The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 358

hapter 358 The Real One

Mia’s POV

The morning light filtering through the hospital window had that particular quality of winter sunshine, weak and pale, like watercolor paint mixed with too much water. I’d been dozing in the uncomfortable reclining chair beside Alexander’s bed, my neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle, when the soft sound of his voice pulled me back to consciousness.

“Mama, my tummy is making happy noises.”

I opened my eyes to find Alexander sitting up in his hospital bed, his dark hair sticking up in all directions, cheeks pink with health instead of fever. The IV in his small arm was still connected, but his eyes were bright and alert, no longer the glassy look of illness.

“Happy noises?” I asked, stretching the kink out of my neck as I sat up properly.

“Like when you make pancakes on Sunday mornings. Rumbling sounds that mean it’s excited for food.” Alexander pressed his hands against his stomach, grinning. “I think it’s saying ‘feed me, feed me.“”

me, feed

Ethan was curled up in the chair by the window, a hospital blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He’d been awake when I dozed off, drawing quietly in one of the coloring books a nurse had brought. Now he looked up from his picture—a careful rendering of what appeared to be our family, including Gas with his tongue hanging out.

“Alexander’s always hungry when he feels better,” Ethan observed. “When he had the flu last winter? The first thing he wanted was chocolate chip cookies.‘

“I did not want cookies,” Alexander protested. “I wanted Mama’s grilled cheese. With the crusts cut

off.”

“And then cookies,” Ethan added with the faintest smile.

Madison sat cross–legged on the fold–out couch where she’d spent the night. The bandage on her

arm was clean and white.

“Madison, how does your arm feel?” I asked gently.

“It hurts a little,” she said honestly. “But not as much as yesterday. And the nurse said pain means it’s getting better, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, but before I could respond, the door swept open to reveal what appeared to be a fashion magazine that had somehow learned to walk.

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The woman who entered paused dramatically in the doorway, struck a pose that would have made a red carpet photographer weep with joy, then looked around our humble hospital room as if she’d accidentally wandered into the wrong movie set.

“Mon Dieu,” she said, her French accent turning the words into music, “hospitals in America are even more depressing than I remembered.” She stepped inside, her heels clicking against the linoleum with the precision of a metronome, then stopped abruptly when she spotted the children’s breakfast trays. “And the food! No wonder people stay sick.”

Alexander sat up straighter in his hospital bed, his mouth slightly open as he watched this exotic creature navigate our mundane space. She moved like someone who had never encountered a piece of furniture that wasn’t personally crafted for her, pausing to examine the visitor’s chair as if it might bite her before carefully settling into it with the grace of a swan landing on water.

“You must be wondering,” she continued, pulling out what appeared to be a compact mirror made of actual gold to check her reflection, “why someone who looks like they should be sipping champagne in Monaco is instead visiting a pediatric ward in Manhattan.” She snapped the compact shut with a satisfied nod. “The answer is delightfully complicated.”

Ethan had lowered his book entirely now, watching this performance with the fascination of someone observing a rare bird. Madison had actually stopped drawing, her crayon suspended mid-

stroke as she stared.

The woman reached into a handbag and withdrew what looked like a silk handkerchief, which she used to delicately dab at the corner of one perfectly made–up eye. “I always cry a little in hospitals,” she explained to no one in particular. “Something about the fluorescent lighting. It’s very harsh on the complexion.”

“Um,” I managed, still trying to process this surreal interruption to our quiet morning, “can I help you?”

She turned toward me with a smile that could have powered the entire hospital. “Ah! You must be

Mia..”

Alexander giggled. Actually giggled, which he hadn’t done since before yesterday’s ordeal.

“But first,” she announced, reaching into her handbag with the flourish of a magician about to perform her greatest trick, “I have brought presents! Because arriving at hospitals empty–handed is like wearing white after Labor Day–technically possible but morally questionable.”

She began withdrawing packages from her bag.

“For the brave young man who broke windows!” she declared, presenting Alexander with a package wrapped in sapphire blue silk. “Inside you will find a drone so sophisticated it practically requires a pilot’s license. The manual is in three languages, none of which you speak, but this will make

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operating it feel very international and important.”

Alexander’s eyes went so wide I worried they might fall out of his head. “A real drone?”

“Real as the tears I shed over my stolen billions, mon petit,” she said solemnly, then immediately brightened. “But much more fun to play with!”

She turned to Ethan with the kind of theatrical attention usually reserved for Shakespearean monologues. “And for the thoughtful protector who thinks before he acts.” His package was wrapped in emerald silk with what appeared to be an actual vintage brooch holding the ribbon in place. ” Classic literature, but the kind with illustrations so beautiful they cost more than most people’s cars. Reading should be luxurious, don’t you think?”

Ethan accepted his gift with the careful reverence it clearly deserved, running his fingers over the silk wrapping as if he were afraid it might dissolve.

“And for the little artist,” she said, turning to Madison with a smile that could have melted glaciers, Madison’s package was the smallest but the most elaborately wrapped, layers of rose–colored silk secured with ribbons that seemed to catch light from sources that didn’t exist in our humble hospital

room.

Madison unwrapped her gift to reveal an art supply set that looked like it had been curated by Renaissance masters. The watercolor paints came in tubes with French labels, the brushes had

handles that appeared to be carved from ivory, and the paper was so thick and luxurious it felt like touching clouds.

“This is too much,” I started to say, but the woman held up one perfectly manicured hand.

“Nonsense! These children have survived a terrible ordeal with more grace than most adults display when their coffee order is incorrect. They deserve something beautiful.”

She settled back into her chair and proceeded to study me with the intensity of an art critic examining a recently discovered masterpiece. Her gaze moved from my sleep–disheveled hair to my wrinkled clothes to my bare feet, taking inventory with scientific precision.

“Fascinating,” she murmured, tilting her head like a curious bird. “The photographs really don’t do you justice.”

“I’m sorry, what photographs?”

“Oh, just some photos,” she said airily.

Alexander had managed to open his drone box and was now staring at its contents with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts. “This has cameras,” he breathed. “Multiple cameras.”

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