The Billionaire Regretted Losing His Invisible Wife novel Chapter 185

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Chapter 207 God, please

Kyle’s POV

Pain. My eyelids felt like lead weights, but I forced them open anyway.

Hospital room. Stark white. The antiseptic smell burned my nostrils. A heart monitor beeped steadily beside my bed, its rhythm matching the throbbing in my chest. I tried to move, but tubes and wires restrained me. My throat was sandpaper dry when I

swallowed.

“Mr. Branson?” A voice. Female. Sharp. “Sir, can you hear me?”

“Mia,” I croaked. God, my voice sounded like gravel. “Where is she? Is she-”

“Please don’t try to sit up, sir.” The nurse-young, efficient-looking-pressed her hand gently on my shoulder. “You’ve had major surgery.”

“Answer me.”

“I’ll get the doctor immediately.”

A doctor bustled in. Older man, silver at his temples. Professional mask in place. “Mr. Branson, I’m Dr. Harrison. You’ve been through extensive surgery. The bullet-”

“I don’t care about the bullet. I want to know what happen to my wife”

Dr. Harrison exchanged a look with the nurses. My stomach dropped. No.

“Your wife…” He paused, and that pause nearly killed me. “She’s alive.”

I sagged back against the pillows.

“What happened?”

He sighed, pulling up a chair beside my bed. “Mrs. Branson went into active labor during transport to the hospital. The trauma, the stress-her body couldn’t handle it. They delivered the twins by emergency C-section.”

“And then?” I felt my jaw clench.

“She hemorrhaged. Severely. They had to operate immediately.” He paused again.

My hands were shaking. “Where is she now?”

“ICU. She hasn’t regained consciousness since the surgery.”

“How long?” My throat constricted.

“Twenty-six hours.”

“I need to see her. Now.”

“Sir, if you reopen your surgical site-”

“Then you’d better help me not reopen it.”

They made me sign forms. Acknowledgments. Waivers. I scrawled my signature while my IV alarm blared. They finally relented, bringing a wheelchair and helping me into it with excruciating care.

The bandages wrapped around my chest felt too tight, constricting my breathing. Blood had soaked through in places, creating dark stains on the white gauze. They wheeled me through endless corridors. Fluorescent lights blurred past. The ICU doors required a special code. They hissed open, revealing a different world. Dimmer lights. More machines. The sounds of ventilators and monitors creating an orchestra of human struggle.

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“She’s in bed twelve,” the nurse said softly.

And then I saw her.

My Mia wasn’t there.

In her place was this pale stranger, hooked to more machines than I could count. Tubes ran from her arms, her nose, her chest. Her skin had lost all color. The dark circles under her eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises. Her lips, usually pink and full, were gray and bloodless.

“She’s stable,” Dr. Harrison said quickly. “All vital signs are improving. The next twenty-four hours are critical, but we’re optimistic.”

I wheeled closer. My hands trembled as I reached for hers. So cold. So still. I’d never seen Mia this quiet.

“Can she hear me?”

“We believe patients in her condition can process auditory input. Hearing is often the last sense to go, the first to return.”

I took her hand in both of mine. “Mia? Can you hear me? It’s Kyle. I’m here. You’re safe now.”

Nothing. The ventilator continued its rhythmic whoosh. The heart monitor beeped steadily.

“Has she… shown any signs of waking?”

“Not yet. But brain activity is normal. No oxygen deprivation. No neurological damage.”

I nodded absently, unable to look away from her face. “The babies. Where are they?”

“NICU. Fourth floor. They’re remarkably healthy for thirty-two weeks. Their lungs are developing well.”

“Take him to see the twins,” Dr. Harrison said to the nurse. “I’ll stay with Mrs. Branson.”

“No. I’m not leaving her.”

“Sir, your sons need you too.”

The NICU was a different kind of overwhelming. Tiny humans in plastic boxes. Wires thinner than dental floss monitoring heartbeats smaller than birds’. Two isolettes in the corner, labeled “Baby A Branson” and “Baby B Branson.”

I wheeled closer. There they were. My sons.

Baby A was larger, more active. His little fists balled up, legs kicking weakly. Baby B was smaller, quieter. Both had feeding tubes. Both wore tiny knit caps. Both were impossibly small.

“They’re beautiful,” the NICU nurse said. “Strong for their gestational age.”

I reached through the opening in the isolette. Baby A’s hand opened when I touched his palm. His fingers curled around my thumb. So tiny. So perfect.

“Can I hold them?”

“Not yet. They’re not stable enough for extended handling. But skin-to-skin contact helps. You can put your hand in like you’re doing.”

I did the same with Baby B. His skin was translucent, veins visible beneath. But when I touched him, his heart rate increased slightly on the monitor.

“What are their prognoses?”

“Excellent, assuming no complications. They’ll need to stay here for six to eight weeks minimum. Learn to feed, regulate their temperature. Gain weight. But their lungs are strong. No brain bleeds. They’re fighters.”

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They wheeled me back. Dr. Harrison was still there, checking charts. “Any changes?”

“Blood pressure is stabilizing We reduced the epinephrine drip by half.”

I moved back to her bedside. The ventilator continued its steady rhythm. Whoosh in, whoosh out. Keeping her alive when her body couldn’t.

I’d never believed in prayer. Church had been for appearances-board members, charity galas, the social contract of wealthy families. God was for people who needed crutches to face reality.

But now…

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