Chapter One
Sloane's POV
Eight years of marriage. Fluent in seven languages. Yet I never dared speak a word in front of my husband.
He claimed to be allergic to my voice—hearing me talk gave him headaches, ringing ears, made his whole body ache.
To change my voice, I underwent four vocal cord surgeries. My voice became hoarse, rough as sandpaper scraping concrete. But no matter how hard I tried, he still clutched his ears in pain.
For eight years, I blamed myself. I thought I was the one dragging him down.
Until our anniversary, when our daughter casually yanked off his "hearing aid" and tossed it on the couch.
I picked it up and put it in my ear. What I heard was my cousin Freya's flirtatious voice, and his tender response.
That moment, I finally understood—
No matter what I did, all this man ever wanted from me was silence.
On our eighth wedding anniversary, the moment the front door lock clicked, Poppy—my eight-year-old daughter—burst into the living room and threw herself into Alaric's arms. My husband reached up and she yanked the "hearing aid" from his ear, tossing it onto the couch, her voice full of playful whining.
"Daddy, were you on the phone with Freya again?"
Alaric ruffled her hair, his smile indulgent. "Shh, keep it down."
"I wish I could fake being allergic to sounds like you. Then I could chat with Freya and not have to deal with that mute woman."
Alaric flicked her forehead. "This condition isn't hereditary. If you fake it too obviously and Mom figures it out, we'll be in trouble."
Poppy giggled. "She's too dumb to notice."
Their laughter drifted through the half-open kitchen door, every syllable crystal clear. All those years I'd taken Poppy to Freya's clinic for hearing tests, every time Freya told me our daughter was perfectly normal, I'd breathed a sigh of relief, grateful this condition hadn't been passed down. Now I finally understood—I was the only fool in this equation. I had been from the very beginning.
I bent down and picked up the "hearing aid," slipping it into my own ear. Freya's voice invaded first, dripping with coy sweetness: "Last night you said my voice drives you crazy... in all the right ways."
Then came Alaric's voice, low and tender: "That's because you're moaning my name, not nagging me."
I removed the earpiece gently and placed it back where I found it. My heart didn't shatter. The sky didn't fall. I just felt... empty.
At dinner, I noticed the glittery press-on nails decorating Poppy's fingers—pink ombre with tiny rhinestones. For the first time in eight years, I opened my mouth and spoke in front of Alaric.
"Poppy, you can't wear nail decorations."
I hadn't spoken a complete sentence in so long, my voice was unrecognizable even to myself—hoarse, fractured. Alaric paused slightly, while Poppy suddenly dropped her fork, rubbing her ears, her face scrunching up in exaggerated distress.
"Mom, when you talk my head buzzes... Did I inherit it from Daddy? Am I allergic to your voice too?"
I glanced at her. If I hadn't already discovered the truth, I would have panicked, rushing her to Freya's clinic that very night. But now I just found it laughable—an eight-year-old, already such a skilled actress.
"Remove the nails. Your allowance is docked this week too."
Poppy's "headache" instantly transformed into anger. She covered her ears in disgust. "Your voice is so ugly! Can't you just stop talking!"
"My voice became like this precisely because of your father." I raised my water glass and took a sip. "As for your ear problem—have your father take you to the hospital. I'm not available."
I once could interpret simultaneously in seven languages at international conferences without missing a beat. Now even casual conversation sounded like words scraped out with sandpaper. And it all started because I was terrified of seeing Alaric's twisted, pained expression when he heard my voice.
Sure enough, he pressed his hand to his temple, his face contorting. "Sloane, I'm sorry... hearing you speak, the pain is starting again."
"It's all my fault for dragging you down all these years. If Poppy really inherited it, don't blame yourself."
Poppy immediately grabbed his arm, her small face full of sympathy. "Poor Daddy."
Father and daughter, a seamless performance. Watching this act, I actually wanted to laugh.
"Alaric," I set down my glass, my voice quiet, "we've been married eight years. You've never been able to tolerate my voice. That can only mean one thing—we were never meant to be together. Let's get a divorce."
Alaric froze. But Poppy's reaction caught me off guard—her eyes lit up instantly, practically bouncing in her chair, clapping her hands in excitement.
"Really?! That's amazing! I have to tell Freya right away!"
Before she finished, the sound of the fingerprint lock beeped at the door. Freya walked in carrying a bouquet of white tulips. Poppy couldn't contain herself, flying over and throwing her arms around Freya's waist.
"Freya! Great news! Mom says she's divorcing Daddy!"
