The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 475

Mia's POV

Daniel is still staring at me. His mouth slightly open. The whiskey Sasha brought him sits untouched on the table, the amber liquid catching the purple neon light from the ceiling, turning it into something that looks like liquid amethyst.

"Wait," he says finally. "Wait wait wait. Back up. Pregnant with twins? From a CLUB NIGHT?"

"Yes."

"The twins. Alexander and Ethan. Those twins?"

"Those are the only twins I have, Daniel."

"Oh my GOD." He leans back against the leather booth. The material creaks under him, that expensive sound of real leather being tested. He presses both hands to his face. His rings catch the light—three of them, silver and gold and something with a small diamond. "Oh my GOD. This is—this is like a MOVIE. This is like a terrible Lifetime movie that I would absolutely watch."

"It wasn't that dramatic."

"You got PREGNANT. From a CLUB NIGHT. With TWINS. That is the DEFINITION of dramatic."

I take a sip of my sparkling water. The bubbles are going flat already. The glass is warm where my fingers have been holding it too long. Club sparkling water is never good. It's always just tap water with disappointment.

"To be fair," I say, "you were there. Both times."

Daniel freezes. His hands still pressed against his cheeks. His eyes visible between his fingers, wide and getting wider.

"Both times?"

"Both times I've been to a club. You were there."

He counts on his fingers. His nails are manicured, I notice. Perfect half-moons. Clear polish that catches the light. He stops. Counts again.

"Paradise. Four years ago." He holds up one finger. "And tonight." He holds up another. "That's—that's only two times."

"Exactly."

"You've only been to a club TWICE in four years?"

"I've been busy."

"With WHAT?"

"Three children. A career. An ex-husband who faked his death. The usual."

Daniel's hand comes up again. Pressing against his chest. That dramatic gesture he does. His shirt shifts with the movement—definitely designer, the fabric too smooth, too perfect to be anything off the rack. The top three buttons are undone. Deliberate. Strategic.

"The ex-husband who—" He stops. Shakes his head. "You know what? No. We're not getting into that tonight. That's a whole other conversation. A sober conversation. A conversation that requires snacks and possibly therapy."

"Probably therapy."

"Definitely therapy." He picks up his whiskey finally. The ice has started to melt, a thin layer of water sitting on top of the amber. He takes a long drink. Sets it down. The glass makes a soft thunk against the table. "But for now—for NOW—we're focusing on the fact that I am apparently your club good luck charm. Or bad luck charm. Depending on how you feel about twins."

"I love my twins."

"Then GOOD luck charm." He grins. That full Daniel grin. The one that shows all his teeth and makes his eyes crinkle and probably breaks hearts across three continents. "I'm taking credit for those babies. Partial credit. Like, emotional support credit."

"You weren't even at Paradise that night. Not when—" I stop. Feel the heat rising in my cheeks. The bass from downstairs pulses through the floor, through the booth, through my bones. A steady heartbeat that seems to match the one suddenly pounding in my chest. "Not when it happened."

"When WHAT happened?" His eyes go wide. Delighted. The purple lights shift to blue, then pink, cycling through colors that paint his face in different shades of excitement. "Mia Williams. Did you have SEX at Paradise? In the CLUB?"

"No."

"You're blushing."

"I'm not—"

"You're BLUSHING. You totally did. Oh my god. Where? The bathroom? A back room? Tell me everything."

"We went to his apartment after."

"Boring." Daniel waves his hand dismissively. His rings flash in the shifting light—purple, blue, pink, purple again. "I wanted scandal. I wanted exhibitionism. I wanted—"

"It was plenty scandalous, trust me."

"HOW scandalous? Scale of one to ten."

I think about that night. About Kyle appearing at Paradise out of nowhere. About the way he looked at me across the dance floor. About what happened after. The memory hits me like a wave—the taste of champagne on his lips, the way his hands felt on my waist, the heat of his skin against mine.

"Eleven," I say quietly.

Daniel's eyebrows shoot up. They're perfectly shaped. Threaded or waxed or whatever it is people do to eyebrows now.

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