The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 479

Mia's POV

"YOU'RE AT A CLUB!" Alexander shrieks. The camera shakes with his excitement. "MAMA'S AT A CLUB! MAMA'S AT A CLUB!"

"Alexander, quiet—"

But he's already spinning. Already running. The camera becomes a blur of motion—floor, wall, doorway, the edge of a cabinet, Kyle's bare feet on the tile, Kyle's gray sweatpants, Kyle's back getting closer and closer—

"DADDY! DADDY! GUESS WHAT!"

No no no no no—

"MAMA'S AT A CLUB! A REAL CLUB! WITH DANCING MUSIC! AND PRETTY BOYS!"

I'm going to kill my dear Alexander.

The camera steadies. Kyle has turned from the stove. The spatula frozen mid-air. Batter dripping back into the pan in slow, deliberate drops. There's flour on his cheekbone—a white smear against his jaw like war paint. His gray t-shirt is slightly damp at the collar. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, messy in that way that suggests small hands have been grabbing at it all evening.

He looks domestic. Soft. Nothing like the CEO in tailored suits who commands boardrooms and makes grown men sweat.

And his expression—

That particular blankness. The one I learned to read during our marriage. The one that means he's feeling everything and showing nothing.

"A club," he says. Not a question.

"YEAH! With boom boom music! And Ethan figured it out because he's SMART!"

Kyle takes the phone from Alexander. His fingers wrap around the edges slowly. Deliberately. Like he's buying time. Like he needs a moment before he looks at me.

Then he does.

Those gray eyes. Finding mine through the screen. Through the miles. Through all the complicated history that lives between us.

"So." His voice is silk over steel. "Daniel's club."

"He invited us. Sophie and Scarlett wanted—"

"Daniel." He says the name like he's tasting it. Like he's deciding whether he likes the flavor. "The friend."

"Yes."

"The friend who owns a nightclub."

"Yes."

"The friend whose nightclub you're at right now." His head tilts. Just slightly. "At midnight. In that dress."

Something about the way he says that dress. Like the words have teeth.

"Sophie picked it."

"Did she."

It's not a question. His eyes move—scanning whatever he can see of me through the phone screen. The neckline. The bare shoulders. The way the fabric clings.

"She has good taste," he says. Neutral. Too neutral. "Very... strategic."

"Strategic?"

"The neckline. The fit." His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Very effective for a nightclub."

"Effective for what, exactly?"

His mouth curves. Not a smile. Something sharper.

"For whatever you're doing at a nightclub at midnight, Mia."

The words hang there. Loaded. The bass pulses behind me—boom boom boom—announcing exactly where I am. What I'm doing. Who I'm not doing it with.

"I'm having drinks with my friends," I say. Carefully. "That's all."

"With your friends." He nods slowly. "And the pretty boys."

Fucking Alexander.

"They work there. They're hosts. It's their job to—"

"To what?"

"To be attentive. To VIP guests."

"Attentive." He repeats the word. Rolls it around in his mouth like something sour. "That's one word for it."

"What word would you use?"

His eyes meet mine. Hold.

"I wouldn't presume to have an opinion," he says. "You're a single woman. You can do whatever you want."

The emphasis on single. The slight pause before woman. The careful neutrality that isn't neutral at all.

"That's right," I say. My chin lifts. "I am single. I can."

"I noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"Your hand."

I look down automatically. My left hand. The ring finger bare. Empty. The way it's been for four years.

"You're not wearing a ring," Kyle says. His voice is soft now. Softer than the words deserve. "Not that you would be. Not that there's any reason you should be. It's just—" A pause. Something flickers in his eyes. "—noticeable."

"There's no ring to wear."

"No. There isn't."

"Because we're divorced."

"I'm aware."

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