The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 518

Mia's POV

The hallway outside the bridal suite is long.

I've never noticed how long hallways can be. How each step echoes. How the light changes as you move through space—gold near the windows, silver in the shadows, something in between where the two meet and blur.

My mother walks on my left. Her hand is tucked into the crook of my arm, her fingers light against the ivory silk, barely there but unmistakably present. She hasn't stopped crying since she saw me in the dress. Silent tears, the kind that don't need sound, that just happen because the heart is too full to hold everything inside.

Scarlett walks ahead, champagne abandoned somewhere, her emerald dress catching the light as she moves. Sophie brings up the rear. I can hear her heels.

The castle stretches around us.

The corridor opens onto a gallery. High ceilings—twenty feet, maybe more—supported by columns that curve upward like the ribs of some beautiful, ancient creature. The walls are pale gold, the color of champagne, the color of late afternoon light. Portraits hang at intervals, faces from another century watching us pass, their eyes following with the particular stillness of people who have seen everything and been surprised by nothing.

"Breathe," my mother whispers.

I realize I've stopped.

I close my eyes.

Breathe.

When I open them, she's smiling. That particular smile—the one I remember from before. Before the coma. Before Richard. Before everything fell apart and had to be rebuilt, piece by painful piece.

"Ready?" she asks.

I nod.

We walk.

The doors to the garden are made of glass.

Floor to ceiling, framed in wrought iron that curls and twists like living vines. Through them, I can see everything—the chairs arranged in perfect rows, the aisle carpeted in white, the guests turning in their seats to watch for my arrival.

And at the end of it all, standing beneath an arch of white roses and trailing ivy—

Kyle.

I stop again.

I can't help it. My body simply refuses to move, rooted to the marble floor like something that has grown there. My heart is doing something impossible in my chest—beating too fast, too loud, so loud that surely everyone can hear it, surely Kyle can hear it from fifty feet away.

He's facing the altar. I can only see his back—the broad shoulders, the perfect line of his suit, the way he's standing with his hands clasped behind him. Patient. Still. The posture of a man who has learned to wait.

Then, as if he can feel my gaze—as if some invisible thread connects us across the space—he turns.

Our eyes meet through the glass.

And everything else disappears.

"I love you too."

"Shut up. Don't make it worse." She releases my hand. Wipes her eyes. Straightens her spine. "Okay. Okay. I'm going. I'm sitting down. Don't trip on your dress."

She's gone before I can respond. A flash of emerald green, disappearing around the corner, heels clicking against the floor like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Sophie steps forward.

"She's right, you know." Her voice is quieter than usual. Almost gentle. "About the crying. I've never seen Scarlett cry at anything. Including her own weddings."

"Don't tell her I noticed."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She reaches out. Adjusts something at my shoulder—a fold of fabric, a strand of hair, something imperceptible that only she can see. "There. Perfect."

"Thank you. For everything. The ribbon, the—"

"Stop." She holds up one hand. "If you thank me, I will also cry, and I am French. The French do not cry at weddings. We observe. We judge. We make comments about the wine selection."

"And what's your verdict on the wine selection?"

"Acceptable. Barely." The corner of her mouth twitches. "Now go. Your husband is waiting."

The music begins.