Mr. Fake-Mute's Love Game Ended When I Stopped Playing the Fool novel Chapter 1

Chapter 1

On our wedding day, Zeke was diagnosed with aphasia.

He bailed. Said he didn’t want to “hold me back.”

I cried, held him tight, swore I’d love him forever–even if he never spoke another word.

Zeke’s ego was massive. After that, he barely left the apartment.

So I worked–three jobs, every single day.

I washed dishes on my period, hands frozen in ice water. It didn’t matter. I never complained.

Not once.

Until I collapsed from fever and heard him on the phone.

‘Five years, Vivian. I kept my promise. Didn’t say a word to her. Hid every damn thing about myself. She hasn’t touched a single cent

of my money.”

“So we’re good, right? Come back. I miss you.”

Vivian–his childhood sweetheart.

I didn’t say a word. Just booked a flight.

Game over, Zeke.

I wiped my tears and lay back down like nothing happened. Called out to him.

Zeke went dead silent. Rushed over, crouched down. Saw my puffy eyes and frowned, typing fast: “Why the hell are you crying?”

‘Had a dream you could talk again.”

He shot up. Kicked the chair so hard it slammed into the wall.

Same shit every time. Mention his voice? He loses it.

He typed furiously, shoving the phone in my face: “Harper, you’re disgusted by me, aren’t you?”

‘If I’m such dead weight, then get the fuck out.”

Before? I would’ve clung to him. Begged. Promised I’d never leave.

But right now? I felt nothing. Just this crushing, hollow exhaustion.

I rolled over. “That’s not what I meant. I’m exhausted. Goodnight.”

Silence. Just that busted AC wheezing in the corner.

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Chapter 1

Under the blankets, I pulled out my phone. Booked the flight.

Then I typed his name into the search bar.

Zeke Harrington–Heir to Harrington Global.

Tears came hot and silent, soaking into my pillow. I dug my nails into my palms until they bled.

Was he that good at lying? Or was I just that pathetic?

Five years. I’d seen nothing.

Neither of us slept.

He stayed in the living room, chain–smoking, voice low as he murmured sweet nothings.

Every word meant for Vivian.

When we fought? He never said a damn thing. Just watched me break down, then calmly typed: “Harper, I can’t talk. Can’t make you

feel better.”

When I had the flu–fever so high I was hallucinating–I dialed 911 myself. Zeke stood there silently. The operator hung up, thought it

was a prank call. If our neighbor hadn’t knocked, I would’ve died that winter.

I laughed bitterly.

Turns out my life wasn’t worth Vivian’s happiness.

Funny thing–I didn’t love him as much anymore.

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