Chapter 1

I lived as a mute for three years for Ethan Lancaster.

I didn't dare speak loudly. I didn't dare touch my cello. I even kept my breathing quiet.

All because my "hypersensitive" husband couldn't stand the slightest noise.

Then I saw him at a noisy Livehouse, another woman in his arms.

They kissed passionately in the chaos.

It turned out his condition only applied to me.

My voice was noise, but her rock music was his cure.

That night, I signed the divorce papers, dragged my suitcase out, and left without looking back.

Three years later, at Vienna's Musikverein, I took the stage as principal cellist.

And he knelt backstage, clutching the ring I once wore, begging me to come back.

Right in front of him, I threw the ring into the trash.

"Trash belongs in the trash."

Stella Sterling POV

I spent three years being a "mute" in the Lancaster household.

Not because I couldn't speak, but because of my husband, Ethan Lancaster. He suffered from severe neurasthenia and hyperacusis.

Everyone in San Diego knew that Ethan Lancaster, the head of Lancaster Corporation, loved silence and hated noise.

He couldn't tolerate the slightest commotion. High-decibel sounds would give him splitting headaches and even trigger severe physical nausea.

Because of his condition, I lived like a ghost in these three years.

I carpeted the entire mansion with the thickest rugs. I wrapped every table corner and door hinge in soundproof foam.

I fired all the staff and took care of him myself, just because their footsteps might bother him.

I even gave up my cello. The one I loved more than life itself. I locked it in the basement and never touched it again.

In front of Ethan, I barely even breathed loudly. I spoke in soft whispers, never daring to raise my voice.

I thought it was his weakness. A physical defect he couldn't overcome beneath that cold, noble exterior.

I willingly dimmed my shine and silenced my energy for him. I became his quietest, most obedient wife in this tomb-like mansion.

Until tonight. A friend sent me a video.

The background was San Diego's most famous, and loudest, underground Livehouse.

Heavy metal drums pounded. Lights flashed. The crowd screamed. Their voices nearly lifted the roof.

And right in the center of the video, sitting in the front row of the VIP section without even frowning, was the man who "got physically sick from noise." My husband, Ethan Lancaster.

Through the screen, I could clearly see that Ethan wasn't wearing any noise-canceling earplugs. Instead, he lounged lazily on the sofa, his gaze piercing through the chaotic crowd, focused tenderly on the woman performing on stage.

That woman was Miranda Lynn.

She was the love Ethan had hidden in his heart for seven years, the first love he had once defied everyone, even risking a break with his family, to be with.

At the end of the video, cold sparks suddenly shot from the stage with a massive explosion.

Ethan almost instinctively stood up, strode quickly to the stage edge, and pulled Miranda into his protective embrace.

He gave Miranda all his tenderness and protection, completely forgetting that he himself was supposed to be a severe neurasthenia patient who "couldn't tolerate any noise."

I don't know how I walked out of the mansion or how I took a cab to that Livehouse.

When I pushed open the door, the deafening music hit me like a tsunami.

My eardrums ached from the assault, my heart pounded violently in my chest, and I nearly vomited.

I hadn't heard sounds this loud in three years.

For Ethan, I had grown accustomed to deathly silence, to soundlessness. My hearing had even become abnormally fragile from years of overprotection.

But now, forcing down my discomfort, I pushed through the wild, packed crowd step by step until I reached the front.

Less than thirty feet away, Ethan was looking down, saying something to Miranda.

Miranda's eyes were slightly red, as if she'd been wronged somehow. Ethan sighed softly, reached up to tousle her hair, his eyes filled with an indulgence and tenderness I had never seen in three years.

Was this really the same Ethan who would coldly tell me to get out if I accidentally knocked over a water glass?

I stared at them, tears streaming down my face.

I remembered the New Year's Eve of our first year married, when fireworks suddenly went off outside.

The loud noise left Ethan pale-faced. He locked himself in his study and didn't speak to me for three whole days.

After that, I never celebrated another holiday, never listened to music again.

I thought he was seriously ill.

I thought he was simply cold by nature, unable to tolerate external noise.

But only now did I suddenly understand.

Lofty angels aren't incapable of descending to earth. His hyperacusis could have exceptions too.

He couldn't tolerate noise. He just couldn't tolerate sounds I made.

Miranda's rock music was medicine that healed him, while my cello was merely noise that disgusted him.

How ridiculous.

I had once been the most brilliant young cellist at Vienna's Musikverein. Proud, radiant, supremely confident.

Yet for a man who never loved me, I clipped my wings.

I silenced my voice.

I spent three years in humble suffering.

A widow's marriage.

Since his condition had long been cured, since he'd already found his medicine.

Then it was time for this dispensable "mute" to exit the stage.