The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 3

Mia's POV

The Maldives looks like someone Photoshopped reality.

I know that sounds ridiculous. But seeing it from the air—seeing those impossible rings of turquoise and sapphire and colors that don't have names, seeing the palm trees and the white sand and the tiny islands scattered across the ocean like someone spilled emeralds on blue silk—

It doesn't look real.

"MAMA!" Alexander has his face pressed against the window so hard I'm concerned he's going to leave a permanent imprint. "MAMA, LOOK! LOOK AT THE WATER! IT'S BLUE! IT'S SO BLUE! WHY IS IT SO BLUE?"

"The water depth and the white sand bottom create light refraction that—" Ethan begins.

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT REFRACTION! I CARE ABOUT SWIMMING IN IT!"

"You can't swim in refraction. Refraction is an optical phenomenon—"

"ETHAN!"

"Boys." Kyle's voice cuts through. "Look out the window. Be amazed. Stop trying to science each other to death."

They look.

Even Ethan shuts up for once, his scientific explanations forgotten, his face pressed next to Alexander's against the glass.

Madison is in my lap. She's been quiet for the last hour, watching the ocean get closer, watching the blue deepen and change as we descend. Eleanor is clutched against her chest.

"Are those really islands?" she whispers.

"Really islands."

"They're so small."

"That's what makes them special."

"But... where do people live? Is there room?"

"There's room. Each island has a resort. Hotels. Places for people to stay when they want to see somewhere beautiful."

"Which island is ours?"

"I don't know yet. But we'll find out soon."

The plane banks. The world tilts. Alexander makes an excited sound that's part shriek, part war cry.

"WE'RE TURNING! WE'RE—ARE WE CRASHING? ARE WE CRASHING?"

"We're not crashing," Patricia says, passing by with her pre-landing checks. "We're just lining up with the runway."

"Oh." He sounds almost disappointed. "That's less exciting."

"I prefer non-crashing landings," Ethan says. "The survival rate is significantly higher."

"You're no fun."

"I'm realistic."

"Same thing."

The landing is smooth. Barely a bump. Patricia makes it look easy—this impossible feat of bringing seventy-five thousand pounds of metal and fuel and five Bransons down onto a tiny strip of asphalt in the middle of the ocean.

We taxi to a stop.

Through the window, I can see the terminal. Small. White. Palm trees everywhere. And heat—even through the sealed windows, I can tell it's hot. The kind of heat that makes the air shimmer.

"Okay." Kyle unbuckles his seatbelt. Stretches. His shirt rides up slightly and I catch a glimpse of his stomach, the muscles there, the skin that's finally filling back in after the illness. "Everyone ready?"

"READY!" Alexander is already out of his seat. "LET'S GO LET'S GO LET'S GO—"

"Shoes first."

"Shoes are OPTIONAL in paradise!"

"Shoes are mandatory on asphalt that's been baking in hundred-degree heat."

"...fine."

We gather our things. iPads and books and Eleanor and the small backpacks the kids insisted on bringing even though everything else is being sent directly to the resort.

The door opens.

And the heat hits us like a physical thing.

"Oh my god," I breathe.

"It's HOT!" Alexander's hair is immediately plastered to his forehead. "It's SO HOT! Am I MELTING? I think I'm MELTING!"

"You're not melting," Kyle says. "You're just experiencing tropical climate for the first time."

"I DON'T LIKE IT!"

"You will. Once we get to the air conditioning."

We descend the stairs. The tarmac radiates heat. The air smells like ocean and aviation fuel and something else—something green and growing and alive.

A man is waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Dark suit despite the heat. White smile. A sign that says "BRANSON FAMILY."

"Mr. and Mrs. Branson?" His accent is lovely—British schooling overlaid on something else, something that belongs to these islands. "Welcome to the Maldives. I'm Rasheed. I'll be coordinating your transportation to the resort."

"Transportation?" I look around. "Is there a car or—"

He smiles wider. "Not exactly."

That's when I see it.

Floating in the water beyond the terminal.

A seaplane.

Small. White and blue. Propellers on top. The kind of aircraft that looks like it belongs in an adventure movie, not in real life.

Alexander sees it at the same moment I do.

His scream is audible across the entire airport.

"IS THAT A SEAPLANE? IS THAT—MAMA—DADDY—IS THAT OUR RIDE?"

"That's our ride," Kyle confirms.

"WE'RE FLYING IN A SEAPLANE! A PLANE THAT LANDS ON WATER! ETHAN! ETHAN, DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?"

Ethan has stopped walking. He's staring at the seaplane with an expression I've never seen before.

Pure, unfiltered terror.

"No," he says. His voice is small. "No, I'm not getting in that."

"Ethan—"

"It's TINY! It's—it doesn't even have a PROPER RUNWAY! It just—it LANDS ON WATER! WATER ISN'T SOLID! YOU CAN'T LAND ON WATER!"

"Seaplanes have been landing on water since 1910," Rasheed says helpfully. "It's a very safe form of—"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT STATISTICS! I CARE ABOUT NOT DYING IN THE INDIAN OCEAN!"

"Ethan." Kyle crouches down. Eye level. "Look at me."

Ethan looks. His eyes are huge behind his glasses.

"It's safe," Kyle says. "I promise. I've checked everything. The pilot's credentials, the maintenance records, the safety statistics. This company has a perfect record. Not a single incident in twenty years."

"But—"

"I wouldn't put you on this plane if I thought there was any real danger. You know that, right?"

Ethan's throat works. He nods.

"We can do this together," Kyle says. "Me and you. Right next to each other. And if you get scared, you hold my hand. Okay?"

"...okay."

"That's my brave boy."

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