Five Years of Poverty Was Just His Twisted Game

The day of our wedding, Beckett Thorne was diagnosed with psychogenic mutism. He ran, abandoning the ceremony, saying he couldnt bear to drag me down.

Tears streaming, I held him, swearing I would love him forever, even if he never spoke another word.

Becketts pride was a fragile, towering thing, and from that day on, he rarely left our small apartment.

To keep us afloat and pay for his endless, specialist appointments, I worked three jobs. I bussed tables, scrubbed floors, and washed dishes in cold water even during my heaviest cycle. I never complained.

Until the day a raging fever finally brought me down. Semi-conscious in bed, I heard him on the phone.

Five years, Gigi. I kept my promise. I havent said a single word to her, Ive kept my identity a secret, and I havent spent a dime of my real money on her.

Isnt it time for the agreement to end? Come home. I miss you.

Georgina Sinclair. His childhood sweetheart.

I didn't say a word. I simply booked a flight for the following week.

Its alright, Beckett. This game ends now.

I wiped my eyes dry, repositioned myself in bed, and called his name, pretending Id just woken up.

Beckett's voicewhich I had just heard speaking sweet nothings to another womanfell instantly silent. He hurried to my side, kneeling. He saw the faint redness around my eyes, and his brow furrowed. He typed quickly on his phone and held the screen out: Why are you crying?

I dreamed you spoke again.

He shot up, kicking the old wooden stool beside him with a violence that made the cheap frame rattle. I knew I had pushed him. Any mention of his voice turned Beckett into a cornered, feral animal.

He looked down, his fingers flying across the screen before he thrust it at me: Sylvia, youre tired of me, aren't you?

If you think Im a burden, you can walk out right now.

In the past, I would have thrown my arms around him, promising him Id never leave. But this time, I felt only a crushing tide of weariness, swallowing me whole.

I turned away from him and murmured, Thats not what I meant. Im just tired. Im going back to sleep.

A strange, heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the loud, rattling hum of the ancient air conditioner. In the dark, I pulled out my phone and finalized the ticket purchase.

Then, on a sudden impulse, I searched his name: Beckett Thorne.

The results popped up immediately. Heir apparent of the Sampson Group.

Tears tracked silently into the pillow. I dug my fingernails into my palm, punishing myself for five years of blindness, of desperate, pathetic devotion.

I didnt know whether to blame him for concealing it so expertly, or myself for loving so deeply, so blindly. Five years, and I hadnt known a single truth.

I lay awake all night. Beckett never returned to bed. He stayed in the living room, chain-smoking and whispering those rehearsed declarations of love into his phoneall of them for Georgina.

He never talked to me like that. When we fought, he never comforted me. He only ever pushed me to the brink of hysterics, then calmly typed: Sylvia, I cant speak. I cant comfort you.

Even when I was shaking with the flu, delusional with fever, after hed finally called 911, he still hadn't uttered a sound. The EMTs had thought it was a prank call, and if not for our neighbor, I might have genuinely died that winter.

I gave a self-mocking laugh. It seemed my life was less valuable to him than Georginas amusement.

Suddenly, the fierce grip of my love felt weaker, brittle.

Beckett was up early. For once, he had made a table full of breakfast. He took out a tarnished metal lunchbox we hadn't used in years, polished it bright, and covered it with little stickers.

It was as if nothing had happened the night before. He typed: You're still sick. I made Pecan and Brown Sugar Oatmeal. I put in extra pecans, just the way you like them. Eat up. Im going to meet a friend.

My spoon froze halfway to the bowl. My heart clenched, a sudden, sharp spasm.

I was severely allergic to pecans.

Georgina liked pecans. If I wasn't mistaken, the "friend" he was meeting was at the airport, on the receiving end of his trip.

Seeing my hesitation, he gave my head a tender, patronizing rub. What's wrong? Still no appetite?

I looked down, my voice muffled. "I'm fine. You should go."

It didnt matter anymore.

He smiled, then moved past me to retrieve something: a pair of stunning, charcoal cashmere gloves. He carefully wrapped them and tucked them into his bag.

I went numb. Weren't those supposed to be my birthday present?

His phone buzzed on the table. Georgina.

Don't forget my gloves! Its freezing in Crestwood, and a womans hands are her second face!

My eyes burned with unshed tears.

Beckett snatched up his phone and made for the door. Beckett, I called out, stopping him. Do you remember what today is?

He rushed back, bending down to type: I know youre upset and want me to stay. Don't worry, I'll be back soon.

With that, he walked out.

Tears dripped, one by one, into my bowl of pecan oatmeal. I finally gave in, burying my face in my hands.

It was my birthday. Id seen those gloves and convinced myself they were for me. I had stared at them for days, afraid to even touch them. I had planned to give him a huge kiss when he presented them, and buy him that expensive goose-down jacket he needed for winter.

Everything had been a beautiful mirage.

I shouldn't have hoped. In five years, he had never once remembered my birthday.

I held up my hands, covered in chapped, cracked skin from years of cold water and harsh soap. I knew a womans hands were her second face, but what choice did I have? If I didn't wash those dishes, if I didn't do that brutal labor, we wouldn't eat, and he couldn't see his doctors.

It wasn't that Beckett was absentminded. His care and thoughtfulness were simply reserved for others.

Our meeting had been dramatic enough for a film. He was a popular radio host then, and he frequented the high-end restaurant where I worked. He claimed he'd fallen for me at first sight. I was deeply insecure and avoided him.

Until one night, a drunken client cornered me after my shift. Beckett rushed in and smashed a wine bottle over the mans head. He spent the night in a police holding cell, emerging the next morning with a goofy smile. As long as youre okay, he typed.

My parents died when I was young. For the first time in my life, someone had genuinely cared for me. A tight, protective string deep inside snapped.

I accepted his pursuit, and we quickly planned a wedding. Then, on the very day of the ceremony, Beckett was abruptly fired from his job and, hit by the shock, supposedly lost his ability to speak.

He fled the altar.

For the last five years, I had held no bitterness, believing he was a shattered man. But combined with last nights phone call, I saw the truth: it had been a calculated performance, a game orchestrated by Beckett and Georgina.

The private amusement of the rich and bored, with me as the unsuspecting pawn.

I was morbidly curious about the nature of their agreement.

A fog thickened in my head. As I tipped the bowl of oatmeal into the trash, I noticed a discarded prescription bottleAtenolol, for phobic speech disorders.

I laughed. A bitter, tearing sound. I laughed at my own foolishness, at the futility of my sacrifice.

I didn't want to fight for him. I didn't want to challenge this. If this was a game, I was withdrawing my piece.

Beckett, I dont want to love you anymore.

My landlady called. Sylvia, rents are going up around here. Ive only held back because I pity you, dear. The lease expires tomorrow. You see

I tossed the empty oatmeal bowl into the sink. "I won't be renewing the lease."

The notification on my phone flashed: Tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM flight to the Opal Coast, the one place Id always dreamed of visiting but never could afford.

This months paycheck was due. If I wasn't paying for Becketts non-existent treatment, I had enough saved to make a start.

At 5:00 PM, I left for work as usual.

After changing into my uniform, my coworker frowned. Sylvia, your boyfriend is here.

I thought you said he never left the apartment? How does he have so many friends?

Also, I thought you two were strapped for cash? How can he afford this kind of exclusive club?

Her words felt like thousands of tiny needles pricking my skin.

Just then, the manager called out, Sylvia, take a bottle of that pricey single-malt up to VIP Suite 8888.

I seized the opportunity to escape, barely hearing my coworkers hissed, "Hey, your boyfriend is in there!"

When I reached the suite, the door was slightly ajar. The room was loud and celebratory. Inside, a woman in a dazzling gown and a diamond tiara looked every inch the princess. That had to be Georgina.

The man in the center of the room, his eyes fixed on her, was singing "Happy Birthday."

It was Georgina's birthday, too.

His singing voice was soft, rich, and achingly beautiful.

If that man wasnt Beckett, I might have genuinely felt happy for them.

When he finished, a round of applause broke out. Thorne, one of the men slurred, you are a goddamn legend. To test your devotion, Gigi asks you to chase a waitress, you do it. She asks you to run from your own wedding, you do it. She asks you to fake being a mute pauper for five years, and you endure it.

Now that Gigis back, your true feelings are clear. Whens the wedding?

When are you finally dumping that chick?

The agreement was far more sickening than Id imagined. They had played with a human life, high and mighty. I was just the fool who took it seriously.

Beckett took a swig of scotch, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Not yet, he said. Shes so dependent on me, so completely in love. I just worry about what shell do.

I smiled and wiped a solitary tear. That was the old me, Beckett.

Now, I despise you.

I knocked and entered. The room instantly fell silent. Someone nudged Beckett's arm. As his gaze snagged on my uniform, a rare panic crossed his face.

I kept my eyes down, placing the bottle on the table. I spoke softly. "The scotch is here. Enjoy your evening. Call if you need anything else."

Beckett rushed toward me. Our eyes met. He slowly reached up and traced the edge of my eye. Crying?

His first words to me in five years.

I turned my face away. Im fine. Just enjoy your party.

I backed out and closed the door, leaving behind a room full of stunned, silent faces.

Beckett didn't chase me.

The silence lasted maybe a second. Then the laughter and noise started up again.

I was, truly, insignificant. Not even a footnote.

Beckett and his friends partied late.

At 2:00 AM, my manager insisted I go home, concerned about my health.

I walked in the door, and Beckett followed right behind.

He was carrying a crushed, discarded cake box, still bearing smudges of pink icing. "It was Georginas birthday cake. They barely touched it, so I brought the rest home for you," he typed.

I know you love sweets.

Was I supposed to commend him for his thoughtfulness?

He offered no words, no explanations. He seemed certain that no matter what he did, I would forgive him.

I thought about asking him if he remembered that it was my birthday, too, but then decided against it. It was pointless.

We wouldn't see each other again anyway.

I murmured an "Okay," and went to the closet to pack my clothes.

The small wardrobe held only a few items of mine: a thin, polyester coat and a couple of pilled sweaters. Thats how I had survived five winters.

What are you doing? he typed, suddenly behind me.

I stopped. Let it go. Id buy new ones.

Nothing. Just looking for a sweater.

Beckett smiled and took my hand. Dont worry about it. You have tomorrow off. Ill take you out. We can buy a whole new wardrobe.

Before I could reply, his phone rang. I saw the caller ID: Georgina.

He turned away and answered, his voice dripping with affection. "You want to see me? Okay. I'll be right there."

He didnt even try to hide it.

He walked toward the door without hesitation. You should sleep. Dont wait up.

A sudden, overwhelming impulse seized me. "Beckett," I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Do you love me?"

His expression faltered. He only typed: What is wrong with you?

Tears burst forth. All the suppressed humiliation, the exhaustion, the painit erupted in great, wracking sobs. I clung to his arm, pleading over and over: Beckett, just say you love me. Please. Just one time.

Please, I thought. Just let me win this one thing.

But slowly, agonizingly, he pulled my hands off his arm. He typed: Im sorry. Ive just started talking again. Im still struggling with certain sounds.

Then, he walked out without looking back.

I stayed on the floor, crying until my eyes were swollen shut and I had no more tears left.

When the sun finally rose, I gathered my documents. I took one last, long look at the small, suffocating apartment, and then I left.

8:30 AM. Thirty minutes until my flight. A message from Beckett popped up.

Where are you? Overtime again? I'm better now. You dont have to work so hard.

I remember you love the sourdough toast from the bistro on East Street. I picked some up.

I didn't reply. At 8:50, he sent a photo of a small, perfect chocolate cake.

You didnt touch the cake last night. You probably didnt like it. I bought you a new one.

Should I pick you up after your shift?

At 8:55 AM, I typed my reply.

Beckett, yesterday was my birthday, too.

I know about the agreement between you and Georgina. I know all your secrets.

Were done. Im leaving.

Then, I powered down the phone.

The plane began its slow taxi and takeoff. I looked out the window as a final tear slipped down my cheek.

Beckett, goodbye forever.