All Chapters of Obsessed with His Unwanted Mute Bride : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

By noon, Beverly had been on her feet for six straight hours.Faye's bell had rung fourteen times. Each summons more trivial than the last—fluff the pillows, the water isn't cold enough, bring different towels. A deliberate campaign of small cruelties designed to break Beverly down piece by piece.And it was working.Beverly's vision had started blurring around the tenth ring. By the twelfth, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the tray. Now, climbing the servants' stairs for the fifteenth time, her legs felt like they belonged to someone else—distant, unreliable, threatening to give out with each step.The bandages on her hands had soaked through hours ago, leaving dark stains on everything she touched. Her feet, already damaged from yesterday, had begun bleeding into her shoes. Each step left small red prints on the stairs that she'd have to clean later.*If I can make it to later*, she thought distantly.She reached the third floor and emerged into the hallway, sw

The scratch at the window came just after midnight.Beverly was writing in her journal when she heard it—a soft, deliberate sound that didn't belong to wind or branches. Her pen stilled. The scratch came again, more insistent, followed by a hushed voice that made her heart stop."Beverly. It's me. Open the window."Vanya.Beverly moved before thought could catch up, crossing the room in bare feet, fumbling with the old window latch that protested with a rusty groan. The window rose inch by stubborn inch until Vanya's face appeared in the gap—flushed, determined, eyes bright with the kind of reckless worry that made people do dangerous things."Jesus Christ, finally." Vanya hoisted herself through the opening with surprising grace, landing in a crouch on Beverly's floor. "Do you know how long I've been out there? I nearly fell off the damn trellis twice."Beverly's hands flew in frantic signs: What are you doing here? How did you—"Murphy dropped me at the service gate. Security's ligh

Diro hadn't slept in three days.He sat in his private office—the one even Faye didn't know about, hidden behind a false panel in the library—and stared at the wall of monitors that showed every corner of the mansion. Twelve screens. Twelve different angles of his carefully constructed prison.And one screen that showed Beverly's room.He shouldn't be watching. Knew it was wrong, invasive, the behavior of a man who'd lost whatever moral compass he'd once possessed. But he couldn't stop. Hadn't been able to stop since the night she'd collapsed, since he'd carried her broken body and felt how light she'd become. How fragile.What have I done?The question circled his mind like a vulture, never landing, never leaving.On screen, Beverly sat on her bed, writing in that journal she thought was secret. Diro had left it for her—leather-bound, expensive, the kind meant for important thoughts. He'd watched her find it, watched the hesitation before she opened it, watched her hand move across p

The invitation arrived on ivory card stock, hand-calligraphed in gold: Irene Carter requests the pleasure of your company for an evening of sophistication and celebration.Beverly saw it on the kitchen counter while preparing breakfast, her hands still shaking from yesterday's scene with Maria. The older woman had been fired in front of the entire staff, tears streaming down her weathered face while Diro stood cold and unmoved, his words sharp as glass: Your services are no longer required.And Beverly had stood there, watching, knowing it was her fault. Knowing that Maria's grandchildren would go hungry because Beverly existed.The party was tonight.Teresa, the new head of kitchen staff, shoved a uniform into Beverly's arms without meeting her eyes. Black dress, starched white apron, white cap. The costume of invisibility, except everyone would see her anyway.That was the point."You'll serve champagne," Teresa said, her voice tight with sympathy she couldn't express. "Circulate. K

Beverly woke at four AM to the sound of her own heartbeat.No alarm. No bell summoning her to service. Just her body's internal clock, trained by months of predawn kitchen duty, pulling her from sleep into the gray space before morning.She lay still on her cot, listening to the mansion breathe around her. The old pipes groaning. The settling of ancient wood. The distant hum of security systems that never slept.Somewhere three floors down, a guard would be making his rounds. Every two hours, like clockwork. She'd timed it obsessively over the past week, her mind cataloging patterns the way other people counted sheep.4:17 AM: Guard passes kitchen entrance4:23 AM: Guard checks main gate4:31 AM: Six-minute window when east side is unwatchedSix minutes. That's all she would need.Beverly sat up, her hands moving automatically to the small bump on her shoulder. The tracking chip. She'd been pressing it obsessively, feeling its shape under her skin, wondering if it hurt less when you k