The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 483

Mia's POV

My stomach lurches.

The words stop.

Kyle's expression shifts—concern cutting through everything else like a blade through silk. His body responds before his brain catches up, spinning me around, gathering my hair in one smooth motion, pulling it back from my face just as—

Everything comes up.

The champagne. The shots. The Amnesia and the Bad Decision and all the feelings I was trying to drown tonight. Splashing onto the pavement in waves that seem to last forever. My body convulsing. My eyes streaming. My dignity dying a very public death on the sidewalk outside Daniel's club.

Kyle doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't make a single sound of disgust.

His hands stay in my hair—gentle now, so gentle, holding the strands away from my face like they're something precious. His body stays warm behind me, solid and steady, close enough that I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. His voice stays low and even—

"That's it. Just let it out. I've got you."

"I'm—" Heave. "—ruining—" Heave. "—your shoes—"

"They're just shoes."

"They're Italian."

"They're leather. They'll clean."

"They're—" Another wave. My knees buckle. Kyle catches me—arm around my waist, hauling me back against his chest, holding me upright when my body wants to collapse. "—they're expensive."

"I don't care about the shoes, Mia." His hand rubs circles on my back. Slow. Patient. Each circle a little wider than the last, spreading warmth across my spine. "I care about you. Just breathe."

The word sounds like something else in my ears. Sounds like I love you. Sounds like I'm sorry. Sounds like all the things Kyle has never said but somehow always meant.

When it's finally over, I'm hollow. Empty. Shaking in his arms like something newborn. Something fragile. Something that hasn't learned yet how to stand on its own.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"Don't be."

"I'm a mess."

"You're not."

"Kyle—"

"You're not a mess." His lips brush my temple. Just barely. Just enough. A whisper of contact that I feel all the way down to my toes. "You're just having a bad night. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Huge difference." He turns me gently. Carefully. Like I'm made of glass. His hands cup my face—both hands now, palms warm against my tear-stained cheeks, thumbs brushing away the mascara tracks with impossible tenderness. Those gray eyes meet mine—soft now, impossibly soft, soft enough to drown in. "A mess is permanent. A bad night is just... tonight."

"And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," he says, "you'll wake up in your own bed. With a headache. And water and aspirin on your nightstand. And your children down the hall. And all of this will just be a story you tell Sophie while she cringes about her own hangover."

"You sound very sure."

"I am sure."

"How?"

That almost-smile finally becomes a real smile. Small. Private. The one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. The one I fell in love with at seventeen. The one I never stopped loving, no matter how hard I tried.

"Because I'm going to make sure," he says. "That's my job tonight."

"Since when is that your job?"

"Since you texted me seventeen exclamation points." His thumb brushes my cheek one more time. Lingering. "Since you looked at your phone every five minutes. Since you put on a dress that makes me want to burn down this entire club just so no one else can look at you in it."

"I didn't text you."

"You did."

"I don't remember."

"I know." He pulls me close again. Tucks me against his chest. His arms wrap around me—not restraining anymore, just holding. Just keeping me together when I feel like I'm about to fall apart. "That's why I came."

I should say something. Something sharp. Something that puts distance between us. Something that reminds us both of the divorce papers and the four years and all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

But my body has gone soft. Boneless. Like someone reached inside me and removed all the scaffolding that was holding me upright. I'm melting into him—into the warmth of his chest, into the circle of his arms, into the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek.

This is dangerous, some distant part of my brain whispers. This is how it starts. This is how you end up pregnant again, crying in a bathroom, staring at two pink lines and wondering how you let this happen.

Mia. You have three children.

Not again.

"Can you walk?"

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