All Chapters of The Billionaire Regretted Losing His Invisible Wife: Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

Mia's POV"Scarlett's sick?" I sat up straighter, worry immediately replacing my fatigue."She came down with something last night. Started with a headache, then progressed to a fever this morning." There was genuine concern in Morton's voice."Is she okay? Did you call a doctor?" The questions tumbled out of me in rapid succession."Dr. Klein saw her this morning. Nothing serious. But you know Scarlett—she's not exactly a model patient."I could almost see her, red hair wild against her pillows, indignantly refusing medicine and insisting she was perfectly fine while burning up with fever. That was Scarlett, stubborn to the core."I want to talk to her," I said, already calculating how quickly I could get to their place."She's resting now," Morton replied. "Finally convinced her to take something for the fever and she dozed off about twenty minutes ago.""Tell her to call me when she wakes up, please?""Of course. She actually asked me to call you earlier, then changed her mind. Sai

Mia's POVA knock at the door interrupted our banter. Morton poked his head in, looking slightly apologetic."Dinner's almost ready," he announced. "Nothing fancy, but there's roast beef, potatoes, and some vegetables. Mia, I assumed you'd stay? There's plenty."Gas perked up at the mention of food, his tail wagging hopefully."Don't worry, buddy," Morton assured him. "I've got something for you too."By the time we finished eating, however, Scarlett was visibly flagging, the brief burst of energy from leaving her sickbed rapidly depleting."You should get back to bed," I said gently, noting the renewed flush in her cheeks. "Your fever's coming back."She nodded, too tired to argue. "I hate being sick. It's so boring.""It's your body telling you to slow down," Morton advised, already moving to help her up. "Even Scarlett Wallace-Morton needs rest occasionally.""Wallace-Morton," she repeated, leaning heavily against his arm. "That still sounds weird.""Good weird or bad weird?" he as

Mia's POVThe hot water helped wash away the physical sensation of Kyle's grasp, of his mouth forced against mine, though the memory remained stubbornly present.I reached for my tablet, thinking I might distract myself with some mindless scrolling or perhaps work on the children's center designs. And my phone chimed with an incoming video call. Scarlett's name and photo flashed on the screen.I accepted the call, adjusting the screen so the dim lighting wouldn't reveal too much of my current state."Hey, Scar," I greeted, forcing a lightness I didn't feel into my voice. "How are you feeling?"Scarlett's face appeared, still flushed with fever but looking marginally better than when I'd left her earlier. "Like I've been hit by a bus, then backed over for good measure," she replied with her characteristic bluntness. "But Morton's playing Florence Nightingale, so I can't complain too much.""You should be resting," I scolded gently. "Why are you calling so late?"Her image shifted as sh

Mia's POV"Nate," I said finally, my patience wearing thin, "if you know something that affects me and my children, you have a moral obligation to tell me. Not in riddles, not in vague warnings, but directly."The silence on the other end of the line stretched on for so long that I checked my phone screen to make sure we were still connected. We were."Nate? Are you still there?"A heavy sigh filtered through the connection. "I'm here.""Then talk to me," I pressed.Silence. And silence.I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Getting angry wouldn't help, and it certainly wouldn't get Nate to open up."Look," I said, softening my tone, "I need to be honest with you about something. There's a reason I'm pushing so hard for answers."Another pause. "What is it?"I closed my eyes, preparing for his reaction. "When I was in Paris, I went to see the Jardin House."The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line told me everything I needed to know."You knew," he said flatly. N

Mia's POVDecember arrived with its first snow, transforming New York into a landscape of pristine white. I stood at the window, my fingers tracing idle patterns on the frosted glass as I observed the silent descent of snowflakes. My reflection stared back at me, a woman has a belly that had expanded to proportions I once would have deemed impossible.The cold had settled into the city with unusual vigor this year, mirroring the chill that had descended upon the Branson name. Each day brought fresh allegations against Alexander Branson, each more damning than the last. The media, like vultures circling a wounded animal, released evidence piece by piece, ensuring the scandal remained perpetually fresh in the public consciousness."Murder," they called it now. Alexander Branson, murderer of Diane Porter—a truth accepted so readily by a public hungry for the downfall of the wealthy and powerful.I sighed, my breath creating a momentary fog upon the window.Diane Porter had been revealed