It was always the smallest things that became the most significant. The silence in my ward was the clicking of my iPad as I typed out words keeping me alive, were the sounds I now lived with.
Every tap of the screen was a message, not just to the world around me but to myself as well. A reminder that I wasn't helpless. Not anymore.
I had chosen this. I had chosen to play this role, to hide behind this shell of paralysis and muteness, knowing that no one could see through it.
No one could hear my thoughts except for the words I typed. I couldn't walk, I couldn't speak—but I had something far more powerful: control. And control was everything.
The days that followed after my "accident" blurred together in a haze of white walls, impersonal faces, and hushed conversations.
The doctors came and went, their minds made up about my condition. The nurses tended to me with pity and professional.
And Henry? He was nowhere to be seen. I had sent him a message, but I knew it would take more than a few words to wake him up to the reality of what I had become.
He had abandoned me. And that was the most painful part of all. It was a betrayal that cut deeper than any knife.
But it also gave me the clarity I needed. I would take my power back. One way or another.
---
It had been nearly two weeks since my "accident." After the hospital staff were more and more accustomed to my silence. I had become a fixture, an enigma that no one dared to question.
They saw me as the broken wife of the billionaire who was left in limbo, trapped inside a shell of her former self. But I was playing my part to perfection.
I had mastered the art of communication through the iPad. Each word I typed had become a carefully constructed step in my plan.
It was how I spoke to the world now, how I made my demands. It was the only voice I had, and I wielded it like a sword.
The first time I used it to communicate was on the second day after the accident. Dr. Randall, the neurologist who had been assigned to my case, had been in and out of my ward.
His eyes flickered with uncertainty whenever he looked at me. He couldn't decide if I was truly unable to speak or if I was simply playing a game with him.
He had taken the same approach with me as most of the doctors—clinical, detached. I could see it in the way he examined my chart, in the way he glanced over my vitals.
He was a man who needed proof before he believed anything, and he was skeptical of my diagnosis. To him, I was a puzzle he couldn't quite figure out.
And so, I had decided to give him the perfect puzzle to solve.
It was in the middle of the afternoon when he came into my room, clipboard in hand. The rain was still falling, a constant reminder of the world outside.
He adjusted his glasses and gave me a tight smile, one that barely reached his eyes.
"How are you feeling today, Sophia?" he asked, his tone formal. He took a step closer, noting the way my body remained still, my eyes staring blankly ahead.
I didn't respond, of course. Instead, I reached for my iPad, my fingers gliding over the screen as I typed slowly. My silence was no accident. It was intentional. Every gesture, every movement was calculated.
"I can't speak. I can't walk."
I waited for the reaction, watching his face as he read the words. His expression didn't change, but I saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. He had never truly believed I was incapable of speech, but my words gave him something new to question.
His face softened, and he took a step back, as though trying to gauge the gravity of the situation.
"I understand," he said finally, though his voice was tinged with uncertainty. "We'll continue with the tests, but you need to let us know if anything changes. If you can't speak, we'll have to—"
I cut him off. Typing furiously, I sent another message.
"Please don't test me further. I don't want to speak."
This time, there was a pause. A long one. He seemed caught between following protocol and respecting my wishes. The power was shifting—just as I had planned.
The longer I kept up this act, the more they would question themselves. And the more they questioned themselves, the more control I would gain.
Dr. Randall adjusted his glasses again, a nervous tick. "Alright. We'll respect that. But if anything changes—"
I cut him off once more.
"Please. Just leave me alone. I need peace."
This was the turning point. He hesitated for a moment longer, before nodding curtly and leaving the room. His footsteps echoed down the hallway, fading into the distance.
It was the first victory. I had him. I had planted the seed of doubt in his mind, and from that moment forward, he would question my condition every time he came near me. I had made him unsure of what was real, and in doing so, I had taken the first step toward my revenge.
---
Over the following days, my communication with the staff became more refined. Every message I typed was a calculated move, every word a deliberate step in the game I was playing. I had to stay silent, but my silence spoke volumes.
The nurses who attended to me were beginning to treat me with the same care they would a fragile object. They were gentle, almost too gentle, afraid to disturb the balance of my condition.
They had no idea that I wasn't as fragile as I seemed. I wasn't helpless. I was just playing my part.
I began to develop a routine of sorts. Each day, I would send a message to one of the nurses or doctors, giving them a simple task. It could be something as innocuous as adjusting my pillow or making sure my blankets were straight. But each request, no matter how small, was a reminder that I was still in control.
The iPad was my voice. It was the only way I could communicate with the outside world. And I used it like a weapon.
I made my first bold move when I sent a message to my lawyer. I had to reach out to him eventually, and the sooner, the better. I couldn't afford to wait much longer to take legal action against Henry.
He had to be forced into submission, to see just how far I was willing to go. He had wronged me in ways he could never understand, and now, I would make him pay.
I typed out the message with trembling fingers, my heart racing as I pressed the final word.
"I need you to start the divorce proceedings. Immediately."
The response came back quickly, just as I had expected.
"Understood. We'll start as soon as possible. You'll have your divorce."
That was all I needed to hear. The wheels were set in motion. Henry had no idea what was coming for him. The facade I had built was only the beginning. Soon, he would see the real consequences of his betrayal.
---
I spent the next few days focused on the details. The doctors had come to accept my condition, and the nurses treated me like a porcelain doll. But there were moments—moments when I could see them questioning their assumptions.
When I could see the flicker of doubt in their eyes. And I used that doubt to my advantage.
I knew the system. I knew how to work people, how to manipulate their perceptions. And I was damn good at it.
I had become the perfect victim. The woman who couldn't walk, couldn't speak, couldn't fight back. But what they didn't know was that every time they looked at me, they were looking at the calm before the storm.
The iPad was my tool. And I was using it to shape my future.