The Billionaire Ex-Wife and the Beggar He Became novel Chapter 229

Zane's eyes lit up as he asked Yves Prescott, "Mr. Prescott, you already know my name?"

"Of course I do! The famous Zane—the one with the coolest haircut in town! Who doesn't know you? Not only do I know your name, I've been hoping to be your friend. So, what do you say? Will you be friends with me, Mr. Trendy Haircut?" Yves replied with a straight face, but his eyes twinkled with good humor.

Zane nodded so hard it was a wonder his head stayed on. "Of course I will! Uncle, you really think my haircut's cool? My mom says the same thing, and even my teacher at preschool thinks it's stylish! You should totally get a haircut like mine, Uncle!"

Yves Prescott hesitated, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Well… maybe I'll think about it. So, champ, where's your mom?"

"My mom can't run as fast as I can," Zane said with a mischievous grin.

No sooner had he finished speaking than a voice rang out from the hallway, "Zane! Stop running off! Mommy can't keep up with you—your great-grandma can barely walk, Zane…"

A moment later, Winona appeared at the doorway, clutching a bouquet of fresh flowers. The instant she saw Zane standing at Yves Prescott's bedside, her worry melted away. Gasping for breath, she scolded him, "You little rascal—just because you know a few numbers you think you're something special? You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Right behind her, Mia hurried in, balancing a vase in her hands. She handed it to Winona. "Here, take this. Grandma's still on her way—I'd better go help her."

Mia darted back out.

Winona, juggling both the vase and the flowers, stepped into Yves Prescott's hospital room and arranged the bouquet.

Yves watched her, taking in the cheerful chaos: the fresh flowers, Winona's face gleaming with sweat and energy, her exasperated scolding of Zane. For a moment, it all felt oddly unreal, as if he were caught inside a painting.

In this painting, life was simple—families laughing and arguing, children running wild, mothers scolding, but never any scheming or ruthless competition. No cutthroat business deals or backstabbing. Just warmth, noise, and a kind of peace he'd almost forgotten existed.

Whenever Helga needed help choosing lipstick, picking out an outfit, or buying a purse, she'd plead, "Sister Mia, will you help me? Can I get the same one as you?"

Mia would lift her chin with mock arrogance, "Well, since you called me ‘sister,' I'll help you out. Stick with me—I'll make sure you're always the most fashionable lady in town! Got it, little sis?"

Helga would nod eagerly, like an adoring fan.

Winona had warned her grandmother countless times that these styles just weren't age-appropriate, but Helga wouldn't hear of it. She insisted on matching Mia, no matter what.

So, there the two of them stood before Yves Prescott—grandmother and granddaughter dressed to the nines, looking like a pair of over-the-top socialites. Next to them, Winona wished she could disappear into the floor.

"Mr. Prescott, um… so… my grandma, my sister, and my son really wanted to go out for the day. I told them I needed to visit you at the hospital, but they just wouldn't take no for an answer—they insisted on coming along…"