The Billionaire Regretted Losing His Invisible Wife novel Chapter 176

Chapter 198 Yiayia’s Restaurant

Mia’s POV

I couldn’t sleep. My mind raced with fragments that refused to connect.

I kept thinking about what my dad had told me before he died, that Nate was involved in this whole thing But Nate wouldn’t tell me anything.

Nate’s grandmother. The thought appeared suddenly, bright and clear amid the chaos in my head. Yiayia. The warm-hearted Greek woman at that small Mediterranean restaurant Nate had taken me to months ago.

If anyone might know something about Nate’s past, it would be his grandmother. She had looked at me with such knowing eyes that day, commenting that “growing babies need food” before I’d told her I was pregnant

I made the decision in an instant.

Mom was at another of her mysterious “appointments” that made her eyes sparkle. No one would miss me for a few hours.

Gas watched me accusingly as I prepared to leave.

“I won’t be long,” I promised him.

The taxi ride to the small restaurant in the East Village. My heart was pounding. Would I disturb Nate’s grandmother? I told myself not to say too much that I shouldn’t.

The restaurant looked exactly as I remembered. The small, cozy place nestled between other shops, with blue and white trim and the scent of olive oil and herbs spilling out onto the sidewalk.

A bell chimed softly as I entered. The afternoon lull meant only two other tables were occupied. Behind the counter, Yiayia looked up, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun, her hands covered in flour.

Recognition lit her face immediately.

“Ah! Nate’s friend! The pretty girl with the babies!” Her accent wrapped around the words like a warm embrace.

“Hello, Yiayia,” I said, smiling despite my nerves.

She wiped her hands on her apron and hurried around the counter, clucking disapprovingly as she approached. “Still too thin! Babies need more food. Come, sit.”

I let her guide me to a corner table, away from the other customers. She disappeared into the kitchen before I could speak, returning moments later with a plate of dolmades and a glass of water.

“Eat,” she commanded. “Then we talk.”

The stuffed grape leaves were delicious, and I realized I was actually hungry. Yiayia watched with satisfaction as I ate, her dark eyes missing nothing.

“Good girl,” she nodded when I’d finished several. “Now, why you come here alone? Where is my grandson to bring you?”

“Nate wasn’t in New York. I miss your cooking, Yiayia.” I lied. “I was hoping to talk to you about him, actually.”

Yiayia studied me, “Let me see. You care for my Nate?” she asked, her directness catching me off guard.

“He’s been very kind to me. He helped my mother when she was ill.”

Yiayia nodded slowly. “He has good heart. Healer’s hands, like his father.” She sighed. “But sad eyes, like his mother.”

This was my opening. “He mentioned his mother passed away when he was young.”

Pain flickered across her weathered face. “Too young, too soon. Some lights shouldn’t be put out early.”

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“I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “That must have been very difficult for your family.”

“For the boys, most difficult “she said, hier gaze distant with memory. “Nate’s brother, he was old enough to understand but too young to accept. But Nate…” She shook her head. “Different pain, same wound.

I knew from previous conversations with Nate that he had a brother, though he rarely mentioned him.

“They were close?” I asked.

“Once, yes. Now, paths separate. Complicated, like I say.”

I took a sip of water, gathering my courage. “What was she like? Nate’s mother?”

Yiayia’s face softened with love. “Beautiful. Smart. Too curious, maybe. Always asking questions, looking for truth.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “Like you, I think.”

The comparison startled me. “Me?”

“Yes. Eyes that want to know things. Not afraid to look.” She tapped her temple. “Smart woman. My daughter would have liked you.”

Yiayia stood. “Wait.”

She disappeared behind the counter and into a small back office. I used the moment to take several deep breaths. My hands trembled slightly with anticipation.

When she returned, she carried an old photograph in a simple wooden frame. She placed it on the table before me, her weathered finger tapping the glass.

“My daughter. With her boys.”

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