The Mute Wife Walked Away Novel – Chapter 1 Done Playing With You “Congratulations. You’re six weeks along,” the doctor said. Phoebe scribbled a question on her notepad and slid it across the desk to the doctor. [Is aphasia hereditary?] The doctor read it and smiled. “Yours is acquired, not genetic, so the baby will be fine. Would you like to register for prenatal care with us?” The knot of dread in Phoebe’s chest melted in an instant. Beaming, she pulled her marriage certificate from her bag and handed it over. The doctor took it and typed the registration code into the system that linked the hospital with the county clerk’s office. The screen flashed back: code not found. “Ma’am,” the doctor said carefully, “this certificate is a forgery.” Phoebe’s hand shook as she scrawled across the page: [I got this marriage certificate from the county clerk’s office myself. How could it possibly be fake?] The doctor tapped the seal at the bottom. “Real certificates carry an embossed seal. Yours is just printed ink.” Phoebe snatched the certificate back and bolted from the office.
Before Grandpa passed, Henry had personally taken her to the county clerk’s office to register their marriage. After Grandpa died, Henry had handled the funeral as her husband. The question beat against Phoebe’s ribs: ‘How could the papers we filed together be a lie?’ Her fingers trembled around the paper as she dialed Henry, who was supposed to be in a meeting with a client. “Honey, I’m in a meeting,” Henry’s voice came calmly through the line. “I can’t really talk right now.” Phoebe opened her mouth, desperate to demand why the certificate was fake, but the aphasia clamped down on the words. All that came out was a hoarse, ragged whimper. [Henry: In a meeting, babe. Is it urgent?] Phoebe stared at the cold text on the screen, despair pooling in her eyes. A second message popped up. [Henry: I can’t wait to see what you got me for our second anniversary.] Two years ago, on the day of her engagement party with Preston Pace, Preston posted indecent photos of her online with the caption: [Done with this one. Moving on.] Then he vanished. The shock had triggered her grandfather’s heart attack. On his deathbed, the old man had entrusted her to his favorite student, Henry Drake. To honor his dying wish, Phoebe and Henry had rushed into marriage that very week.
Once Grandpa saw their marriage certificate in his hands, he had closed his eyes with a quiet smile and let go. Broken by her first love’s betrayal and crushed by Grandpa’s death, Phoebe had tried to end her life. Henry had pulled her back from the brink, but the attempt left her with psychogenic aphasia. Henry had never minded her silence or the cruel whispers that followed her everywhere. With patience and quiet devotion, he had slowly thawed the lonely, frozen thing inside her chest. She had only learned about the pregnancy that morning, and she had been planning to surprise him at their anniversary dinner tonight. Instead, she had just discovered their marriage was a lie. Phoebe hailed a rideshare to the research institute and scrolled through her chat history with Henry on the way. Every moment of the past two years played out in her head, frame by frame, like a film reel she couldn’t stop. She refused to believe the certificate they had filed together was a forgery. She needed to hear it from him. A deafening crash. Her car was slammed from both ends, crushed between two other vehicles. The driver, blood streaming down his forehead, fumbled with his seatbelt, shoved the door open, and scrambled out of the wreck on hands and knees. Crimson trickled down Phoebe’s forehead and blurred her vision.
Hands shaking, she clawed at her own seatbelt. The buckle clicked free just as a familiar figure sprinted past her window. Phoebe stared, frozen, as Henry raced to the red sports car ahead and pulled a trembling Stella Lockhart into a fierce, possessive embrace. “Stella, you…” Phoebe’s lips moved soundlessly. Pale and shaking, Stella clung to Nolan and peered past him at the blood-soaked Phoebe with helpless, doe-like eyes. “Nolan,” she whimpered, “I was so scared…” Numb, Phoebe pushed her door open and walked, step by slow step, toward the pair locked in each other’s arms. He was wearing the suit she’d had a master tailor custom-make for him, the watch she’d picked out herself. The same outfit he’d left the house in that morning, only now another woman was wrapped in his arms. And that short-haired heiress was calling him Nolan. The marriage certificate was fake. A terrible thought rose in Phoebe’s mind: ‘Was his identity fake too?’ Biting through the pain ripping through her body, Phoebe staggered toward them. Behind her, the rideshare car burst into flames. The blast hurled her forward and slammed her down onto the asphalt. Blood poured out of her in a steady, unstoppable stream.
Despair and grief swimming in her eyes, she dragged her bone-white fingertips across the rough asphalt, hauling herself forward inch by agonizing inch toward Nolan and Stella. Beneath her, the blood traced winding lines on the pavement, like some grotesque painting. Hatred and love churned together behind her eyes. Her cracked lips parted and closed, parted and closed, unable to shape a single syllable. The name cut through her mind: ‘Henry. Liar.’ Sirens screamed as an ambulance tore onto the scene. A bystander spotted Phoebe lying in a pool of blood and waved the paramedics over. “Over here!” he shouted. “There’s a victim over here.” Nolan held Stella, whose calf was injured, close to his side and rushed forward to block the paramedic’s path. “Doctor, treat her first,” he ordered. “Sir, we follow our own protocols.” the paramedic began. A cold, arrogant edge sharpened Nolan’s stunning features, and he threw money at the problem. “Three hundred thousand dollars,” he said flatly. “Treat her first.” “Sir, step aside!” the paramedic snapped. “Don’t get in the way of our work!” Nolan tightened his arm around the shaken Stella, his voice imperious. “I am Nolan Hawthorne of Harborview.
I’m ordering you to treat her first.” When those words reached Phoebe’s ears, a single clear tear slipped from the corner of her eye. The marriage certificate was fake. His identity was fake. He wasn’t Henry Drake at all. He was Nolan Hawthorne of Harborview. Another bystander pulled a blood-stained ultrasound report from Phoebe’s bag and shouted, “What are you all standing around for? Save the pregnant woman first!” “Life and death don’t care about money.” someone yelled. “So the Hawthornes of Harborview are rich? Big deal,” another spat. “It’s just a scratch on her leg! Is he filming some soap opera? Lunatic!” someone else added. The doctor and nurse hoisted the stretcher and pushed past Nolan, whose face was dark with anger, to reach Phoebe. Phoebe’s bloody hand clamped around the paramedic’s wrist as she struggled to beg for help. “Sa…” she rasped. Save the baby. The medics lifted her onto the stretcher and carried her right past Nolan and Stella.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nolan caught sight of a familiar little charm dangling from the stretcher, and a cold pulse of unease crawled up his spine. He instinctively pulled out his phone and dialed Phoebe. “Nolan.” Stella leaned into his chest, subtly blocking his view of the stretcher, her voice soft and pleading. “It hurts so much.” One hand still holding the phone, the other steadying the injured Stella, Nolan guided her toward a second ambulance. From the stretcher behind him, a familiar ringtone began to chime.