Too Late To Love Your Mute Wife

The screen of the phone glowed in the dark, casting a harsh blue light across Aubree Martinez's pale face. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Manhattan penthouse, staring down at the endless grid of city lights. Her fingers gripped the cold metal edges of the device so tightly her knuckles turned completely white.

The device vibrated again, sending a dull shock up her arm. It was another text message from Genevieve, her mother-in-law.

The family trust fund deadline is next month. If you cannot secure an heir for Godfrey by then, you know exactly what will happen to your father's company. Do your job.

Aubree swallowed hard. Her throat felt completely dry, like it was lined with sandpaper. A heavy block of ice settled at the bottom of her stomach, making it hard to draw a full breath. She pressed her thumb against her palm, digging her nail into the soft flesh until a sharp sting grounded her.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. The sound was heavy and deliberate, echoing ominously against the hardwood floor, vibrating through the soles of Aubree's feet like an approaching executioner.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom was shoved open with enough force that it bounced off the wall stopper.

Godfrey walked into the room. A wave of freezing outside air and the sharp, burning scent of expensive whiskey rolled in with him. He did not look at her. He reached up, his large hands ripping the silk tie from his neck. He tossed it carelessly onto the velvet sofa near the door.

Aubree took a deep breath, forcing air into her tight lungs. She stepped away from the window and walked toward him.

She stopped a few feet away, keeping a safe distance. She raised her hands, her fingers trembling slightly before she forced them steady.

Using American Sign Language, she formed the words quickly. We need to talk.

Godfrey stopped unbuttoning his shirt. He let out a low, harsh laugh that sounded like gravel grinding together. He turned his back on her and walked straight to the wet bar in the corner of the room.

He grabbed a heavy crystal glass and a bottle of amber liquid. The ice cubes hit the bottom of the glass with a sharp, clear clink that made Aubree flinch.

She followed him, stopping just behind his shoulder. Her hands moved again, faster this time. About the baby. About the trust fund. Genevieve texted me.

Godfrey lifted the glass to his lips. He turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto her rapidly moving hands. His gaze was entirely empty, devoid of any warmth.

He slammed the glass down on the black marble counter. The liquid sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the polished stone.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides. His massive frame backed her up until her shoulder blades hit the cold wall.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. The smell of alcohol mixed with