The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 477

Mia's POV

"Anyway." Daniel stands. Straightens his shirt. The fabric falls perfectly, because of course it does. "I need to check on things downstairs. Make sure the staff isn't burning the place down. But—" He points at all three of us. His finger catches the light—purple, then blue, then pink. "—you're staying. I'm sending up champagne. The good stuff. And—"

He pauses. A smile spreading across his face. Slow. Deliberate. The kind of smile that suggests mischief.

"Actually, I have a better idea."

"What kind of idea?" Scarlett asks suspiciously. She's leaning forward now, her arms crossed on the table, her chin resting on her forearms.

"The kind that involves attractive young men who are paid to be charming." He's already pulling out his phone. The screen lights up his face from below, making him look almost demonic for a second before the VIP lights take over again. He's texting someone. "I'm sending up some of my VIP hosts. The pretty ones. To keep you company."

"Daniel—" I start.

"Don't argue." He holds up his hand. "You came to my club. You're my guests. And my guests get the full experience. Which includes—" His phone buzzes. He glances at it. Smiles wider. "—which includes Marcos, Tyler, and Javi. Who are all extremely pretty and extremely good at conversation."

"I don't need—"

"You don't need anything. But you DESERVE pretty boys bringing you drinks and telling you you're beautiful." He leans down. Kisses my cheek. Quick. Friendly. His cologne hits me—something expensive and subtle and very Daniel. "Let yourself have one night, Mia. One night of being spoiled. You've earned it."

Before I can argue, he's gone. Moving toward the stairs with that particular energy he has. Like he's always on his way somewhere important. The lights catch him as he descends, painting him in shifting colors until he disappears into the crowd below.

"I like him," Sophie announces. She's watching the staircase, watching the last flash of Daniel's shirt before it's swallowed by the main floor.

"You like everyone."

"That's not true. I despise most people." She picks up her champagne, draining the last drops. "But him? I like."

"You were going to seduce him five minutes ago."

"I was considering it. There's a difference." She sets down the empty glass. The crystal catches the light, throwing tiny rainbows across the table. "But he's complicated. I don't do complicated anymore. Life's too short."

"That's very evolved of you."

"I'm very evolved." She gestures to a passing server for another glass. "Also, he's clearly hung up on someone. And I don't compete for men. Never have. Never will."

The music shifts again. Louder now. More urgent. The bass picks up, and I can feel it in my teeth, in my fingertips, in the base of my skull. The lights respond, pulsing faster, the colors cycling through their spectrum in time with the beat.

Three young men appear at the top of the stairs.

And Daniel wasn't lying. They are extremely pretty.

The first one emerges from the strobing lights like something conjured from a fever dream. Marcos. Tall. Dark hair falling across his forehead—wet with sweat or product, impossible to tell in this light. His white shirt clings to his chest, translucent in patches where the heat of the club has worked through the fabric. He's unbuttoned one button too many. Maybe two. The slice of skin beneath catches the purple light, turns violet, turns blue, turns something that makes my mouth go dry without permission.

He moves through the crowd like water through rock—finding the gaps, sliding through, never breaking stride. His hips shift with each step in a way that suggests he knows exactly where his body is in space. In relation to the music. In relation to every pair of eyes that tracks him across the floor.

Behind him, Tyler. Blonde hair pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. All-American jaw. All-American shoulders. The kind of body that belongs on a billboard selling cologne or sin or something in between. His blazer is too well-fitted, the fabric pulling across his back when he lifts his arm to wave at someone, revealing the architecture of muscle beneath. His smile arrives before he does—practiced, dangerous, the smile of someone who has learned exactly how much teeth to show.

And then Javi. Darker. Softer. His black shirt open at the throat, collarbone catching the light like it was designed to. He moves slower than the others, more deliberate, each step a decision. His eyes find mine across the VIP section and hold—just for a second, just long enough to feel—before sliding away to take in Sophie, Scarlett, the whole tableau of our table.

The bass drops.

The floor shakes with it. My chest vibrates. My teeth hum.

And they descend on us like a coordinated strike.

Marcos reaches us first. He doesn't ask permission—just slides into the booth next to Sophie, his thigh pressing against hers for one deliberate second before he creates appropriate distance. The movement is smooth as spilled honey. His cologne arrives with him—something smoky and sweet that crawls into my nose and settles behind my eyes.

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