The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 377

Chapter 377 Room temperature is for peasants

Chapter 377 Room temperature is for peasants

Mia’s POV

Alice sat in the harsh fluorescent light, like a child waiting for punishment.

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The silence between us stretched thin, punctuated only by the distant sound of metal doors closing somewhere in the building’s depths.

I studied her face-so similar to mine in bone structure, yet carrying a softness that spoke of a

different kind of life.

“How old are you,

Alice?”

“Twenty-three.” She tucked a strand of badly cut hair behind her ear. “I know that doesn’t excuse anything. I know being young and stupid isn’t a defense.”

“No, it’s not.” I said. “But it’s context.

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Alice’s eyes flickered up to mine, searching. “I’ve thought about you every day since it happened. About your children. About how terrified they must have been.” Her voice cracked. “I keep seeing that little boy’s face when he realized I wasn’t really you. He looked so confused, so scared.”

“Ethan.”

“Is that his name?” Alice’s hands twisted in her lap. “He was trying to protect the others, wasn’t he?

Even though he was scared too.’

“Yes. He was.”

“I used to want children someday,” Alice said quietly. “Before all this. I had this whole plan-finish school, find a good job, meet someone nice, have a family. Normal things.” She laughed. “I guess that’s not going to happen now.”

I watched her for a moment. “Alice.”

She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes.

“What you did was unforgivable. But that doesn’t mean you’re unforgivable. Those are two different things.”

I turned toward the door, ready to leave this place and its sterile echoes of damaged lives behind me.

“Mrs. Williams?” Alice’s voice stopped me.

I looked back.

“Tell your children—tell Ethan-that the lady who looked like his mama is sorry. And that she

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Chapter 377 Room temperature is for peasants

hopes they never have to be that brave again.”

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Officer Martinez led me through the maze of checkpoints and security doors, her keys jangling a metallic rhythm that seemed to echo off the walls and burrow into my bones.

Madison was waiting in the child-friendly room where I’d left her, kneeling at the low table with her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she worked on a coloring book. Her princess braid had held up beautifully, the crown of dark hair still perfectly woven despite the long day.

When she saw me, her face lit up with relief.

“Mia!” She scrambled to her feet, abandoning her crayons. “Are you okay? You look tired.”

“I’m okay, sweetheart.” I knelt down to her level, smoothing a few escaped wisps of hair away from her face. “Are you ready to go home?”

Madison nodded eagerly, then paused. “Did you talk to the sick person?”

“I did.”

“Did they say they were sorry?”

I considered how to answer that.

“Yes,” I said finally. “She said she was sorry.”

“Good,” Madison said simply. “Everyone should say sorry when they hurt people.”

Madison retrieved her backpack and art supplies, tucking them away with careful precision. As we prepared to leave, she slipped her small hand into mine.

“I’m glad we came,” she said quietly.

“Yeah,” I said, squeezing her hand gently. “Me too.”

Madison dozed in her booster seat while I drove home.

The familiar sight of our apartment building came into view, and I felt something in my chest loosen.

“We’re here, princess,” I said softly, pulling into our parking spot.

Madison stirred, blinking sleepily. “Are Alexander and Ethan home?”

“They should be.”

As we rode the elevator up, Madison leaned against my side, still drowsy. “Mia?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

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Chapter 377 Room temperature is for peasants

“Do you think my daddy would be proud of me? For being brave today?”

I knelt down, bringing my eyes level with hers.

“I think your daddy would be so proud of you. For being brave.”

Madison smiled, satisfied.

The elevator dinged softly as we reached our floor.

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I unlocked the door and was immediately hit by the scent of something delicious cooking-garlic and herbs and the particular smell of food prepared with attention and care. The sound of Alexander’s giggle echoed from the kitchen, followed by Ethan’s more reserved chuckle.

“Mommy!” Alexander’s voice carried down the hallway. “You’re home! Come see what Sophie brought us!”

Madison and I made our way toward the kitchen, following the trail of voices and cooking smells. What we found defied all reasonable explanation.

My modest kitchen had been transformed into what appeared to be a little high-end patisserie. An elaborate display of desserts that looked like they’d been airlifted directly from Paris.

Towering croquembouche drizzled with spun sugar, individual tarte tatins with caramelized apples arranged in perfect spirals, éclairs filled with cream so delicate it seemed to glow, and macarons in shades I’d never seen-lavender pearl, rose gold, something that looked like crushed emeralds.

And in the center of it all stood Sophie Field, as she issued commands in rapid French.

“Non, non, Thomas!” she was saying,. “The soufflé must rest at precisely eighteen degrees Celsius, not room temperature! Room temperature is for peasants and people who do not understand the delicate constitution of proper French pastry!”

Thomas, the peasant I guess. His sleeves rolled up, an apron tied around his waist. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“The cream is supposed to ribbon, yes?” he called over his shoulder, holding up a whisk covered in what looked like silk.

“Mon Dieu, Thomas, if you have to ask if it ribbons, it does not ribbon!” Sophie threw her hands up in theatrical despair. “Look at it! Does it fall from the whisk like a lover’s sigh? Does it cascade like morning mist over the Alps? Non! It falls like… like American processed cheese!”

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