The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 186

Mia's POV

"Yes, Mom. I'm awake," I called, adjusting myself against the pillows as she peered around the door. "That was a short appointment."

She hesitated in the doorway. "It was canceled. The weather, you know."

I nodded, though I didn't entirely believe her explanation. The snow, while steady, was hardly a blizzard. New Yorkers carried on through far worse conditions. But I let it pass, unwilling to interrogate her about a private matter she clearly wasn't ready to share.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked. "You shouldn't stay in bed all day. A little movement is good for circulation."

"I was just resting," I assured her. "I had some soup, like you suggested."

"Good. I have some papers to review in my office. Will you be alright on your own for a while?"

"I'm not an invalid, Mom," I reminded her with a smile. "Just pregnant."

"Very pregnant," she corrected.

After she left, I remained in bed a while longer, listening to the soft sounds of her moving about in her office across the hall. Gas had abandoned me to follow her, his nails clicking against the hardwood floors before settling with a contented sigh, no doubt curling up beside her desk as he often did.

I found myself drawn to my mother's bedroom, a space I rarely entered these days out of respect for her privacy. The door stood slightly ajar, and I hesitated before pushing it open. The room was immaculate as always.

I wasn't snooping, I told myself as I moved toward her closet. I simply needed a scarf; the apartment felt suddenly drafty, and I'd lent my favorite cashmere wrap to Scarlett when she was ill.

The closet door slid open smoothly, revealing my mother's meticulously organized wardrobe. The scarves hung on a special rack, each one perfectly aligned with its neighbors. I reached for a soft blue one that she rarely wore, then paused as something caught my eye.

On the shelf above, a drawer stood slightly open, a corner of paper peeking out. Normally, I would have simply closed it and continued with my search. But something about that glimpse of paper—creamy white against the dark wood—piqued my curiosity.

I glanced over my shoulder, listening for any sound of my mother's approach. The apartment remained quiet save for the distant tapping of her keyboard.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered to myself. "I'm a grown woman investigating my mother like a suspicious teenager."

Yet my hand reached for the drawer nonetheless.

It slid open with a soft whisper, revealing several neatly folded documents. On top lay a pair of tickets to the Metropolitan Opera—"La Bohème," scheduled for next Friday evening. Beside them, a cream-colored envelope addressed simply to "Sarah" in elegant, masculine handwriting.

I hesitated, my fingertips hovering over the envelope. This was crossing a line, I knew.

I shook my head. That was stupid. I actually wanted to know if my mom was seeing someone.

The sound of my mother's office door opening sent me into action. I quickly closed the drawer, grabbed the blue scarf I'd originally sought, and moved away from the closet just as her footsteps approached the bedroom.

"Mia?" she called. "What are you doing in here?"

I held up the scarf, hoping my face didn't betray my discovery. "Just borrowing this. I felt a little chilly."

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