Todos los capítulos de The Billionaire Regretted Losing His Invisible Wife: Capítulo 501 - Capítulo 510

Mia's POVSmall feet on hardwood.The shuffle of sleep-heavy steps. The creak of the third floorboard from the hallway—the one Alexander always jumps over during the day but forgets about at night."Mama?" Alexander's voice. "Mama, what's—"He stops.Three small figures in the dim light. Alexander in front, his dinosaur pajamas twisted, one sock missing, hair flat on the left side where he was sleeping. Ethan just behind him, squinting, one hand on the wall like he's not quite sure he's awake. Madison at the back.Alexander's eyes find Kyle first.I watch it happen, the moment of wait, Daddy's supposed to be in the hospital, and then something else. Then his gaze moves past Kyle. To the puppy in Kyle's hands."Is that..." He's already walking. His bare feet slap against the floor, too loud in the quiet. "Is that one of the babies? Why isn't it—why is it so still?""Alexander—""It's not moving." He's beside Kyle now, dropping to his knees, his face level with Kyle's hands. "Daddy, it'

Mia's POVThe kind of morning that doesn't care about sleepless nights or kitchen floors covered in towels or the way your knees have gone numb from kneeling.The sun just comes up anyway.Gas is still lying in the whelping box. Her breathing has slowed. Six puppies are clustered against her belly. Six small bodies, each one no bigger than my palm, their eyes sealed shut, their ears folded flat against their heads. They move in that particular way newborn things move—not quite coordinated, not quite intentional, just small twitches and squirms as they search for warmth, for milk, for the heartbeat that has been their whole world until twenty minutes ago.The first one—the one that almost wasn't—is in the middle.I can see it from here. Smaller than the others. Its fur still damp, not quite dried despite all the towels, all the rubbing. But its chest is rising. Falling. Rising again."Mama."Alexander's voice is a rasp. Sandpaper wrapped in cotton. He's been talking for hours—to Kyle,

Mia's POV"Is it fair?" Ethan's brow furrows. "The distribution seems equitable, but we haven't established any criteria for the naming process. What if someone chooses a name that another person wanted?""Then they deal with it," Kyle says."That seems arbitrary.""Life is arbitrary, Ethan." Kyle's mouth curves. Just slightly. "The sooner you learn that, the happier you'll be."Ethan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again."That's surprisingly nihilistic for 6 AM," he says finally.Kyle laughs. The sound is weak—barely more than a breath—but it's there. Real. And something in my chest loosens just a little at the sound of it."Okay." Alexander is already moving, sliding off the couch, crossing to the whelping box with the kind of energy that only five-year-olds and certain varieties of terrier seem to possess. "I get to pick first because I'm the oldest.""You're not the oldest," Ethan says. "We're twins.""I was born seven minutes before you.""Seven minutes doesn't constitute—"

Mia's POVThe surgical gowns are the color of a sky that can't decide if it wants to rain.Not quite blue. Not quite gray. Something in between—a shade that exists only in hospitals, in waiting rooms, in places where time moves differently than it does in the rest of the world.Alexander's gown swallows him whole.The fabric pools around his feet, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, the neckline slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times the nurse adjusts it. He looks smaller than he did this morning. Smaller than he did yesterday. As if the gown has somehow shrunk him."I look like a ghost," he says, examining his reflection in the window. "A blue ghost. Do you think there are blue ghosts? Ethan, are there blue ghosts?"Ethan is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, his legs dangling. His gown is equally oversized, the hem brushing against his ankles, the fabric bunching at his waist where a nurse tried to tie it tighter. His glasses are slightly crooked. They're alwa

Mia's POVThe waiting room is painted the color of old butter.Not quite yellow. Not quite cream. Something in between—a shade chosen by someone who thought it would be calming but instead just makes everything feel slightly nauseated.There are chairs along the walls. Hard plastic things with thin cushions that do nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. There's a table in the corner with magazines that are six months out of date. There's a television mounted near the ceiling, playing the news on mute, the closed captions scrolling across the bottom in words that no one is reading.Scarlett is sitting by the window. Sophie is on the other side of the room."The new Valentino collection is interesting," Scarlett is saying. Her voice is too bright. Too forced. The voice of someone trying desperately to fill the silence with something—anything—other than worry. "Did you see the show? That red dress at the end? I nearly died.""I saw it," Sophie says. "Very dramatic.""I called it the