Regretting the Wife He Threw Away novel Chapter 715

“Maynard.” Xenia Cooper’s voice drifted through the phone, quiet and distant as she called his name.

Maynard froze.

“It’s been eight years.” Her laugh was brittle, devoid of warmth. “So, you do remember him. You remember that Vernon is his son. You even remember that you and Naylor are brothers.”

Maynard’s brow furrowed, his grip on the phone tightening.

On the other end, Xenia’s voice pressed on. “Then tell me, why have you ignored us all these years? Naylor’s gone—does brotherhood mean nothing now that he’s dead? Why? Why did you leave Vernon and me to fend for ourselves in the nightmare that is the Cooper family?”

Maynard stood stunned, silent.

“Maynard, who are you trying to fool with this act of devotion to Briony?” Xenia let out a cold, mocking laugh. “The truth is, you’re the one who’s truly heartless.”

Her words spilled through the line and echoed in the silent chapel, each syllable tightening around Maynard’s chest.

His breath quickened. His eyelashes fluttered.

Seconds later, he hung up, clumsily, almost desperate.

…

After that day, Briony didn’t leave Pearbrook Mansion for three days.

Only after the gossip and media buzz began to fade did she finally step outside.

When she arrived at Starlight Entertainment, everyone in the office greeted her with bright smiles. “Congratulations, Ms. Kensington, on your beautiful baby girl!”

Briony thanked them graciously.

In her office, she found a massive bouquet of blue hydrangeas waiting on her desk.

Carey grinned. “They arrived first thing this morning—sent by Mr. Maynard himself.”

Her tone was teasing, and she winked playfully as she said his name.

Briony glanced at the card tucked in the flowers, then gently tapped Carey’s forehead with it. “You know what’s really going on. Stop stirring things up.”

Carey nodded. “Got it. I’ll call Mr. Quincy right away.”

…

At three that afternoon, Arnold from the gallery phoned. A kid had shown up alone, no parent in sight, clutching a bank card and insisting on signing up for art classes.

Arnold didn’t dare process the application without more information. He couldn’t get much out of the child and had no idea who he was, so he called Briony for help.

By the time she arrived, the child was waiting in the reception area, head bowed, fingers gripping a black credit card.

“Hey, kiddo, the boss is here,” Arnold said gently.

The boy lifted his head and looked at Briony.

She stopped in her tracks.

It was Vernon.