Too Late To Love Your Mute Wife

Aubree locked the door to the guest bathroom. She refused Fiona's offer to call a local doctor.

She sat on the cold edge of the porcelain bathtub. She reached down and turned the faucet, letting the freezing cold water blast out of the showerhead. She dragged her legs under the stream.

The icy water hit the massive, angry red blisters covering her thighs. The temperature shock was brutal, sending violent shivers down her spine, but it slowly pulled the heat out of her burned flesh.

She grabbed a thick cotton towel and bit down on it hard, muffling her own ragged breathing as the pain radiated through her nervous system.

An hour later, Fiona knocked softly and handed a medical kit through the cracked door. Aubree sat on the small guest bed, her hands trembling as she smeared thick, white burn ointment over the raw skin. Every touch felt like a knife slicing through her nerves.

Once her legs were wrapped in loose gauze, she collapsed back onto the pillows. She felt completely drained, a hollow shell of a human being.

Outside the window, the estate was pitch black. The Maybach had not returned.

She rolled her head to the side. Her cell phone lit up on the nightstand.

A news notification popped up on the screen. The bold black letters of the headline burned into her retinas.

Wall Street Titan Rushes Blonde Beauty to Hamptons Private ER Midnight Visit.

Aubree reached out and tapped the screen. A high-definition paparazzi photo loaded.

It showed Godfrey walking out of the hospital sliding doors. His arm was wrapped tightly around Allyson's shoulders, pulling her into his chest to shield her from the camera flashes. The look on his face was one of absolute, protective terror.

Aubree's eyes darted to the sub-headline beneath the glaring photo. It mentioned that the exclusive photos were obtained via an anonymous tip from a 'close family associate.' The realization settled over her like a heavy blanket of snow. In the dead of night, at a highly secured private clinic, paparazzi didn't just happen to be waiting. Allyson or Genevieve had deliberately called the press, orchestrating the spectacle to ensure the entire world saw exactly who truly held Godfrey's heart and who the real Mrs. Valentine was.

Aubree stared at the photo. She did not cry. Her tear ducts felt completely dried out.

She realized in that exact moment that she was nothing. In this marriage, she was lower than dirt.

She closed the browser. She opened her text messages and scrolled down until she found the name Cleo Blum, her best friend from college.

Cleo, Aubree typed, her thumbs moving quickly over the glass. Is that pop-up dessert stand idea still on the table?

The three grey dots appeared immediately. Cleo replied seconds later.

Yes! Did you finally wake up?

Aubree stared at the ceiling, feeling the dull throb of the burns on her legs.

Yes. I need money. I need my own life.

Cleo sent back a string of heart emojis. Let's do it.

Aubree opened her notes app and began typing out a list of bulk baking supplies. Flour, sugar, vanilla extract, packaging boxes. She looked down at her hands. They were slightly rough from years of doing chores Godfrey's staff refused to do for her. She clenched her fists, feeling a new, solid weight settling in her chest.

The sun began to rise, casting a pale grey light through the curtains.

Downstairs, the heavy front door opened, and footsteps echoed in the foyer. They were back.

Aubree did not move from the bed. She kept her eyes on her tablet, designing a simple logo for a bakery box.

One week later.

The morning air in Brooklyn was crisp and cool. Aubree stood behind a folding table on a crowded street in Williamsburg. She wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a simple canvas apron.

Cleo placed a large metal tray of freshly baked red velvet cupcakes onto the table.

Aubree took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of sugar and roasted coffee from the neighboring stalls. For the first time in three years, the tight band around her chest loosened. She smiled.