Cian had happened to message, asking what I was up to.

My brain just short-circuited the moment I saw that agreement.