The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 473

Mia's POV

"Why do we look like this?"

My voice comes out louder than I intended. The bass from the speakers swallows half of it anyway, but Sophie and Scarlett both turn to look at me.

I gesture down at myself. At the dress Sophie forced me into an hour ago. Black. Tight. The kind of tight that makes breathing a negotiation. The neckline plunges lower than anything I've worn since—

Actually, I don't think I've ever worn anything like this.

"Like what?" Scarlett tilts her head. Innocent. Like she doesn't know exactly what I'm talking about.

"Like—" I wave my hand at all three of us. At Sophie in her red silk thing that barely qualifies as a dress. At Scarlett in leather pants so tight they look painted on. At me in this black disaster. "—like we're working here. Not visiting."

Sophie's champagne glass pauses halfway to her mouth.

"Working?"

"Yes. Working." I cross my arms over my chest. Then uncross them because the movement makes the neckline shift in concerning ways. "Someone is going to walk up to us and ask our rates. I'm serious. We look like—"

"Like women who know their worth?" Sophie finishes. One eyebrow arched. That expression she gets when she's about to say something devastating.

"Like prostitutes, Sophie. We look like prostitutes."

Scarlett chokes on her vodka cranberry.

"We do not—" She coughs. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "—we do not look like prostitutes."

"We look like high-end escorts at minimum."

"There's a difference," Sophie says primly.

"There really isn't."

"There really is." She takes a sip of champagne. Delicate. Precise. "Escorts get dinner first."

I stare at her.

She stares back.

Scarlett is still coughing.

"I'm a mother," I say finally. The words come out strange. Heavy. "I have three children. Three. And I'm standing in a nightclub at eleven p.m. in a dress that—" I look down at myself again. At the amount of skin visible. At the way the fabric clings to places fabric shouldn't cling. "—in a dress that my daughter would not be allowed to wear until she's forty. Maybe fifty."

"Madison is six."

"Exactly. She has forty-four years before she's allowed to dress like this. And I'm doing it now. At thirty-four. As a mother."

Sophie sets down her champagne glass. The movement is careful. Deliberate. The way she does everything.

"Mia." Her voice has softened. Just slightly. "You're allowed to be a woman and a mother at the same time. They're not mutually exclusive."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"I just—" I pull at the hem of my dress. It doesn't move. It's physically incapable of moving. "—I feel ridiculous. I feel like I'm wearing a costume. Like everyone is looking at me and thinking 'who does she think she's fooling?'"

"No one is thinking that."

"That man by the bar is definitely thinking that."

We all turn to look. A guy in his early twenties is staring at us. At me specifically. His eyes moving up and down in that way that makes you want to shower.

"He's not thinking you're foolish," Scarlett says. "He's thinking about whether he has a chance."

"He doesn't."

"Obviously. But that's what he's thinking. Trust me."

I turn back to the bar. Flag down the bartender. He's young too. Forearms that suggest more gym time than bartending experience.

"Can I get a sparkling water? With lime?"

He blinks.

"Sparkling water?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" He leans closer. That bartender-flirting thing. "First drink's on the house for—"

"I'm sure."

"She's sure," Sophie confirms. "She's being responsible tonight. It's a whole tragic situation."

The bartender shrugs. Turns away. Comes back with a glass of fizzy water that probably costs eight dollars even though it's tap water with bubbles.

I take it. Drink half in one go. The bubbles burn going down.

"So," Scarlett says. She's scanning the room with the focus of a predator. "Target acquisition. Sophie, two o'clock. Tall. Dark hair. Nice shoulders."

"I see him." Sophie doesn't even turn her head. Some kind of peripheral vision superpower. "But look at nine o'clock. The blonde one. Very European."

"How can you tell he's European from here?"

"The shoes. Americans don't wear shoes like that."

I take another drink of my water. Watch them strategize. This is what they came for. This is their element.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify