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Chapter 150 Come by tomorrow
Mia’s POV
Immediately? My eyes widened as I looked at Robert, who appeared equally surprised.
“Where is she getting this kind of money?” I whispered.
Robert shook his head slightly. “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
As the proceedings concluded, I watched Taylor being escorted out to process her release. She’d gotten exactly what she wanted.
Outside the courtroom, reporters had gathered despite the court’s attempts to keep the proceedings low–profile. Camera flashes erupted as we emerged, voices calling out questions.
“Mrs. Branson, how do you feel about the court’s decision today?”
“Ms. Williams, were you surprised by the bail amount?”
“Are you concerned about Taylor Matthews being released?”
Robert stepped in front of us, blocking the reporters. “No comments at this time. Please respect my clients‘ privacy.”
He guided us toward a side exit where a car was waiting, Mom keeping a protective arm around my shoulders. Just as we were about to leave, I caught sight of Carson Whitfield speaking to a reporter, his expression confident and composed.
“My client is grateful for the opportunity to clear her name,” he was saying. “These charges are based on misunderstandings and assumptions that will be resolved once all the facts come to light.”
The sheer audacity of his statement made my blood boil. Misunderstandings?
“Let’s go,” Robert urged, opening the car door. “We can discuss next steps somewhere private.”
The ride back to our apartment was tense and quiet. My mother stared out the window, her expression unreadable, while Robert made calls, speaking in low tones that I couldn’t quite catch.
When we finally arrived home, I felt drained in a way that went beyond physical exhaustion. Gas greeted us at the door, his usual enthusiasm somewhat tempered as if sensing our mood.
“I’ll make some tea,” Mom said, moving toward the kitchen.
Robert set his briefcase on the coffee table and loosened his tie slightly. “I want to be clear about what happened today,” he began. “This is a setback, but not an unexpected one. Bail hearings often favor the defendant, especially first–time offenders.” “But where did she get the money?” I asked, sinking onto the sofa. “One million dollars in cash bail isn’t pocket change, even for Taylor.”
“Someone’s helping her,” Robert acknowledged. “And whoever it is has significant resources.”
“Could it be my father?” Mom asked, returning with a tray of tea. “Perhaps he had contingency funds we don’t know about.”
Robert shook his head. “Unlikely. Your ex–husband’s assets have been thoroughly investigated. If he had hidden money, we would have found it by now. Besides, he’s too focused on his own defense to be orchestrating Taylor’s.”
“Then who?” I pressed.
A thought occurred to me, so horrible that I almost didn’t want to voice it. “Is it Kyle?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Is Kyle funding Taylor’s defense?”
The idea made me feel physically ill. After everything Kyle had said about wanting to be part of our children’s lives, after his declarations that he regretted not seeing the truth about Taylor earlier–could he still be helping her?
“We don’t know,” Robert admitted. “The transactions are carefully structured to hide the source. But whoever is behind this
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Chapter 150 Come by tomorrow
knows what they’re doing and has significant resources.”
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My intuition tells me that it can’t be Kyle. Kyle no longer has any reason to help Taylor. But when I think back to Taylor’s smile today, I still feel scared. I have to find out.
After Robert left, Mom busied herself in the kitchen, preparing dinner with the focused efficiency that had always been her way of dealing with stress. Gas followed me to my bedroom, jumping onto the bed beside me as I lay down to rest.
“What do you think, Gas?” I murmured, scratching behind his cars “Is Kyle still helping Taylor?”
Gas whined softly, nuzzling against my hand in a gesture that offered comfort if not answers.
I reached for my phone, scrolling through recent messages. Nothing from Kyle since his text about the trust paperwork for the twins. If he was funding Taylor’s defense, wouldn’t he be more careful about maintaining contact with me? Or was this all part of some elaborate game?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I typed a message:
We need to talk. Can you come by tomorrow? Important.
His response came almost immediately:
Of course. What time works for you?
The quickness of his reply was either reassuring or suspicious–I couldn’t decide which.
10 AM
I’ll be there. Is everything okay?
I stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Was anything okay? I finally settled on:
We can discuss tomorrow.
As I set my phone aside, a sharp pain lanced through my lower back. I shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but the discomfort persisted. Dr. Matthews had warned me that the third trimester with twins would be challenging, but I hadn’t expected it to be this difficult.
Gas lifted his head, watching me with concern as I rubbed my back
“I’m okay, buddy,” I assured him, though I wasn’t entirely convinced myself.
Mom insisted on a proper dinner, watching with hawk–like attention to ensure I ate enough, but the food tasted like cardboard in my mouth. All I could think about was Taylor walking free and the mysterious benefactor who had made it possible.
Sleep was elusive that night, my mind racing with questions and fears. When I finally drifted off, my dreams were filled with shadowy figures and courtrooms where the judges all had Taylor’s face.
Morning came too quickly, the pale November sunlight filtering through my curtains. I pushed myself up, wincing at the no.. familiar ache in my lower back. Gas was already awake, watching me with his soulful eyes.
“Morning, buddy,” I murmured, patting his head before making my way to the bathroom.
The face that greeted me in the mirror looked tired, dark circles beneath my eyes despite the hours I’d spent in bed. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to rally some energy for the confrontation ahead.
Mom was already in the kitchen when I emerged, dressed in comfortable leggings and an oversized sweater that accommodated my growing bump.
“You didn’t sleep well,” she observed, setting a plate of toast and eggs in front of me.
“Is it that obvious?”
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“To me, yes.” She poured a glass of orange juice and placed it beside my plate. “Kyle’s coming this morning?” Inodded, taking a small bite of toast. “I need to know if he’s the one helping Taylor.”
“And if he is?”
I set down my fork, meeting my mother’s gaze directly. “Then he has no place in our lives. I won’t have my children around someone who would support the woman who tried to kill both of us.”
Mom didn’t argue.
“I’ll be here,” she said simply. “But I’ll give you privacy for the conversation.”
“Thank you.”
We ate in comfortable silence, the morning news playing softly in the background. A story about Richard’s case briefly flashed on the screen, but Mom changed the channel before I could register more than a glimpse of my father’s haggard face.
At precisely 9:58 AM, the intercom buzzed. Kyle was nothing if not punctual.
“Mr. Branson is here,” the doorman announced.
Mom squeezed my shoulder gently. “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”
I nodded, taking a deep breath before pressing the intercom button. “Send him up, please.”
The two minutes it took for Kyle to reach our floor felt like an eternity. I positioned myself in the living room, choosing an armchair that would allow me to stand without too much awkwardness if needed.
The knock, when it came, was firm but not aggressive.
I opened the door to find him standing there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his dark hair neatly styled. He looked every inch the successful businessman, except for the hint of uncertainty in his gray eyes.
“Mia,” he said, his gaze immediately dropping to my stomach. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I replied, stepping aside to let him enter. “Thank you for coming.”
He moved into the apartment with the easy confidence of someone who had once belonged there, though he was careful not to encroach too far into my space.
“You wanted to talk?” he prompted when I didn’t immediately speak.
I gestured to the sofa across from my chair. “Please, sit.”
