The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 489

Mia's POV

The champagne is making me careless, making me say things that should stay locked in the dark places where I keep my ugliest truths.

Kyle doesn't respond right away. The jazz fills the silence—that saxophone again, climbing up into something that sounds like a question.

"I always look at you," he says finally. Quiet. "Whether you're harsh or kind or anything in between."

"I know."

"Does that bother you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Because your eyes do something to me. Because when you look at me I feel like I'm being seen in a way I'm not ready to be seen.

I don't say any of that.

"Because you're very good at it," I say instead. "Looking. You're very good at making people feel like they're the only thing in the room."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It's a dangerous thing."

"Dangerous how?"

"Kyle." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "Stop."

He glances at me. Brief. Just a flicker of those grey eyes before they return to the road.

"You're looking at my hair," he says.

"What?"

"You keep looking at it. My hair." His mouth does that thing—that almost-smile that's worse than a real one. "It's different."

It is different. I've noticed it all night, even through the champagne haze. The Kyle I married had hair that was always perfect—controlled, managed, every strand in place. The Kyle driving this car has waves. Actual waves, curling slightly at his temples, falling across his forehead in a way that looks almost accidental.

"The medication," he says. When I don't respond. "One of the side effects. It changes the texture. Makes it—" He shrugs. A small movement. "—less cooperative."

"Less cooperative."

"It doesn't obey the way it used to."

Something about that sentence makes my chest tight. I don't examine why.

"I wasn't looking at your hair," I lie.

"You were."

"I was looking out the window."

"You were looking at my hair and thinking something. Something you don't want to tell me."

I turn away. Press my forehead against the cool glass of the window. The city is thinning out now—fewer buildings, more trees. We're getting close to my neighborhood. Close to the end of whatever this is.

"If you must know," I say to the glass, "I was thinking that you look more human now."

Silence.

The jazz keeps playing. That woman's voice again, singing about loss and time and all the things that slip away when you're not paying attention.

"More human." Kyle repeats.

"Before—when we were married—you always looked so—" I search for the word. "—finished. Like you'd been assembled somewhere. In a factory that makes perfect men. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in your suit. Not a single sign that you were actually alive."

"I see."

His jaw tightens.

We drive in silence after that. The music playing. The city sliding past. The space between us filled with all the things we're not saying—all the history and hurt and hope that has nowhere to go.

The car stops.

My building. The familiar entrance. The security light casting its fluorescent glow over the sidewalk. Everything exactly where I left it hours ago, even though I feel like a different person entirely.

Kyle puts the car in park. Turns off the engine. The jazz dies mid-note, leaving silence that feels too loud.

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