Chapter 40 You Are Drunk
**Mia’s POV**
The soft glow of my laptop screen illuminated the study as I immersed myself in the children’s center project details Nate had sent. Five acres of possibility spread across my screen. Nature had already gifted us with
mature oak trees standing like ancient guardians around the perimeter, their sprawling canopies offering the
perfect foundation for what these children would need most: a sense of shelter without confinement,
protection without isolation.
The site’s southern exposure was perfect, which means we could capture natural light throughout the day,
letting sunshine become a healing element in itself. The existing topography practically begged for terraced
healing gardens, creating intimate spaces that would feel both private and connected to the larger landscape.
My pencil moved across the sketchpad as I explored possibilities for the central courtyard. The notification
appeared in the corner of my screen with a soft chime. I almost ignored it, but the familiar sharp jawline and storm–grey eyes caught my attention. Kyle’s face filled the small preview window – another business
conference, another perfectly orchestrated appearance. The Bloomberg Markets logo hovered in the corner,
announcing their exclusive interview with “Business Titan Kyle Branson on Sustainable Development and
Personal Growth.”
My finger moved to close the window, the motion as automatic as the way my heart still skipped at the sight of
his face. Three years of marriage, and he could still affect me with just a photograph. How pathetic was that?
The headline beneath the image made me pause: “Kyle Branson Opens Up: First Public Comments About Wife
Reveal Personal Side of Business Mogul.” 1
“Don’t,” I whispered, even as my cursor hovered over the link. The familiar dance of self–preservation warring
with masochistic curiosity. “Don’t do this to yourself, Mia.”
The article’s preview showed snippets of glowing praise: “Branson shows unprecedented candor,” “rare
glimpse into private life,” “power couple redefining business dynamics.” Each phrase was a hook, drawing me
in despite my better judgment.
I should close it. Focus on work. The children’s center deserved my full attention, not this pointless self-
torture. My browser history was already filled with too many articles about Kyle, too many society page photos
of him with Taylor, too many moments I’d dissected looking for… what?
But like a moth to flame, I clicked. The video began to play, and suddenly he was there, larger than life on my
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screen. The conference hall’s professional lighting caught the silver threading at his temples, a detail I used to trace with my fingers in quieter moments. His suit was a masterpiece of tailoring, probably chosen by Taylor – she always did have excellent taste. I recognized the tie; I’d given it to him last Christmas. Funny that he’d
choose to wear it now.
Kyle stood at a podium, impossibly handsome in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford suit. He looked exactly always did at these events – powerful, controlled, untouchable. The video began to play:
“Mr. Branson, your company’s recent expansion into sustainable development has been remarkable. What
drives these decisions?”
Kyle’s smile was practiced, professional. “Innovation requires vision, but also stability. I’m grateful to have my wife by my side through these changes. She’s an extraordinarily talented woman, and I respect her creative
insights.” 1
I slammed the laptop closed. Wife? As if he hadn’t spent the last week with Taylor, flaunting their relationship across the city. As if he hadn’t abandoned our home, our marriage, whatever fragile peace we’d begun to build.
“Focus,” I commanded myself, reopening the laptop to Nate’s project files. I couldn’t waste more energy on Kyle’s public performances. The children’s center demanded attention to detail, precision, care – everything I’d once poured into loving a man who’d never really seen me.
I forced my attention back to Nate’s project, losing myself in the familiar comfort of architectural planning. The site plans spread across my screen, full of possibility. My hand moved almost unconsciously across my tablet as I sketched preliminary concepts, each stroke an attempt to erase Kyle’s voice from my mind.
I sketched a series of subtle air circulation paths, imagining how fresh breezes could move through the spaces like gentle breaths. The existing oak trees became anchors in my design, their ancient strength offering natural protection for small outdoor therapy spaces. I found myself thinking about the way sunlight filtered through leaves, creating ever–changing patterns that could distract young minds from their fears. Inside, the reception area would open to that central courtyard, immediately connecting visitors to nature and…
Black spots suddenly danced across my vision, making the screen blur. I blinked hard, trying to clear them, but they persisted. My head felt light, probably from sitting too long without eating. What time was it? The clock on
my laptop showed 8:47 PM.
“Mrs. Chen?” I called, before remembering she had the day off. The house felt especially empty without her quiet, efficient presence.
I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, holding the banister more tightly than usual as residual dizziness
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lingered. The marble countertops gleamed in the evening light as I searched for something simple to prepare. I
found bread, cheese, tomatoes – enough for a basic sandwich at least.
The sudden sound of the front door crashing open made me jump, nearly dropping the knife I’d been using to
slice tomatoes.
“Mia!” Kyle’s voice boomed through the foyer, slurred and strange. “Where are you?”
I froze. In three years of marriage, I’d never heard Kyle sound like this.
Heavy footsteps stumbled toward the kitchen. Kyle appeared in the doorway, his usual immaculate appearance in disarray. His tie hung loose around his neck, shirt partially untucked, hair disheveled as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. The sharp scent of expensive scotch rolled off him in waves.
“There you are!” He grinned, the expression unfamiliar on his usually serious face.
“You’re drunk,” I said quietly, setting down the knife with careful precision.
“Maybe a little.” He tried to wink but it came out more like a blink.
My own heart stuttered
“Mia. Mia.” he continued, waving his hand expansively and nearly knocking over a vase. His knees buckled. I moved without thinking, catching him before he could hit the floor. His weight nearly took us both down, but I managed to guide him to slide down the wall instead. He ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, his legs sprawled out like a child’s, his head hanging low.
“Kyle?” I knelt beside him, unsure what to do with this unfamiliar version of my usually controlled husband. “Let me call James to help get you to bed.”
“No!” His hand shot out, catching my wrist with surprising accuracy given his condition. “Don’t leave.” His grip tightened slightly.
The raw vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. “Kyle, you are really drunk.”
“You are the girl,” he continued, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “So small, but so brave…your happy
house.”
My breath caught. Something about his words tickled at the edges of my memory, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. “Kyle?” But his breathing had already evened out into the rhythm of sleep, his body heavy against mine.
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I sat there on the kitchen floor, supporting my drunk husband’s weight, my mind spinning with questions. What did he mean?
Another wave of dizziness washed over me, reminding me I still hadn’t eaten. I looked at Kyle. In sleep, his face relaxed, losing the hard edges of the businessman.
“What happened to you?” I whispered, giving in to the urge to smooth his disheveled hair. “We are over, Kyle.
Aren’t we?”
He turned his face into my touch, a small sound escaping him – something between a sigh and a whimper. My
heart twisted painfully in my chest.
