The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 474

Mia's POV

"OH. MY. GOD."

Each word is its own sentence. Its own dramatic beat.

I turn.

And there he is.

Daniel.

He's frozen in the middle of the dance floor. One hand pressed to his chest like he's been shot. The other hand extended toward me, fingers splayed, like he's trying to stop traffic.

"STOP," he says. Louder now. "EVERYONE STOP. I need a MOMENT."

People are actually turning to look. He's causing a scene. He doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"Daniel—"

"NO." He holds up his hand. "Don't speak. Don't move. Let me LOOK at you."

He does. He stands there, in the middle of the dance floor, and looks at me. His eyes moving slowly. Taking inventory.

Then he SHRIEKS.

Actually shrieks. High-pitched and delighted and entirely too loud.

"MAMI." He's moving toward me now. Not walking. Strutting. Each step deliberate. Performative. His hips doing something that suggests choreography. "Mami, mami, MAMI. That DRESS. That DRESS."

"It's Sophie's—"

"I don't CARE whose it is. I care that it's on YOUR body and your body is EATING IT UP." He's circling me now. Slow. Appraising. Like I'm a sculpture in a gallery. "Turn. Turn for me. Let me see the back."

"I'm not going to—"

"TURN."

I turn. I don't know why. Something about the authority in his voice. The certainty that he will not be denied.

"Oh my god." His voice has dropped. Reverent. "Oh my GOD. There's a BACK SITUATION happening here. There's a whole SITUATION."

"It's just a dress."

"It is NOT just a dress." He's in front of me again. His hands on my shoulders. His face close to mine. "It is an EVENT. It is a STATEMENT. It is you saying to the world 'I have arrived and I am not to be fucked with.'"

"I wasn't trying to say any of that."

"And yet. And YET." He releases my shoulders. Steps back. Fans himself with his hand. "I need to sit down. I need to process. This is too much for a Friday night."

"Daniel—"

"Also." He points at my face. "The makeup. Who did this? Was it Sophie? Tell me it was Sophie because if you did this yourself I'm going to be very upset that you've been hiding this talent."

"It was Sophie."

"Of course it was. She's French. They have SECRETS over there." He's still staring at me. That particular intensity that I remember from four years ago. The feeling that when Daniel looks at you, he's really looking. Not through you. Not past you. At you.

"You look good too," I manage.

"I KNOW." He does a little spin. Showing off. His shirt catches the light—definitely designer, definitely expensive, definitely too tight on purpose. "I've been working on it. The glow-up was very intentional. Very strategic."

"It's working."

"Obviously." He flips his hair. A gesture that shouldn't work but somehow does. "But enough about me. You. Tell me about you. I've been STALKING your I*******m for years, you know. Like a proper creep."

"You have?"

"Yes! Those BABIES." He presses both hands to his heart. "Those absolutely delicious babies. The twins are SO BIG now. And the little girl—Madison?—she's PRECIOUS. That picture of her with the elephant? I died. Literally died. Had to be resuscitated by medical professionals."

"You're a medical professional."

"I resuscitated MYSELF. That's how cute she was."

I laugh. Can't help it. Something about Daniel makes laughter feel easy. Inevitable.

"And the architecture!" He's still going. Still cataloguing. "The buildings! The designs! You're like, a real architect now. A serious one. With projects and clients and—" He makes a gesture that suggests importance. "—blueprints and things."

"That's generally how architecture works."

"I know NOTHING about architecture. I know about bodies and skincare and which camera angles make your jawline pop. Architecture is a whole different skill set."

"It is."

"Which is why I'm IMPRESSED." He grabs my hand. Squeezes. "Like, genuinely. You were always talented—I could tell, even back then—but now you're DOING things. Real things. Building things that will exist after we're dead. That's huge, Mia. That's really huge."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. I mean every word." He releases my hand. Looks around. That particular scanning that suggests he's about to change topics. "Okay wait. You're HERE. At MY club. On opening weekend. How did this happen?"

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