The year my social anxiety was at its peak, I played mute in the bed of this city’s most notorious billionaire, Julian Forrester. No matter how hard he worked, I would bite my lip and refuse to make a sound. This arrangement worked perfectly until his long-lost love returned to the country and I was handed a severance check for thirty million dollars. In a moment of pure, unadulterated joy, the words just slipped out: “Thank you, boss! You’re too generous!” I slapped a hand over my mouth, but it was too late. A slow, dangerous smile spread across Julian’s face. “My little mute,” he purred, his voice a low threat. “Don’t tell me this is some kind of medical miracle?” … Being a mute canary had its perks. Downstairs, I was exempt from the tedious flattery required of a kept woman. Upstairs, I never had to praise my sugar daddy’s performance. The only real downside? I couldn’t curse him out when he was being a real bastard. Like right now. Julian noticed my mind had drifted. His hand tightened on my waist, and with a single, powerful movement, he flipped me over. He was all teeth and heat, nipping and biting at my skin with a savage intensity, as if he meant to tear the flesh from my bones and devour it whole. Son of a bitch! I screamed internally. On the outside, however, I was the picture of pathetic submission. My eyes welled up, tears tracing hot paths down my cheeks. As the world rocked around me, I found my anchor, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my face against his in a silent plea for mercy. From experience, I knew this look was usually his breaking point. A few more minutes, and he’d be done. But tonight, some demon had possessed him. One after another, he tore open the foil packets. From the bed to the shower, from the shower to the sofa, he ravaged me until the moon was high in the sky. It was only then, finally sated, that he carried me back to bed. My body was a dead weight, every muscle screaming in protest. But just as sleep was about to claim me, a memory of something I’d overheard earlier that day jolted me awake. One of Julian’s friends had stopped by. The study door was ajar, and their voices drifted out. “Gigi lands tomorrow. Are you sending a car, or are you picking her up yourself?” “‘Gigi’ is not a name you get to use,” Julian’s voice was ice. The friend backpedaled instantly. “Right, right, my mistake. Your special name for your special girl…” Though he sounded apologetic, the teasing note was unmistakable. Everyone in their circle knew Julian Forrester had one that got away—a ‘white moonlight’ he could never forget. He’d protected her identity so fiercely that all anyone knew was that she existed. No name, no face, no reason why they weren’t together. Once, while tidying his study out of sheer boredom, I’d found a faded old photograph. In it, a girl in a wide-brimmed hat was turned away from the camera, only half of her face visible. That half-face was an eighty percent match for my own. Suddenly, I was thrown back to the day I first met Julian. I was standing on a street corner, glued to my phone, when a black sedan pulled up. Assuming it was the Uber I’d called, I opened the door and slid in without a second thought. As a person with crippling social anxiety, I had a system to avoid small talk with drivers. I pulled out my phone, which had a message scrolling across the screen in huge letters: [I AM MUTE. PLEASE DO NOT SPEAK TO ME.] It was only as I held the phone up that I realized the man in the driver’s seat was no Uber driver. He was impossibly handsome, with a cool, aristocratic air that made the luxury car he was driving feel like it was miles out of my price range. He stared at my phone screen, his eyes wide, for a long, silent moment before he finally found his voice, asking me where I was going in a rough, hoarse whisper. Seeing that photograph, it all clicked into place. The stunned expression on his face that day wasn't because I’d gotten into the wrong car, or because of my fake disability. It was because I looked just like her. Back in the study, the conversation resumed. “So, what about the one at home?” his friend asked. “She’s a timid little thing, and a mute. Not exactly someone you can take out in public…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I turned and walked away before the giddy, triumphant laughter bubbling up inside me could escape. Three years. For three whole years, I had played the part. And now, my contract was finally coming to an end. Freedom was so close I could taste it. Sleep was impossible. I turned my back to Julian, unlocked my phone, and opened up the group chat: The Canary Support Group. I’d been added by a friendly girl I’d met at one of Julian’s stuffy business dinners. The ultimate goal for every member was the same: secure a massive payout, achieve financial independence, and retire early. I couldn’t resist sharing my news. Celeste: Julian’s white moonlight is coming home! The night owls in the group exploded. Skye: OMG CONGRATS CELESTE! Bella: Manifesting this! My guy’s first love is supposedly studying in Germany… Amber: I’m so jealous. My guy doesn’t even have a white moonlight (my life is a tragedy). After a flurry of congratulations, Skye tagged me. Skye: @Celeste Julian’s loaded, and he’s always been generous with you. The severance is gonna be huge, right?! She was right. Julian had always been generous. Half a million a month for pocket money. A constant stream of designer bags and jewelry. He’d even tried to give me luxury cars and mansions, but I’d turned them down. A poor girl like me couldn’t possibly afford the upkeep on a supercar or the property taxes on a penthouse. Besides, selling them would involve realtors and paperwork… the thought alone made my anxiety spike. My only hope for a comfortable future was his severance pay. A few million? Or maybe… tens of millions? The thought made me squirm with excitement, twisting myself into a pretzel under the sheets. A moment later, a strong arm pulled me back against a familiar, hard body. “Can’t sleep?” His voice was a low growl, and his hot breath ghosted over my neck. I felt his body stir against me and panicked, pushing him away with all my might. I clasped my hands together under my chin and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to convey with every fiber of my being that I was going to sleep. Right now. “I have to go to the airport tomorrow,” he murmured, his voice surprisingly soft. “To pick up someone… very important to me.” My eyes flew open. “Do you… want to come with me?” I blinked. Him. Me. Going with him? The replacement, going to pick up the original? Was he trying to give her a heart attack on the spot? I shook my head violently. He studied my face for a moment. “Probably for the best. You’re shy. You can meet her when you’re ready.” He’d always been accommodating. When we first got together, he offered to find me a job. I refused, and he never brought it up again. For a homebody with extreme social anxiety, this life of catered meals and zero responsibilities was something I would actually miss. A wave of melancholy washed over me. Just then, my phone buzzed. A text notification from my bank. “I probably won’t be back tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ll be busy for the next couple of days. Take this, buy yourself something nice.” I ignored him, my eyes glued to the screen. I counted the zeroes. Once, twice, three times. One, ten, hundred, thousand, ten thousand, hundred thousand, million, ten million… It was an eight-figure number. He had given me thirty million dollars. Thirty. Million. Dollars. The sudden wealth went straight to my head. All my carefully constructed pretenses shattered. “Thank you, boss! You’re too generous!” The words were out before I could stop them. Silence crashed down around us. Our eyes met. Oh, crap. In my excitement, I’d forgotten I was supposed to be mute. Realizing my catastrophic mistake, I clapped a hand over my mouth and tried to melt into the mattress, pulling the covers over my head. But it was no use. A hand clamped around the back of my neck, and he hauled me out of my cocoon. “My little mute.” Julian’s voice was dangerously calm, but his eyes were blazing. He looked like he was seconds away from laughing, or maybe strangling me. “Don’t tell me this is some kind of medical miracle?” That was, without a doubt, the least funny joke I had ever heard. There was nowhere to hide. To escape his searing gaze, I covered my face with my hands. “Talk to me, little mute.” I shook my head, my voice muffled. “Mutes can’t talk.” “…” Julian pinched the bridge of his nose, a flicker of exasperation crossing his face as he looked at me, flushed red and trying to disappear into myself. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” I bit my lip, confused. Yes, I had lied to him. I wasn’t going to deny it. But the money was already in my account. What else was there to say? I had nothing. But clearly, he expected something. I shifted gears. What did Julian want to hear? What did he like to hear? An idea sparked. “Baby…” I whispered. His breath hitched. I dredged my memory, recalling every trashy romance novel I’d ever read, searching for a line that wouldn’t make me spontaneously combust. “You’re… so big,” I stammered. “So amazing. I like it so much…” I peeked through my fingers. His eyebrows were raised, the hard line of his mouth softened. He didn’t look angry anymore. So, this was the price of my freedom. Fine. It was my last night as a canary anyway. I dug deep, pulling out all the stops. “You were incredible tonight. It was like you were on something… so wild.” His face instantly darkened. “What did you just say? Say it again.” I swallowed hard. What was wrong with that? Did he not like being called ‘baby’? Maybe it was a generational thing. My heart pounded against my ribs. I summoned my courage and tried again. “Daddy was so incredible tonight…” The rest of the sentence was swallowed by his kiss. He captured my flailing hands, guiding them lower, and lower still. In the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his dark eyes seemed to flash green. “Little mute,” he rasped against my lips. “Say it again.” … By the time the sun began to rise, he was still going, energized as if he’d discovered a whole new world. I buried my face in the pillow, my head spinning. Thank God I’d pretended to be mute for three years. If I hadn’t, I would have been dead in this bed long ago. I woke up in the afternoon. My entire body ached, and my throat was so raw from a night of unaccustomed use that I couldn’t speak. The irony was not lost on me. Now I really was mute. I dragged my leaden legs downstairs. Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, saw me, nodded a silent greeting, and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a bowl of warm porridge. Then, just as she always did, she vanished. Julian knew I hated interacting with strangers, so he’d instructed all the staff to make themselves invisible. It was a dream setup for someone with social anxiety. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Julian was actually… a pretty good guy. He was rich, handsome, and considerate when it counted. His only flaw was that he was in love with another woman. “Sigh…” I felt a pang of melancholy that lasted for a whole three seconds. Then my eyes fell on my phone, and I opened my banking app to gaze at the glorious thirty-million-dollar balance. Yeah… maybe I wasn’t so heartbroken after all. My heart was too small; it only had room for money. As for Julian? Well, seeing as he was such a good guy, I decided to help him out. With my conscience clear, I snuggled back into bed and pulled a book off the nightstand. Chapter One: The Return of the White Moonlight. Perfect. Just what I needed. Half an hour later, I was so infuriated by the brainless main characters that I slammed the book shut. I opened my messaging app and sent Julian a single emoji: a kitten peeking over a wall. He replied instantly. Julian: You’re awake? Mrs. Gable has porridge for you. Don’t fill up, I’ll have something nice sent for dinner. Julian: Does it still hurt? Are you okay? My heart did a little flip. A good man asks if you’re tired. A great man asks if you’re in pain. I buried my face in the covers and kicked my feet like a teenager. After composing myself, I sent back a cool, detached reply. Celeste: Mm. He didn’t reply right away, probably busy. I took the opportunity to forward him a series of articles I’d found. Don’t Let the One Who’s Right in Front of You Get Away. Actions Speak Louder Than Words: How to Show a Woman You Care. 30 Ways to Win Her Heart: A Guide to Thoughtful Gifts. After sending about ten of these, I felt I’d done my good deed for the day and settled in for a long gaming session. It was two hours later when I checked my phone again and saw he had replied long ago. Julian: Received. Received? What did that mean? Did he think it was a work email? A moment later, a call came through from Julian’s assistant, Mr. Harrison. Confused, I went downstairs to answer the door. He held out a sleek, black credit card. “Ms. Windsor, Mr. Forrester asked me to bring you this. It’s a supplementary card.” My eyes widened. “For… for me?” Harrison’s usually stoic, robotic expression cracked. “Ms. Windsor… you… you’re not mute?”
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