The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 520

Mia's POV

The crowd laughs. The soft, affectionate laughter.

"The rings," the officiant says.

Alexander explodes into motion.

"I HAVE THEM!" He's already running, the pillow bouncing in his hands, the rings jangling. "DON'T WORRY, I DIDN'T LOSE THEM THIS TIME! I KEPT CHECKING! EVERY FIVE MINUTES!"

"Alexander—"

"THEY'RE RIGHT HERE! SEE?" He skids to a stop in front of us, holding up the pillow with the kind of triumph usually reserved for Olympic medalists. "BOTH OF THEM! STILL ATTACHED!"

Kyle takes the rings. His hand is shaking.

"Good job, buddy," he says. His voice is thick.

"I know." Alexander grins. That gap-toothed grin. "I practiced."

He runs back to his siblings. I hear the inevitable argument beginning—"You were TOO LOUD, Alexander"—"I was ENTHUSIASTIC, there's a DIFFERENCE"—but it fades into background noise as Kyle takes my hand again.

The ring is simple. A band of platinum, unadorned. We chose it together, in a quiet moment that felt more intimate than any grand gesture. No diamonds. No decorations. Just metal, shaped into a circle that has no beginning and no end.

Kyle slides it onto my finger.

It fits perfectly. Of course it does.

"With this ring," he says, "I thee wed."

His voice breaks on the last word.

I take his ring. Hold it at the tip of his finger.

His hand is shaking. Mine is too. We're both trembling, both crying, both so full of something that there's no room left for composure.

"With this ring," I say, "I thee wed."

The metal slides into place.

Two rings. Two hands. Two people who have been moving toward this moment since before they knew what moments were.

"By the power vested in me by the State of New York," the officiant says, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

A pause. The whole garden holding its breath.

"You may kiss the bride."

Kyle doesn't hesitate.

His hands come up to frame my face—those familiar hands, those beloved hands—and he pulls me toward him. Slowly. Like he's savoring every millimeter, every fraction of a second before our lips meet.

"Hi, wife," he whispers.

"Hi, husband."

And then he's kissing me.

The kind of kiss that says I have time. We have time. We have the rest of our lives.

The crowd erupts.

Cheering, clapping, whistling. Alexander's voice rises above it all—"THEY'RE KISSING! THAT'S WHAT MARRIED PEOPLE DO!"—but I barely hear it.

I'm too busy kissing my husband.

When we finally pull apart, the world comes rushing back in. The sound of applause. The golden light of sunset. The faces of everyone we love, watching us with tears and smiles.

Kyle's forehead rests against mine.

"We did it," he says.

"We did it."

"Third time's the charm."

"Mia."

"Yes?"

He kisses me again. Shorter this time. A punctuation mark.

"We're married," he says. "Finally. Really. "

I look at him. At this man who has broken my heart and healed it. Who is standing here, in the golden light, with tears on his face and a ring on his finger and an expression that says he still can't quite believe this is real.

"Yes," I say. "We are."

The crowd is still cheering.

Our children are already running toward us—Alexander first, of course, crashing into Kyle's legs; then Ethan, more measured, wrapping his arms around my waist; then Madison, smallest and quietest, slipping between us to press her face against both of us at once.

Gas is barking. Someone is popping champagne. Somewhere, Scarlett is crying into Morton's shoulder while Sophie pretends not to be moved.

And through it all, Kyle's hand finds mine.

Holds on.

Doesn't let go.

The reception is a blur of golden light and laughter.

The tent glows from within, strung with thousands of tiny lights that look like captured stars. Tables are draped in ivory and gold, centered with arrangements of white roses and trailing greenery that spill over the edges like something wild and growing. Crystal catches the light. Silver gleams. Everything is beautiful in that particular way that only comes from careful planning and ridiculous amounts of money.

But I'm not looking at the decorations.

I'm looking at Kyle, across the dance floor, bending down to talk to Madison. She's showing him something—Eleanor, probably, or one of the flowers from her basket—and he's listening with that particular intensity that means he's giving her his complete attention. Not pretending. Not going through the motions. Actually listening.

She says something. He laughs.

And then he picks her up. Swings her around. Her surprised giggle carries across the tent, high and bright, the sound of a child who is learning—slowly, carefully—that adults can be trusted after all.

"You're staring."

Scarlett appears at my elbow, champagne in hand, mascara still ruined.

"I'm not staring. I'm... observing."

"You're staring at your husband."

Husband. The word still feels new. Strange. Like a garment I haven't broken in yet.

"Okay. I believe you."

His face changes. Something cracks open behind his eyes—relief, maybe, or joy, or something too big to name.

"You do?"

"I do." I smile. "Didn't I just say that? In front of two hundred witnesses?"

He laughs. That full, real laugh that I've been learning all over again.

"You did."

"So believe me when I say it again." I reach up. Touch his face. Feel the dampness on his cheeks, the warmth of his skin, the way his jaw tightens under my palm. "I believe you. I trust you. I choose you. Not because you've earned it—you're right, you probably haven't—but because I want to. Because seventeen years is long enough to wait. Because we've both made enough mistakes for one lifetime, and I'm ready to start making new ones. Together."

His eyes close.

"Together," he repeats.

"Together."

The music swells around us.

We dance.

Later—hours later, after the cake and the toasts and the endless parade of people wanting to shake our hands and kiss our cheeks and wish us well—I slip outside.

The garden is different in moonlight.

Softer. The sharp edges of daylight blurred into something dreamlike. The roses are silver now, their petals ghostly in the darkness. The fairy lights still glow, but quieter, their brightness muted by the vast indifference of the stars.

I find a bench at the edge of the rose garden.

Sit down.

Breathe.

Footsteps behind me.

I don't turn around. I don't need to.

Kyle sits beside me. The bench creaks under his weight. His shoulder brushes mine.

"Escaping your own wedding?"

"Taking a break," I correct him. "There's a difference."

"Mm." He leans back. Looks up at the sky. "It's a nice night."

"It's a beautiful night."

"Are you happy?"

The question lands softly. No pressure. Just curiosity.

I think about it.

Happy. Such a simple word for such a complicated feeling.

"Yes," I say finally. "I think I am."