The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 192

Kyle's POV

The photograph lay on my desk like an accusation. Thomas Wallace, his face too close to Mia's, his hand resting on the small of her back as they walked through the children's center construction site. Her smile—that rare, genuine expression I'd seen directed at me so infrequently during our marriage—illuminated her face as she looked up at him.

I slammed my fist against the mahogany desktop, sending a cascade of reports scattering to the floor. The security team I'd assigned to protect her had delivered these images this morning, and each one felt like a personal betrayal. Logically, I knew I had no right to these feelings. We were divorced. I had forfeited any claim on her emotions long ago.

Logic, however, did nothing to quell the rage coursing through me.

I paced the length of my corner office, the New York skyline a blur beyond the windows. Something primitive and possessive clawed at my insides. The thought of Thomas, for god's sake, stepping into the life I had ruined, claiming a place beside the woman who should have been mine, drove me to the edge of sanity.

My phone rang. Morton again, the third time in the past hour. The Porter investigation was reaching a critical juncture, investors were panicking, and the board was demanding answers. My father's alleged crimes were threatening to topple everything I'd built.

And still, all I could think about was Mia.

"Not now," I snarled at the buzzing device, silencing it with an aggressive swipe.

The surveillance photos spread across my desk told a maddening story. Thomas and Mia at the construction site. Thomas escorting her to a medical appointment. Thomas carrying groceries to her door. Each image documented his steady infiltration into her life—into the life of my unborn children.

My children.

The twins due in January who might grow up calling another man "father" if I didn't intervene. The thought was intolerable.

I reached for the crystal decanter on the sideboard, pouring a generous measure of bourbon into a tumbler. The alcohol burned a familiar path down my throat, but brought none of its usual clarity. Instead, it summoned memories I'd fought to suppress.

Mia in that hospital basement, allowing me to feel our sons move beneath her skin. The precious moment of connection before she pulled away again. The hope I'd foolishly allowed myself to feel.

Mia's face, illuminated by the streetlight in that alley as I grabbed her, forced my lips against hers in a moment of drunken desperation I couldn't take back. The disgust and disappointment in her eyes as she pushed me away.

"You've already lost me," she had said. "You lost me a thousand times."

I hurled the empty glass across the room, finding grim satisfaction in the explosion of crystal against the wall. The destruction matched the chaos inside me, the uncharacteristic loss of the control I'd valued my entire adult life.

Linda appeared in the doorway, her normally impassive face betraying a flicker of alarm.

"Mr. Branson? Is everything alright?"

I straightened my shoulders, instinctively reclaiming the composed facade that had served me so well in boardrooms and negotiations.

"Everything's fine," I replied, my voice artificially steady. "Please have someone clean that up. And hold my calls for the next hour."

She nodded, professional as ever despite the concerning scene. "Mr. Morton insists it's urgent regarding the Porter situation. He says there are developments you need to address immediately."

The Porter situation. The investigation threatening to destroy my father's legacy and, by extension, mine. The scandal that had investors questioning their commitment to Branson Industries, that had competitors circling like predators scenting weakness.

I should care more. I knew I should care more. But compared to the thought of Mia building a life with Thomas Wallace, even the potential collapse of my corporate empire felt secondary.

She was right.

I couldn't control this. I couldn't fix it. And perhaps, for once in my life, I shouldn't try.

What if letting go was the only gift I could still offer her?

The thought ran counter to everything in my nature. I had built my life and fortune on the principle that anything could be acquired with sufficient determination and resources. Every obstacle could be overcome.

With sudden resolve, I moved to the filing cabinet beside my desk. The bottom drawer was locked, the key kept separate from the others on my ring. I unlocked it and removed the thick file I'd maintained for years, the physical manifestation of my obsession.

"Sunshine," I'd labeled it, documenting my quest to find the girl from the warehouse. Newspaper clippings about the kidnapping. Private investigator reports. Lists of possible candidates, systematically researched and eliminated. The specifications of the pendant I'd given her, the token I believed would one day lead me to her.

I carried the folder to the shredder and began feeding the pages into it. The mechanical grinding sound filled the silent office. As I neared the bottom of the folder, my fingers encountered a photograph. I pulled it out, studying it for a long moment before it joined the rest.

The only known image of us together from that time. Two traumatized children wrapped in emergency blankets, not looking at the camera. Me, staring at the ground, and her, gazing slightly to the side, her expression unreadable under the circumstances. The caption identified us only as "the young victims," our names withheld to protect our privacy.

I'd discovered this photo during my search but had never recognized the girl as Mia.

My finger hovered over the shredder's feed slot, but I couldn't bring myself to destroy this last piece of evidence. Instead, I slipped it into my jacket's inner pocket, next to my heart.

The shredder fell silent, its work complete. I closed the empty folder and returned it to the drawer, locking it with a decisive click.