My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

Chapter 106: What If He Chooses Death Over Being Claimed By You?

—Before Silas came to Crystal Country—

The room breathes in gold.

Not the harsh, electric gold of modern chandeliers—but something older. Softer. The kind of light that seems to have settled here decades ago and never found reason to leave. It drips from the high ceiling in slow, honeyed threads, catching on crystal and polished wood, spilling across the floor in shifting pools of amber.

The chandelier hangs like a frozen constellation above.

Below, the room feels intimate. Sacred. Almost confessional.

Silas sits on the couch beneath it all.

One leg is crossed over the other, his posture effortless and composed. An arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers draped lazily over the velvet. Every movement—or lack of one—carries the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

His eyes are fixed on the wall across the room.

Unblinking. Unmoving.

On the photograph.

It hangs in a heavy frame, dark wood polished to a gleam, and the gold light pours over it in waves—washing across the glass, catching the edges, settling into the hollows of the face trapped behind it.

Ellis.

His blue eyes stare out from the depths of the frame, cold and beautiful and impossibly distant. The curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the way his brow arches like a blade—all of it frozen, preserved, offered up for worship.

His hair falls across his forehead in careless waves.

He looks untouchable.

He looks like someone who has never been told no. He looks like he just woke up.

He looks like trouble wrapped in expensive clothing.

He looks like someone Silas intends to claim.

A long moment passes. Then another.

Beside Silas, Secretary Nick stands with the patience of a statue. His tablet rests in his hands, dark now, the screen sleeping. His posture is military-straight, shoulders back, chin level, eyes lowered in that careful way he has—always watching, always waiting.

His voice, when he speaks, is low and measured.

"Boss, the preparations for heading to Crystal Country are complete."

Silas does not respond. Does not move. His eyes remain fixed on the photograph.

Nick sets his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

"I received a message from Mr. Elias’s secretary this afternoon. They expressed their genuine happiness at the prospect of meeting you."

A pause.

"They also confirmed that Mr. Ellis—your fiancé—will welcome you personally at the estate."

Stillness.

Then—the faintest shift at the corner of Silas’s mouth. A smile so small it might have been imagined. A ghost of warmth in an otherwise frozen expression.

My alpha....

A knock at the door. Soft. Familiar.

The door opens.

Dr. Alan enters.

Silver threads through his dark hair. His face is lined—not only by age, but by years of worry and sleepless nights. A black leather briefcase rests in his hand.

The door closes behind him with a soft, final click.

Dr. Alan walks to the table. His steps are unhurried, deliberate. He sets the briefcase down—a quiet thud that seems louder than it should be in the silence—and straightens. His eyes find Silas.

Silas does not look at him. Does not acknowledge him at all.

Nick shifts his head—just slightly, just enough to be noticed—and speaks.

"Good evening, Dr. Alan."

Dr. Alan smiles. It is a gentle smile, the kind that has comforted the dying and reassured the frightened. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens the hard lines of his face.

He unbuttons his coat slowly, methodically, and lowers himself onto the couch across from Silas. The cushions shift beneath his weight.

"How are you, Secretary Nick?"

"I’m fine, thank you, sir."

Dr. Alan’s gaze shifts to Silas. His voice softens, becoming something almost tender.

"And what about you?"

Silas does not move. Does not blink. His eyes remain fixed on Ellis’s frozen face.

Dr. Alan sighs.

It is a long sound, heavy with memory—with the weight of decades spent watching, waiting, hoping.

"You’re still the same as before." A pause. "When you were a child. No greeting. No expression."

His voice lowers. "At least with me." Another pause. "I was your father’s best friend."

Silas’s eyes do not leave the photograph.

Dr. Alan shakes his head lightly—a small, tired movement, as though he had expected nothing different and received exactly that.

"Who am I even talking to?"

He reaches for the briefcase. His fingers find the locks—smooth, practiced. The latches release with a soft click.

He opens the lid.

Inside, nestled in velvet the color of dried blood, are glass bottles. They catch the chandelier light and transform it—turning gold into purple, amber into lavender. The liquid inside glows faintly, like something alive, like something dreaming.

Syringes rest beside them, arranged with surgical precision, their needles gleaming.

Dr. Alan’s voice drops. Low. Careful. The voice of a man delivering a warning he has delivered before.

"Here’s what you requested. The heavy rut blockers."

Silas’s eyes finally shift.

From the photograph. From Ellis’s frozen, distant gaze. To the briefcase.

His eyes scan the contents—the purple glow, the silver needles, the velvet dark as dried blood.

Dr. Alan’s voice drops further, weighted with caution, threaded with concern.

"Are you sure you want to use these?" A pause. "I’ve already told you—these blockers are dangerous. Extremely dangerous."

Nick’s voice is careful. Measured. The voice of a man who knows his place but also knows his duty.

"Dr. Alan, the boss is an Enigma. How could they be dangerous for him?"

Dr. Alan does not look at Nick. His eyes remain fixed on Silas—searching, probing, measuring.

"It’s not his health I’m worried about."

A pause.

"It’s his rut."

He gestures to the bottles resting in the velvet. "He can delay it for three months. Only three months. That’s the absolute limit."

He leans back slightly, his gaze drifting to the middle distance, as though he can see something the others cannot.

"Delaying a rut isn’t good for anyone. But for an Enigma?"

He looks at Silas directly.

"An Enigma’s rut is more dangerous than a thousand Alphas’ ruts combined. Delaying it for too long makes everything worse. More volatile. More unpredictable."

A pause.

"More destructive."

The word hangs in the golden air.

"You can use them for three months." His voice hardens. "That’s it. No more."

He adjusts his glasses. The gold light catches the lenses, obscuring his eyes for a moment.

When he speaks again, his voice has changed—softer, almost pleading.

"I don’t know what’s made you so obsessed with that Alpha." A pause. "But I don’t think lying to him is the better option."

Silas’s eyes shift to Dr. Alan.

Cold. Piercing. A warning delivered without words.

Dr. Alan holds his gaze for a moment. Then he looks away.

"Fine." His voice is quiet. Resigned. "Do whatever you want. I’m not interfering."

His gaze drifts to the photograph on the wall. To Ellis’s blue eyes—cold, proud, untouchable. "But do you really think an Alpha will let you claim him so easily?"

A pause.

"What if he chooses death over being claimed by you?"

Another pause.

"And he..." His eyes linger on the photograph.

"He looks stubborn."

A beat. "So prideful." A faint shake of his head. "The kind of man who would rather burn than bend."

He stands and straightens his coat with a soft rustle of fabric.

"Good luck."

Nick bows slightly—a dip of his head, just enough. "Thank you for everything, Dr. Alan."

Dr. Alan nods. A small movement. Almost tired. He turns and walks to the door. His footsteps are soft on the carpet, barely audible.

The door opens.

Closes.

Silence returns. The golden light settles back into place, undisturbed.

Silas’s eyes shift to the photograph.

Ellis’s blue eyes stare back at him. Frozen. Cold. Unyielding. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with kindness.

A long moment passes.

Then—slowly—a smirk spreads across Silas’s lips. Deliberate. Dangerous.

"Stubborn..." he whispers.