The Billionaire Regretted Losing His Invisible Wife novel Chapter 359

Chapter 359 The Real One

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masters. The watercolor paints came in tubes with French labels, the brushes had handles that appeared to be carved from ivory, and the paper was so thick and luxurious it felt like touching clouds.

“This is too much,” I started to say, but the woman held up one perfectly manicured hand.

“Nonsense! These children have survived a terrible ordeal with more grace than most adults display when their coffee order is incorrect. They deserve something beautiful.”

She settled back into her chair and proceeded to study me with the intensity of an art critic examining a recently discovered masterpiece. Her gaze moved from my sleep-disheveled hair to my wrinkled clothes to my bare feet, taking inventory with scientific precision.

“Fascinating,” she murmured, tilting her head like a curious bird. “The photographs really don’t do you justice.”

“I’m sorry, what photographs?”

“Oh, just some photos,” she said airily.

Alexander had managed to open his drone box and was now staring at its contents with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “This has cameras,” he breathed. “Multiple cameras.”

“Four cameras,” their benefactor confirmed. “Because life should always be viewed from multiple angles. Very philosophical, very French.”

Ethan was carefully examining his books, running his fingers over leather bindings that probably cost more than my monthly salary. “These are first editions,” he said with the kind of awe that suggested he understood exactly what that meant.

“Of course they are. Regular editions are for regular children. You are clearly not regular children.”

Madison had opened her paints and was testing colors on the back of her hand, watching them blend with professional concentration. “These are really good paints,” she said quietly.

“They should be. I purchased them from the same shop that supplies the Louvre. Though I suspect you will create more interesting art than most of what hangs there.”

I watched this surreal gift-giving ceremony feeling like I’d accidentally wandered into someone else’s life. “I’m sorry, but who exactly are you?”

The woman’s smile took on a mischievous quality that suggested she’d been waiting for exactly this question. She reached into her apparently bottomless handbag and withdrew what appeared to be a business card made of actual gold.

“Sophie Field,” she announced with a theatrical flourish. “The real Sophie Field, not the ghastly impostor who stole my identity and used my money to fund schemes against your family. I am, as you Americans say, rolling in it. Disgustingly wealthy. Embarrassingly rich. The kind of money that makes people uncomfortable at dinner parties.”

She paused for effect, clearly enjoying the growing bewilderment on my face.

“I am also,” she continued, “the person Kyle Branson has been working with for the past eighteen months to ensure that every criminal organization that threatened your family was systematically destroyed, every illegal financial network was traced and dismantled, and every person who dared to use my stolen resources against

Chapter 358 The Rear One

the people he loves was thoroughly, completely, and permanently ruined.”

Alexander looked up from his drone manual. “Are you like a superhero?”

Sophie considered this question with the seriousness it deserved. “More like a very well-funded fairy godmother with excellent lawyers and a talent for revenge. Which is almost the same thing, but with better shoes.”

“Why are you here?” I asked, still trying to process this bizarre turn our morning had taken.

Sophie’s expression grew more serious, though she maintained her theatrical flair. “Because, ma chère ! simply had to see for myself the woman who inspired such extraordinary love.”

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Chapter 359 Premonitions

Mia’s POV

Sophie Field settled back into her chair with the fluid grace of someone who had never encountered an uncomfortable piece of furniture in her life. Her eyes moved over me with the methodical precision of an art appraiser examining a newly discovered canvas, taking inventory of details I wasn’t even aware I possessed.

“Your skin,” she said suddenly, tilting her head like a curious bird, “has this luminous quality. Like moonlight through frost-covered glass. The photographs Kyle showed me were lovely, but they completely failed to capture the way light seems to gather around your cheekbones.”

I touched my face self-consciously, feeling the warmth of what was probably a blush spreading across the very cheekbones she’d just complimented. “I look terrible,” I said honestly. “I’ve been wearing the same clothes since yesterday, I slept in a hospital chair, and I haven’t seen a mirror in-

“Nonsense!” Sophie waved one perfectly manicured hand as if physically brushing away my objections. “You have that natural beauty that improves with exhaustion. Very French, very enviable. Most people look like wilted lettuce when they’re tired, but you? You look like a Renaissance painting titled ‘Madonna with Hospital Coffee Stains.””

Alexander giggled from his hospital bed, the sound bright and musical in the sterile room. “Mama doesn’t look like lettuce,” he announced with the authority of someone who had extensive experience with both his mother and vegetables. “She looks like Mama.’

“Exactly my point, mon petit,” Sophie said, turning to Alexander with a smile that could have powered the entire pediatric ward. “Your mama looks like herself, which is the most beautiful thing anyone can look like.”

Ethan looked up from his first-edition books, his dark eyes moving between Sophie and me with the careful assessment he applied to anything that seemed too good to be true. “Why do you talk funny?” he asked, his tone curious rather than critical.

“Funny?” Sophie pressed her hand to her chest with mock outrage. “I speak three languages fluently, four if you count the dialect of luxury shopping, and you think I talk funny?”

“Not bad funny,” Ethan clarified quickly, his natural politeness overriding his curiosity. “Just… different. Like the people in movies about Paris.”

“Ah, but I am from Paris! Well, Geneva originally, but I went to university in Paris, which is where I learned to speak English with this delightful accent that makes everything I say sound either very romantic or slightly dangerous.”

Madison had been quietly testing her new watercolors on a piece of hospital napkin, creating small blooms of color that spread like tiny flowers across the white paper. She looked up from her makeshift canvas with shy interest. “Are you really French?”

“French enough,” Sophie replied with a conspiratorial wink. “Though technically I’m Swiss, which means I’m very good with money and I make excellent chocolate. Two skills that have served me well in life.”

I watched this exchange with a mixture of gratitude and growing unease. The children were clearly enchanted by Sophie-Alexander had abandoned his drone manual to listen to her stories, Ethan had actually closed his book, and Madison was painting what appeared to be the Eiffel Tower on her napkin.

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“Sophie,” I said, “I want to thank you. For what you did. For helping Kyle put Taylor behind bars, for making sure she can’t hurt anyone else. I know it must have been difficult, having your identity stolen, your money used

to-”

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