Semua Bab The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins: Bab 511 - Bab 520

Mia's POV"Is it fair?" Ethan's brow furrows. "The distribution seems equitable, but we haven't established any criteria for the naming process. What if someone chooses a name that another person wanted?""Then they deal with it," Kyle says."That seems arbitrary.""Life is arbitrary, Ethan." Kyle's mouth curves. Just slightly. "The sooner you learn that, the happier you'll be."Ethan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again."That's surprisingly nihilistic for 6 AM," he says finally.Kyle laughs. The sound is weak—barely more than a breath—but it's there. Real. And something in my chest loosens just a little at the sound of it."Okay." Alexander is already moving, sliding off the couch, crossing to the whelping box with the kind of energy that only five-year-olds and certain varieties of terrier seem to possess. "I get to pick first because I'm the oldest.""You're not the oldest," Ethan says. "We're twins.""I was born seven minutes before you.""Seven minutes doesn't constitute—"

Mia's POVThe surgical gowns are the color of a sky that can't decide if it wants to rain.Not quite blue. Not quite gray. Something in between—a shade that exists only in hospitals, in waiting rooms, in places where time moves differently than it does in the rest of the world.Alexander's gown swallows him whole.The fabric pools around his feet, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, the neckline slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times the nurse adjusts it. He looks smaller than he did this morning. Smaller than he did yesterday. As if the gown has somehow shrunk him."I look like a ghost," he says, examining his reflection in the window. "A blue ghost. Do you think there are blue ghosts? Ethan, are there blue ghosts?"Ethan is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, his legs dangling. His gown is equally oversized, the hem brushing against his ankles, the fabric bunching at his waist where a nurse tried to tie it tighter. His glasses are slightly crooked. They're alwa

Mia's POVThe waiting room is painted the color of old butter.Not quite yellow. Not quite cream. Something in between—a shade chosen by someone who thought it would be calming but instead just makes everything feel slightly nauseated.There are chairs along the walls. Hard plastic things with thin cushions that do nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. There's a table in the corner with magazines that are six months out of date. There's a television mounted near the ceiling, playing the news on mute, the closed captions scrolling across the bottom in words that no one is reading.Scarlett is sitting by the window. Sophie is on the other side of the room."The new Valentino collection is interesting," Scarlett is saying. Her voice is too bright. Too forced. The voice of someone trying desperately to fill the silence with something—anything—other than worry. "Did you see the show? That red dress at the end? I nearly died.""I saw it," Sophie says. "Very dramatic.""I called it the

Mia's POVI didn't know then that the dream would take seventeen years to come true.But here I am. Standing in front of this mirror. Waiting.The door doesn't open so much as it surrenders."I told you—left at the third hallway, not the second—""The second hallway had better lighting—""Lighting is irrelevant when you're going the wrong direction—"Scarlett and Sophie tumble through the doorway mid-argument, their voices tangling together like cats fighting in a bag."We're here," Scarlett announces, as if this weren't already obvious. "We got lost. Twice. This castle has too many rooms. Who needs this many rooms?""It's a historic estate," Sophie says. "It has exactly the right number of rooms.""It has seventeen bathrooms. I counted.""Why were you counting bathrooms?""Because I got lost trying to find one!""If Kyle is still in here, I swear to God—""He left." I'm still looking at the mirror. Still seeing the ghost of him standing behind me. "Five minutes ago.""Good. Because I

Mia's POVThe music begins.Not the wedding march—not yet. Something softer. Strings and piano, weaving together in a melody that sounds like remembering. Like the first warm day after winter. Like coming home to a place you didn't know you'd been missing.I don't know who chose this song. Scarlett, probably. Or maybe Sophie. Or maybe Kyle, in one of those moments when he pretends not to care about details but secretly obsesses over every one.It doesn't matter. What matters is the way it feels—the notes washing over me, through me, becoming part of my heartbeat.The doors open.The October air hits my face first. Cool and crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and late-blooming roses and something else—something clean and bright, the particular smell of autumn in New York. The sun is low, hanging just above the treeline, casting everything in gold.The garden stretches before me.Two hundred chairs, arranged in curves that echo the shape of the rose arch at the end of the aisle.