A Woman Worth Billions Dated the Wrong Brother novel Chapter 183

15 Benus

Vanished

next three weeks went amazingly well.

For the first time in what felt like forever, life settled into something almost peaceful. There were still businesses to run, statertients to manage, and enemies who had not entirely disappeared, but none of it reached the fairy house with the same force as before.

The children returned to school. Alice and Alex left each morning full of opinions, stories, and endless questions, then came back each afternoon with new ones. Their days quickly filled with lessons, friends, and the kind of small dramas only children could treat as world-ending.

Iris stayed behind at the house. After everything she had been through, forcing her into a classroom too soon had never felt right. Instead, a private tutor came each day.

To everyone’s surprise except perhaps my own, Iris learned at an astonishing pace. She absorbed information like dry ground taking rain, hungry for everything she had once been denied. Reading improved by the day. Writing became smoother. Mathematics, history, languages-she attacked each subject with fierce determination.

By the end of the third week, her tutor gave us a glowing assessment.

“At this rate,” she said, still sounding slightly stunned, “Iris will catch up to the rest of her age group in less than a year.”

Iris tried to act unimpressed by the praise, but the pride in her eyes gave her away completely.

And watching all of them grow, heal, and thrive under one roof, I realized something simple and dangerous.

Happiness had become real.

Everything changed the day of the Becker family trial.

I was in my office, preparing to leave for court, when my phone rang.

The caller ID showed the attorney handling the case against the Beckers.

I answered immediately.

“They need help,” he said without preamble. His voice was tight, rushed. “The Becker family’s defense has changed strategy.”

I straightened in my chair.

“How?”

“They’re going to claim it was all a game.”

For a second, I thought I had misheard him.

“A game?” I repeated coldly.

“Yes. They intend to argue that you entered willingly. That nothing was forced. That the so-called trials were staged entertainment and you participated by choice.”

My grip tightened around the phone.

Of course they would. Twist abuse into consent. Violence into spectacle. Crime into misunderstanding.

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The attorney exhaled sharply.

And because there were no independent witnesses inside, only the Beckers, you, and Jason…”

He let the sentence finish itself.

“It becomes our word against theirs,” I said.

“Yes.”

I was already reaching for my laptop when another thought struck me.

“And the bombs?” I asked sharply. “What argument are they using to explain the bombs they planted?”

There was a brief pause on the other end.

“They’re claiming those were props.’

I went very still.

“Props?”

“Yes. Inert devices. Stage effects meant to heighten the experience. They’ll argue there was never any real danger, only the illusion of it.”

My voice turned colder.

“Where were the bombs placed after I deactivated them?”

Because I had given them everything.

Locations.

Systems accessed.

Timers.

Device placement.

Every detail they needed.

This time the silence on the line stretched longer.

Then the attorney sighed.

“The explosives seem to have vanished.”

I closed my eyes once. Slowly.

“They vanished.”

“Yes. They were never added to the evidence report. Without the physical devices, the prosecution cannot confidently proceed with the terrorism charges.”

Of course.

Evidence erased.

Threat neutralized.

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Truth made inconvenient.

attorney continued carefully.

“They’re trying to paint you as a willing participant who regretted it afterward.”

I laughed once. It held no amusement at all.

Kidnapping became entertainment.

Threats became roleplay.

Explosives became decorations.

Missing evidence became reasonable doubt.

My hand flattened against the desk.

Outside, the morning remained bright and calm. Inside, something colder settled into place.

“No,” I said quietly. “They are not rewriting this story.”

The attorney hesitated.

“You have something?”

I thought of camera feeds.

System logs.

Remote detonators.

Power grids.

Money transfers.

And men arrogant enough to believe they had deleted everything.

A slow smile touched my lips.

“I think,” I said, opening the first secure file, “the Beckers are about to learn the difference between fiction and evidence.”

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New evidence

Jason POV

Amber was late to the trial.

That alone was enough to unsettle me.

Amber was many things-brilliant, reckless, Impossible, dangerous-but rarely late when something mattered.

And this mattered.

The courtroom was already filling.

The Becker family sat at their table looking far too pleased with themselves.

Relaxed.

Comfortable.

As if they had already won before a word had been spoken.

The Vinny family was there as well.

Of course they were.

Watching from the gallery with carefully neutral expressions that fooled no one.

No one attended a trial like this out of idle curiosity.

They were there for the outcome.

Or to protect their interests in it.

But what concerned me most was not them.

It was the state attorney.

He looked anxious.

Not the ordinary tension of a major case.

Something sharper.

The look of a man who knew time was slipping away.

I checked my phone again.

No message from Amber.

No call.

Nothing.

Then Lucas Bowman, the lead prosecutor, broke from his table and walked directly toward me.

His steps were quick.

Controlled only by effort.

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“Mr. Sun,” he said quietly, “have you heard anything from your wife yet?”

he question landed badly.

I kept my expression neutral.

“No.”

Lucas glanced toward the courtroom doors, then back at me.

“She was supposed to arrive five minutes ago.”

A beat.

“With evidence we need to present.”

My jaw tightened.

Around us, the courtroom noise continued-papers shuffling, low voices, reporters whispering-but it all seemed suddenly distant.

Five minutes late.

No contact.

Critical evidence.

Across the room, one of the Beckers smiled.

That was enough.

reached for my phone again.

This time not as a husband waiting-

But as a man preparing for war.

The judge had not arrived yet.

We still had time.