The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 515

Mia's POV

The waiting room is painted the color of old butter.

Not quite yellow. Not quite cream. Something in between—a shade chosen by someone who thought it would be calming but instead just makes everything feel slightly nauseated.

There are chairs along the walls. Hard plastic things with thin cushions that do nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. There's a table in the corner with magazines that are six months out of date. There's a television mounted near the ceiling, playing the news on mute, the closed captions scrolling across the bottom in words that no one is reading.

Scarlett is sitting by the window. Sophie is on the other side of the room.

"The new Valentino collection is interesting," Scarlett is saying. Her voice is too bright. Too forced. The voice of someone trying desperately to fill the silence with something—anything—other than worry. "Did you see the show? That red dress at the end? I nearly died."

"I saw it," Sophie says. "Very dramatic."

"I called it theatrical. Morton called it ridiculous."

"I said it looked impractical," Morton corrects. "Which it was. No one could actually sit down in that dress."

"That's not the point of a runway piece, darling."

"What is the point, then?"

"Art. Expression. Making people feel things."

"I felt concern. For the model's spine."

Scarlett swats at him. It's halfhearted.

Kyle is standing again. He's been standing and sitting and standing again for the past hour, unable to settle, unable to stay still. He's worn a path in the carpet—back and forth, back and forth—and I've stopped trying to make him stop.

Madison is beside me.

She fell asleep about twenty minutes ago, her head on my shoulder, Eleanor clutched against her chest. Her breathing is slow and even, the breathing of a child who has finally given in to exhaustion. Her weight is warm against my side.

I keep checking the clock.

They took the twins at 9:30. Dr. Emerson said the procedure would take two to three hours. That's at least another hour. At least another sixty minutes of this—the waiting, the silence, the too-bright conversation that no one really hears.

I've done this before.

I've sat in waiting rooms and watched clocks and counted minutes that felt like hours. I did it when Kyle was shot. I did it when he collapsed after the CAR-T therapy. I did it when the twins were born, premature and fragile, their lungs not quite ready for the world.

You'd think it would get easier.

It doesn't.

Every time feels like the first time. Every minute stretches like taffy, pulling and pulling until you're sure it's going to snap.

"The Schiaparelli show was better," Sophie is saying. "That gold mask? Stunning."

"Too avant-garde for my taste," Scarlett says. "I like my fashion wearable."

"Since when?"

"Since always."

"You wore a dress made of actual feathers to that charity gala last year."

"That was different. That was for a cause."

"What cause?"

"Looking fabulous. Which is always a cause."

Morton laughs. It's a quiet laugh—the kind you make when you're not really in a laughing mood but you appreciate the effort. His hand is still on Scarlett's knee, still moving in those slow, steady circles.

I wonder what it's like for them. Being here. Waiting for someone else's children to come out of surgery. Worrying about someone else's family.

I wonder if they think about the children they might have had. The family they might have built, if things had gone differently.

Kyle stops pacing.

He's at the window now, looking out at the courtyard below. There's a garden there—or what passes for a garden in a hospital. Some benches. Some trees. A fountain that I can't hear from here but can see, water arcing up and falling back down in an endless cycle.

"Kyle."

He doesn't turn.

"Kyle. Come sit down."

"I can't."

"You're making yourself crazy."

"I'm already crazy." His voice is flat. Distant. "Have been for days."

I want to go to him. Want to take his hand again, force him to look at me, make him see that he's not alone in this. That we're all here. That we're all waiting together.

But Madison is still asleep against my shoulder, and I can't bring myself to move her.

"They're going to be okay," I say instead. The words feel hollow. Insufficient. "Dr. Emerson has done hundreds of these procedures. She knows what she's doing."

"I know."

"The boys are healthy. Strong. They're the perfect match."

"I know."

"So stop pacing and sit down before you wear a hole in the floor."

He turns then. Looks at me. Those gray eyes—still red-rimmed, still bloodshot—meet mine.

"I hate this," he says quietly. "I hate that they're in there. I hate that I let them do this. I hate—"

"They wanted to."

"I know."

"They CHOSE this. You didn't make them."

"I know." His jaw works. That muscle beneath his ear.

"There wasn't another way."

He doesn't answer. Just sits there, holding my hand, staring at the clock on the wall like he can force it to move faster through sheer willpower.

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