The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 481

Mia's POV

Daniel's grip on me loosens. His whole body loosens—I can feel it, the way the tension drains out of him like someone pulled a plug.

"Mr. Branson." His voice is different now. Smaller. The confident club owner dissolving back into something younger, something that remembers being fired from Paradise four years ago. "I didn't realize you were—I was just about to call her a car—"

"That won't be necessary."

Four words. Polite. Quiet. Absolutely terrifying.

Daniel's arm drops from my waist so fast I sway. The night tilts. The streetlights smear across my vision like wet paint.

"She's had a lot to drink," Daniel says. Backing away already. One step. Two. "But she's fine. She was fine. We took care of her. Sophie and Scarlett are upstairs, they're staying in the guest rooms, I have security, everything is—"

"Daniel."

Just his name. Just that. But Daniel stops talking like someone pressed mute.

"Thank you," Kyle says. "For looking after her. You can go now."

It's not a suggestion.

Daniel goes. Disappearing back through the club doors so fast he might as well have teleported. The bass swallows him up—one last pulse of music before the doors swing shut and I'm alone.

Alone with Kyle.

Alone with Kyle and the streetlights and the cold air and the way the world keeps spinning even though I'm standing still.

"Hi," I say again. Still brilliant. Still eloquent.

His arms come around me. Taking my weight. Pulling me against that chest, that coat, that smell—cedar and sandalwood and something warm underneath, something that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and stay there forever.

"The kids," I mumble into his shoulder. His very solid shoulder. His very warm, very solid, very nice shoulder. "Who's watching the kids?"

"Linda."

"Linda." I process this slowly. The name tumbling through my champagne-soaked brain like a marble through honey. "Your assistant Linda?"

"Yes."

"It's midnight."

"I'm aware."

"Do you make your assistant work at midnight?"

"I pay her enough to work whenever I need her." His hand is on my back now. Each one sends sparks down my spine—or maybe that's the alcohol, or maybe that's just him, or maybe I've completely lost the ability to tell the difference. "She volunteered. She said something about how the children are quote 'significantly more pleasant company than most board members' unquote."

I laugh. Or try to. It comes out as more of a hiccup.

"You came," I say. Again. Because my brain is stuck on this fact. This impossible, ridiculous, heart-destroying fact. "You actually came."

"I did."

"How?"

His arms are still around me. Or I'm still in his arms. The distinction feels important but my brain can't quite grasp why.

"How what?"

"How did you—" The words are slippery. Hard to catch. "—find me. How did you know where—"

"Sophie's I*******m." His voice is close to my ear. Low. Each word a small vibration against my temple. "She posted a story. Thirty-seven minutes ago. The geotag was very helpful."

Sophie. Sophie and her phone. Sophie and her stories. Sophie documenting everything with the enthusiasm of someone who's never had to hide.

But something about that doesn't fit right. Something jagged in my champagne-soft brain.

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