Chapter 161 Investment Partners
Mia’s POV
I looked at Kyle. “Will you let me know what you find out?”
“Nothing important. “He said.
+25 BONUS
I couldn’t help the small, exasperated sigh that escaped me, “Okay. I said in a flat tone. At the same time, I studied his face, trying to determine if he was lying to me. I couldn’t read Kyle.
It’s frustrating.
“Thank you,” I said finally. “For everything you shared today. I’m red. I want to rest.”
Kyle nodded, then turned to me one last time. “Try to rest, Mia. And call if you need anything. Day or night.”
“Okay,” I agreed, stepping back to allow him passage to the door. As he moved past me, his arm brushed against mine. Even it is the briefest of contacts, but enough to send an unwelcome jolt of awareness through me.
After he left, Mom closed the door and engaged the new security locks Kyle’s team had installed. “Well,” she said, turning to me. “That was informative.”
“And complicated,” I added, moving back to the living room where Gas was waiting.
“Are you hungry? I could make something light for dinner.”
The thought of food held little appeal, but I knew I needed to eat for the twins‘ sake. “Maybe some soup? I’m not very hungry, but I should probably have something.”
“Soupit is,” she agreed, heading toward the kitchen.
I settled on the sofa again, Gas immediately jumping up to join me.
I want to focus on what really matters, not Kyle’s possible new girlfriend.
One thing is clear from the information I received today. Kyle’s father, Alexander Branson, and Taylor’s uncle had an unpleasant working relationship in the past. But that still doesn’t explain why Taylor’s uncle suddenly started helping Taylor. If the grudge began a long time ago, why is it only now that they’re doing this?
My phone chimed with a text from Scarlett:
Home safe. Morton sends his regards.
I smiled. I’m glad to see that Scarlett is still enjoying a happy married life.
Mom returned with a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a slice of crusty bread. “Eat,” she instructed, placing the tray on the coffee table.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied with a mock salute that made her smile.
Gas watched attentively as I began eating, his eyes tracking each spoonful with hopeful anticipation.
“Don’t even think about it,” I told him. “Your puppy dog eyes don’t work on me.”
He whined softly, contradicting my claim entirely.
“Fine,” I relented, breaking off a small piece of bread for him, “But don’t tell Mom.”
“I can see you, you know,” Mom said from the kitchen doorway, shaking her head with fond exasperation. “He has you completely wrapped around his paw.”
“He’s a very persuasive negotiator,” I defended myself.
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Chapter 161 Investment Partners
+25 BONUS
The warm soup was really good. I finished my soup In thoughtful sence. Mom had gone to bed with a legal brief she wanted to review, and Gas was contentedly snoring on his cushion near the heating vent.
On impulse, I reached for my laptop, opening the secure browser Kyle’s security team had installed. If I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I might as well do some research of my own.
I started with what we knew about Edward Porter. Most of the information was fragmentary, gleaned from business registrations and financial disclosures required by regulatory bodies.
I’d found only one clear photograph of him. A grainy image from anining industry conference in 2006, where he appeared in the background of a group shot. His features were unremarkable: middle–aged man with graying hair and wire–rimmed glasses, the kind of face that would blend into any crowd.
I was about to close my laptop when an idea struck me. On a hunch I opened my email and searched for communications from the Williams Construction Group during the period when Porter had been involved with my father.
Most had been lost when my account was purged during my divorce from Kyle. It is a routine security measure at Branson Industries that I hadn’t thought to question at the time. But I maintained a separate archive for certain work–related projects, including the renovation plans for the Williams family home that had never been completed due to my father’s “financial difficulties.”
There, buried in an attachment from nearly eight years ago, I found what I was looking for. I found a series of architectural renderings that included a conference room where my father had posed with his “investment partners.” The image was intended for a company brochure that was never published.
I zoomed in on the group, my heart racing as I recognized the faces. My father, looking younger and less careworn than I remembered. Helen, blonde and polished as always. Two men I vaguely recalled as regular visitors to our home. And there, standing slightly apart from the others–Edward Porter.
I studied his face, trying to remember if I’d ever met him.
