The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 479

Mia's POV

"YOU'RE AT A CLUB!" Alexander shrieks. The camera shakes with his excitement. "MAMA'S AT A CLUB! MAMA'S AT A CLUB!"

"Alexander, quiet—"

But he's already spinning. Already running. The camera becomes a blur of motion—floor, wall, doorway, the edge of a cabinet, Kyle's bare feet on the tile, Kyle's gray sweatpants, Kyle's back getting closer and closer—

"DADDY! DADDY! GUESS WHAT!"

No no no no no—

"MAMA'S AT A CLUB! A REAL CLUB! WITH DANCING MUSIC! AND PRETTY BOYS!"

I'm going to kill my dear Alexander.

The camera steadies. Kyle has turned from the stove. The spatula frozen mid-air. Batter dripping back into the pan in slow, deliberate drops. There's flour on his cheekbone—a white smear against his jaw like war paint. His gray t-shirt is slightly damp at the collar. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, messy in that way that suggests small hands have been grabbing at it all evening.

He looks domestic. Soft. Nothing like the CEO in tailored suits who commands boardrooms and makes grown men sweat.

And his expression—

That particular blankness. The one I learned to read during our marriage. The one that means he's feeling everything and showing nothing.

"A club," he says. Not a question.

"YEAH! With boom boom music! And Ethan figured it out because he's SMART!"

Kyle takes the phone from Alexander. His fingers wrap around the edges slowly. Deliberately. Like he's buying time. Like he needs a moment before he looks at me.

Then he does.

Those gray eyes. Finding mine through the screen. Through the miles. Through all the complicated history that lives between us.

"So." His voice is silk over steel. "Daniel's club."

"He invited us. Sophie and Scarlett wanted—"

"Daniel." He says the name like he's tasting it. Like he's deciding whether he likes the flavor. "The friend."

"Yes."

"The friend who owns a nightclub."

"Yes."

"The friend whose nightclub you're at right now." His head tilts. Just slightly. "At midnight. In that dress."

Something about the way he says that dress. Like the words have teeth.

"Sophie picked it."

"Did she."

It's not a question. His eyes move—scanning whatever he can see of me through the phone screen. The neckline. The bare shoulders. The way the fabric clings.

"She has good taste," he says. Neutral. Too neutral. "Very... strategic."

"Strategic?"

"The neckline. The fit." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Very effective for a nightclub."

"Effective for what, exactly?"

His mouth curves. Not a smile. Something sharper.

"For whatever you're doing at a nightclub at midnight, Mia."

The words hang there. Loaded. The bass pulses behind me—boom boom boom—announcing exactly where I am. What I'm doing. Who I'm not doing it with.

"I'm having drinks with my friends," I say. Carefully. "That's all."

"With your friends." He nods slowly. "And the pretty boys."

Fucking Alexander.

"They work there. They're hosts. It's their job to—"

"To what?"

"To be attentive. To VIP guests."

"Attentive." He repeats the word. Rolls it around in his mouth like something sour. "That's one word for it."

"What word would you use?"

His eyes meet mine. Hold.

"I wouldn't presume to have an opinion," he says. "You're a single woman. You can do whatever you want."

The emphasis on single. The slight pause before woman. The careful neutrality that isn't neutral at all.

"That's right," I say. My chin lifts. "I am single. I can."

"I noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"Your hand."

I look down automatically. My left hand. The ring finger bare. Empty. The way it's been for four years.

"You're not wearing a ring," Kyle says. His voice is soft now. Softer than the words deserve. "Not that you would be. Not that there's any reason you should be. It's just—" A pause. Something flickers in his eyes. "—noticeable."

"There's no ring to wear."

"No. There isn't."

"Because we're divorced."

"I'm aware."

"Yes. You're jealous. Your jaw is tight. You keep mentioning the pretty boys. You commented on my ring finger." I lean closer to my phone. My own reflection looms in the bathroom mirror behind me—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, defiance written in every line. "You're jealous, Kyle. Just admit it."

Silence.

The bass pulses. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Kyle's mouth curves. Slowly. That dangerous smile that used to make my teenage heart stop. That still makes my adult heart do things it shouldn't.

"And if I was?" His voice has dropped. Gone lower. More intimate. "Would that change anything?"

The question lands somewhere in my chest. Settles there. Burns.

"No," I say. But my voice wavers. Just slightly. "It wouldn't change anything."

"Then why does it matter?"

"It doesn't."

"Then why did you bring it up?"

"Because—" I stop. Breathe. The lava-shot is still burning in my stomach. The champagne is still buzzing in my blood. And Kyle is looking at me through this phone like I'm something he wants to devour. "Because you're being impossible."

"I'm being perfectly reasonable."

"Go have fun, Mia." His voice is different now. The sharpness fading into something else. Something that sounds almost like tenderness. "Dance with your pretty boys. Drink your champagne. Do whatever single women do at midnight in nightclubs."

"You keep saying that."

"Saying what?"

"Single." The word tastes strange in my mouth. "You keep emphasizing it."

"Because that's what you are." His eyes hold mine. "Isn't it?"

The question isn't really a question. It's something else. A challenge. An invitation. A door left slightly open.

"Yes," I say. "That's what I am."

"And Mia?"

"Yes?"

"You look beautiful." The words are simple. Sincere. No edge at all. "Not that it matters what I think. Not that you need me to tell you. But you do. You look—" He stops. Swallows. "—you look really beautiful."

Before I can respond, Alexander's face crashes into frame.

"GOODNIGHT MAMA! THE DOG IS DEFINITELY THROWING UP! DADDY HAS TO GO! DON'T KISS ANY STRANGERS!"

"Alexander—"

"OR DO! I DON'T KNOW HOW CLUBS WORK! BYE!"

The screen goes dark.