The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 14

Kyle’s POV

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The scotch burns a path down my throat. Glass after glass. The bottle’s nearly empty now, but the anger still burns hotter than

the alcohol.

Divorce.

The word echoes in my mind, mocking my control. How dare she? After everything I’ve given her–the lifestyle, the security, the position–she dares to ask for a divorce?

My office is too quiet. Too dark. The city lights spread out below my penthouse window, a sea of possibilities I’ve always controlled. Until now.

I pour another glass. My hand is steady, even if my thoughts aren‘

“Is everything a game to you, Mia?” The words taste bitter in the empty room. “Didn’t you say you loved me?”

The memory of her in that hospital bed flashes unbidden. Pale. Broken. Different from the Mia I know. The Mia who always smiled, no matter how cold I was. The Mia who looked at me like I was worth something more than my bank account.

My phone buzzes. Taylor. Again.

I stare at her name on the screen until it goes dark. Strange. There was a time when Taylor’s calls made my heart race. Now they just… irritate.

Something’s changed. Or maybe something’s been changing for a while, and I’ve been too blind to see it.

Taylor. She has my pendant. The one I gave to that brave little girl all those years ago. The one who held my hand in the darkness when the kidnappers locked us away. She was so small, yet so fierce. So protective.

But lately… lately something feels wrong. When Taylor wears the pendant, it doesn’t sit right. Like a key in the wrong lock. And when she talks about that time, about the kidnapping, her details never quite match my memories.

The glass shatters in my grip. I watch blood mix with scotch, dripping onto imported marble.

The memories come unbidden now, blurred by alcohol and time:

That little girl’s voice in the dark: “Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you.

Her small hand in mine, steady despite her own fear.

The pendant–my mother’s gift—pressed into her tiny palm: “To remember me by.”

Her green eyes in the darkness…

Green eyes.

Like Mia’s.

I shake my head, dispelling the thought. It’s impossible. Taylor has the pendant. Taylor is the girl. She must be.

But…

“I want a divorce.” Mia’s voice echoes in my mind. Not weak. Not begging. Strong, despite everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve

failed to do.

The phone buzzes again. Taylor’s face lights up my screen. In the photo, she’s wearing my pendant. It sits wrong against her throat. It’s always sat wrong.

I swipe to decline the call.

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Chapter 14 You Are My Wife.

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“Sir?” Linda’s voice comes through the intercom. “Mrs. Branson is here.”

Mia. She’s supposed to be in the hospital. What is she-

“She’s packing her things,” Linda continues. “Moving to the guest room, she says.”

The rage returns, hot and sudden. How dare she? She’s my wife. Mine.

“I’ll be right there.”

The drive home is a blur of city lights and scattered thoughts. The alcohol burns in my veins, mixing with anger, with confusion, with something that feels dangerously like fear. (1)

I find her in our bedroom. She’s methodically emptying drawers, her movements precise despite her obvious weakness. She shouldn’t be out of the hospital. She shouldn’t be moving. She shouldn’t be…

“What do you think you’re doing?” My voice comes out harder than intended.

She doesn’t even look up. “Moving to the guest room.” Her voice is empty. Like she’s empty. “If you insist on maintaining this fake marriage, we can make everything nominal.”

“This is your room.”

“No.” She folds another shirt. Her hands shake slightly. “This is your room. I just borrowed it for a while.”

The distance in her voice… it’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong.

Before I can stop myself, I cross the room. Grab her. Turn her to face me.

“You’re my wife.” The words come out like a growl.

Her green eyes meet mine. Green like… like…

I kiss her. Hard. Desperate. Trying to force her to feel something. Trying to force myself to feel what I should be feeling.

She tastes like tears and hospital antiseptic and something else.

The thought shatters as my phone rings.

She struggles against me, her small hands pushing at my chest. But I can’t let her go. Not now. Not like this.

My lips claim hers with a desperation I didn’t know I possessed. She tastes of tears and defiance and something hauntingly familiar. Something that calls to a part of me I thought I’d buried long ago. My hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, trying to break through the walls she’s built between us.

For a moment–just a moment–she surrenders. Her lips soften under mine, and a small sound escapes her throat. It’s a sound of surrender and resistance, of love and hatred all mixed together. Her fingers, which were pushing me away, now clutch at my

shirt.

I press her against the wall, my body caging hers. The heat between us is familiar yet different. Usually, our encounters are cold, clinical. A contract obligation fulfilled in darkness. But this… this feels like drowning. Like burning. Like something I can’t control.

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