Unmasking Mrs. Newton's Secret Identities novel Chapter 1594

All of Lincoln's positive impressions of Chandler had disappeared; the more he thought about it, the more frustrated he became.

Finally, he tossed the tablet aside and crossed his arms, sulking in silence.

"Hmph, Chandler is such a scumbag!" he thought bitterly. He had hoped his dad might be a decent man, but it was now clear he had been completely mistaken.

Chandler was merely a superficial playboy, unworthy of Helen and absolutely unfit to be a father to him and Sienna.

A man lacking self-respect was like rotten cabbage, and that's exactly what Chandler was.

"I'm so mad!"

Lincoln couldn't fully understand why he felt this way, but he found himself pacing the room, restless and agitated. He tossed and turned all night, hardly managing to sleep.

…

In the villa, Chandler sat at his computer desk, staring at a screen filled with photos of Helen and their two kids. Tenderness filled his eyes as he reminisced.

Suddenly, a knock interrupted his thoughts.

Chandler quickly moved his mouse to hide the pictures. He looked up at the door, maintaining a calm expression as he asked, "What is it?"

A woman walked in, carrying a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup. She placed it gently on the table and said, "I made you some soup. It's good for your stomach."

"I'm not hungry," Chandler replied flatly. "You don't need to do this. I didn't bring you here to play housekeeper."

"I know," the woman said softly, her eyes downcast. "Every relationship is reciprocal. Since you treat me and my kids well, I wanted to do the same for you."

"You're reading too much into this," Chandler retorted. "I treat you and the kids well for my own reasons, not because of you."

"If you truly want to thank me, then stick to the terms of the contract. No more clever ideas outside of that," Chandler replied flatly. "Otherwise, I'll consider ending the agreement early."

A flicker of confusion crossed the woman's face; in that moment, she realized she had never truly known Chandler at all.

"I understand," she said, picking up the now-cold soup and leaving the room silently.

Her steps were slow, a quiet hope lingering that Chandler might call her back, but he didn't. He did nothing at all, and before she had even gotten far, he had already closed the door.

Back in her bedroom, she sat before her vanity, holding the bowl in silence. As she examined her features, so akin to Helen's, a wave of deep sadness washed over her.

She resembled Helen more than any of Chandler's previous wives—so why didn't he have any feelings for her?

They even shared the same last name; was she destined to live her entire life in Helen's shadow?