Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 481

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins 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.

“Sophie’s account,” I say slowly. Each syllable requiring enormous effort. “Is private.”

A pause. So small I might have imagined it.

“Is it?”

“You don’t follow Sophie.”

“Don’t I?”

“Kyle.” I try to pull back. Try to look at his face. The world spins, tilts, but I manage it managed to get my eyes on his eyes, even though his eyes. have multiplied. Two of them? Four? All of them gray All of them watching me with that expression that isn’t an expression. “Kyle. Did you-”

“Did I what?”

“Did you—” I lose the word. Find it again. “—track me?”

His jaw does that thing. That tight, twitching thing. Even drunk, I can see it. Even drunk, I can read it. Four years of marriage trained me to notice every micro- movement of that jaw.

“Define ‘track.””

“Kyle.”

“I was concerned.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You were at a club. At midnight. With Daniel.” His hand flexes against my waist.

Just once. Just barely. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“So you-what?” The world is still spinning but something sharper is cutting through the champagne now. Something that feels almost like anger. Ormaybe just awareness. You hacked Sophie’s *****m? You-you have people for that, don’t you? People who can find anyone anywhere at any time?”

“I have resources.”

“Resources.” I laugh. It comes out wrong too high, too bright. “You have resources. You have—you have fucking satellites, probably. Drones. A whole team of ”

“I don’t have drones.”

“But you have something.”

His eyes meet mine. Hold. In the streetlight, they’re silver. In the streetlight, they’re storm clouds. In the streetlight, they’re everything I remember and everything I’ve spent four years trying to forget.

“I have,” he says slowly, “the ability to find information when I need it.”

“That’s creepy.”

“That’s thorough.”

“It’s stalking.”

“It’s concern.”

“It’s—” I poke his chest. My finger lands somewhere around his collarbone. Maybe. Hard to tell when there are three of him. “—controlling. It’s controlling, Kyle. That’s what it is. You don’t get to just to just—”

“To just what?”

“To just show up!” The words burst out louder than I intended. The street absorbs them. “To just-appear-like some kind of-of-”

“Of what?”

His face is so close now. When did

he get so close? I can see the individual hairs of stubble on his jaw. Can see the faint lines at the corners of his@yes-new lines, lines that werent there four years agodlines that make him look older and somehow more beautifuband god, I hate him, I hate him so much for

being beautiful while I’m falling apart.

“Like some kind of knight,” I finish. Weakly. “In a stupid coat. With your stupid jaw.

And your stupid-your stupid-”

“My stupid what?”

“Face.” I’m glaring at him now. Or trying to. It’s hard to glare when the world won’t

stay still. “Your stupid face. I hate your face.”

Something flickers across that stupid face. Almost a smile. Almost.