The Billionaire Regretted Losing His Invisible Wife novel Chapter 91

Chapter 92 At Police Station

**Mia’s POV**

Officer Martinez guided me back toward the squad car. I glanced back at our apartment building.

“Don’t you want to spare her worry?” Officer Martinez asked, following my gaze. Her badge caught the afternoon sunlight as she shifted, the name “Martinez” gleaming against the metal.

“Yeah. She’s still recovering. She doesn’t need this kind of stress right now.” A strange calm settled over me. After everything that had happened.I felt almost detached.

Martinez nodded. “We’ll need you to come to the station and make a formal statement. The paramedics can examine you more thoroughly there.”

“Okay.”

We reached the patrol car. Taylor was already secured in the back of another vehicle. Martinez followed my gaze. “We’ll charge her with attempted murder, and possibly other offenses, pending our review of the surveillance footage. The prosecutor will determine the final charges.” She helped me toward the passenger side door. “Do you have a lawyer?”

“Yes. I’ll call them from the station.”

She settled me into the front seat, careful of my injured ankle. “Does the father know about this?”

The question caught me off guard. “Oh..um. No. Not yet.”

Martinez didn’t push, just closed my door and circled around to the driver’s side. As we pulled away, I caught a glimpse of

curious neighbors watching from windows and balconies. I’m pretty sure someone definitely made a video.

By tomorrow, this would be all over the neighborhood-all over the news, probably. Kyle would know soon enough.

“First pregnancy?” Martinez asked, her tone conversational as we navigated through traffic.

“Yes.” I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for my ankle. “Twins, actually.”

She smiled, the expression softening her professional demeanor. “My sister has twins. Double the trouble, double the joy, she

always says.”

“That’s what everyone tells me.” I managed a small smile in return. “Were you always a police officer?”

“Fifteen years now.” She expertly maneuvered through an intersection. “Started in patrol, worked my way up to detective, then decided I missed being out on the streets. What about you? What do you do when you’re not dodging cars?”

The casual question helped ground me, pulling me back from the edge of shock. “I’m an architect. Specializing in therapeutic spaces.”

“Like hospitals?”

“Among other things. Right now I’m designing a children’s rehabilitation center.”

Martinez nodded appreciatively. “Important work. Creating spaces where kids can heal.”

“That’s the goal.” I glanced at the approaching station, its institutional lines stark against the afternoon sky. Reality began sinking in- I was about to file assault charges against my stepsister for trying to kill me. What would Dad say? Would he try to protect Taylor, like he always had?

My phone buzzed in my purse. Nate, with a picture of Gas happily sprawled between his dogs: *Someone’s having the time of his life. When should I bring him home?*

I stared at the screen, momentarily frozen. How could I explain this?

Police Station

+20 Bonus

*Sotuething came up. Could he stay with you a little longer? I’ll explain later.*

His response came quickly. Of course. Everything okay?*

I hesitated, then typed: *Had a small accident. At police station now. I’m fine.*

Three dots appeared immediately, disappeared, reappeared. Finally: *Which station? I’m on my way.

*No need. Really. Gas is probably having fun.*

*He is. But I’d feel better checking on you.*

I sighed, giving in. *Central Precinct on 5th. But seriously, I’m okay.*

Martinez pulled into the station parking lot, cutting the engine. “Friend of yours?” she asked, nodding toward my phone.

“Yes.” I tucked it away. “He’s watching my dog.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be alone right now.” She helped me out of the car. “Attempted murder cases can get complicated, especially with family involved.”

The next few hours passed in a blur of paperwork, medical examinations, and formal statements. The emergency room doctor confirmed what the paramedics had suspected-a severe sprain, but thankfully no fracture. He wrapped my ankle tightly, prescribed anti-inflammatory medication that was safe for pregnancy, and recommended elevation and ice.

“Your blood pressure is still higher than I’d like,” he added, studying my chart. “How far along are you?”

“Almost five months. With twins.”

He made a note. “Any contractions? Unusual movement?”

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