Divorced and Pregnant My New Life with a Billionaire Drives My Ex Crazy novel Chapter 642

"I know her well enough. She's the kind of person who says exactly what she feels."

"If she wasn't sure I was her father, there’s no way she would have talked to me that long or with that much patience."

Mr. Thompson let out a little sneer. "Good. At the end of the day, she’s still just a naive kid."

"You and she went for DNA testing twenty times at the Thompson family’s own lab. Every single result said the same thing. She doesn’t have a choice but to believe it."

He paused, the skepticism creeping into his voice as he thought about the Sullivan Group from Stonehill getting involved.

What exactly was the connection between the Sullivan Group and Wiona? Why would they go out of their way to help her get those samples tested? Could it really be like the rumors online said, that Conrad took a special liking to Wiona, the artist known as W?

Wilson asked, "But what?"

Maybe, Mr. Thompson thought, Wiona was just clinging to the Sullivan Group for support, and that was the end of it. The Thompson family had checked into it. The real date of her divorce from her ex was nowhere near as early as the gossip online claimed. So her child was definitely Salisbury’s.

And honestly, no man from the Sullivan family would want a woman with a child from another man. No matter how attractive she was, no guy would be that generous.

He decided to stop worrying. Even if Wiona really was Conrad’s mistress, the Thompson family still had to follow through.

His tone turned harsh. "Just remember, Wiona has to be your daughter."

"Do you get it, Wilson?"

Wilson agreed right away, nodding even though no one could see him.

"And stop doing those disgusting, underhanded things. If she ever finds out the truth, you know we won’t let it slide."

The call ended.

Wilson stood there, gripping his phone, his expression dark.

"If you’re so great, why don’t you handle your own mess?"

"Like the Thompsons are any better," he muttered, spitting on the floor.

He was about to head upstairs when he caught sight of a long, dark shadow stretching across the floor.

It wasn’t his.

It belonged to someone behind him—someone who’d been standing there for who knows how long.

He barely had time to gasp before a hand clamped down over his mouth. He was yanked into a pitch-black corner. He tried to fight, tried to scream, but a filthy, sticky rag was shoved right into his mouth.

Wilson gagged, choking. He was still on the ground, barely able to push himself up, when a tall, broad-shouldered figure pulled out an axe from behind his back. Without a second’s hesitation, that axe slammed down hard on Wilson’s wrist.

The pain exploded through him. All he could do was let out a muffled, broken cry, his vision swimming as he realized his hand had been crushed.

Terrified and clutching his ruined arm, Wilson somehow managed to stumble home. The second he made it through the door, he collapsed.

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