Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 173

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 173

The next morning I wake feeling more refreshed than I expected, the long sleep having restored some of my depleted energy reserves.

Gas greets me with his usual enthusiasm, his entire body wiggling with joy as if he hasn’t seen me in weeks rather than hours. The simple, uncomplicated love of a dog is exactly what I need this morning.

“Gas baby,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears, “Mommy loves you too.”

In the kitchen, Mom is already preparing breakfast, the scent of coffee and toast filling the air. “You’re up early, “she comments, eyeing me with mild surprise. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” I confirm, accepting the glass of orange juice she offers. “And I’ve been thinking. I need to get out of this apartment.”

She frowns.

“I can’t hide forever, Mom,” I point out. “Besides, I have a site inspection scheduled at the children’s center today. It’s important.”

“I could call and reschedule,” Mom suggests. “I’m sure they’d understand.”

“No,” I shake my head firmly. “I need this, Mom. I need to feel normal, to do something productive. And inspecting a construction site is hardly a social engagement. I’ll be fine.”

She studies my face, clearly weighing her concern against my determination. “At least let me arrange for extra security,” she says finally. “After Kyle’s press conference, there could be photographers or reporters hanging around.”

“Fine,” I concede, knowing it’s a reasonable precaution. “But I’m going. I need to get out of this apartment before I lose my mind.”

After breakfast, I spend extra time getting ready, choosing clothes that both accommodate my expanding body and offer some semblance of professional appearance. A loose–fitting black maxi dress topped with an oversized cardigan in deep burgundy, comfortable ankle boots with a low, stable heel, and a wide–brimmed hat that might help obscure my face from any lingering photographers.

I pull my hair back in a simple knot, apply the minimum makeup needed to look presentable, and assess the result in the mirror. I look tired but determined, the dark circles under my eyes mostly concealed, my posture as straight as my pregnant frame allows.

“Ready, Gas?” I ask, clipping on his leash. The children’s center is where I first found little Gas, a stray puppy wandering the construction site. It seems fitting to bring him back to see the progress.

He yips excitedly, dancing around my feet as I gather my bag, my tablet, and the folder containing the latest design adjustments for the sensory garden.

Mom is waiting by the door, her expression a mixture of worry and resignation. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” she says. “Call me if anything happens, anything at all.”

She nods. “He’s waiting downstairs. And Robert’s arranged for two security personnel to meet you at the site. They’ll stay in the background unless needed.”

It feels excessive, but after yesterday’s media explosion, I understand the precaution. “Thank you,” I say sincerely. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

The elevator ride to the lobby is uneventful, but as the doors open, I immediately sense something different. Eduardo, usually stationed behind the front desk, is instead positioned near the entrance, engaged in what appears to be a heated conversation with someone outside.

I approach cautiously, Gas walking obediently at my side.

“Eduardo? Is everything alright?”

He turns, relief washing over his face when he sees me. “Ms. Williams, good morning. I was just explaining to these… gentlemen… that this is a private building and they need to move along.”

Through the glass doors, I can see three men with cameras, their lenses pointed expectantly toward the entrance. Reporters, or more likely paparazzi, waiting for a glimpse of the woman Kyle Branson publicly declared his intention to win back.

My stomach sinks. Of course they’re here. How could I have been naive enough to think otherwise?

“Is there another way out?” I ask quietly.

Eduardo nods. “The service entrance. I’ll have someone bring your car around to meet you there.”

“Thank you,” I say gratefully, already turning back toward the elevators. “I appreciate your help.”

He smiles warmly. “It’s my pleasure, Ms. Williams. And if I may say, we’re all rooting for you here.”

The simple kindness brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them back, managing a wobbly smile of thanks before retreating to the service corridor with Gas trotting faithfully beside me.

The service entrance opens onto a small, unremarkable side street mostly used for deliveries and maintenance access. Edmund is already waiting there, the car idling as he steps out to open the door for me.

“Good morning, Ms. Williams,” he greets me, professional as always. “I understand we’re headed to the children’s center today?”

“That’s right,” I confirm, allowing him to help me into the back seat. Gas jumps in after me, settling on the floor at my feet. “Thank you for the quick adjustment.”

He smiles politely. “No trouble at all. We’ll have you there in about twenty minutes, traffic permitting.”

The drive passes in silence. I spend most of it staring out the window, watching the city blur past, trying to prepare myself for what awaits at the construction site. Will there be more reporters there?

Fuck Kyle Branson.

When we arrive at the children’s center, I’m relieved to see the site appears normal. Construction workers move purposefully about, materials are being unloaded from trucks, and the project manager, Javier, is waiting near the entrance, clipboard in hand.

“Ms. Williams,” he greets me warmly as Edmund helps me from the car. “It’s good to see you. We weren’t sure if you’d still be coming after… well…”

He trails off awkwardly, clearly aware of yesterday’s media circus but unsure how to reference it politely.

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” I assure him with a smile. “This project is too important.”

Relief washes over his features. “Excellent. We have a lot to show you. The sensory garden is progressing well, and the interactive wall in the main therapy room has been installed.”

I follow him toward the entrance, Gas at my heels, Edmund trailing at a discreet distance. As we approach, I notice two unfamiliar men in dark suits scanning the perimeter. Robert’s security team, I assume, blending in as well as can be expected on a construction site.

The children’s center has been my passion project from the beginning, a space designed specifically for young trauma survivors to heal through therapeutic architecture and nature–based recovery programs. Every decision, from the flowing layout to the calming color scheme to the tactile materials used throughout, has been carefully considered to create an environment of safety and comfort.

Walking through the space now, seeing my designs come to life, I feel a profound sense of achievement. This, at least, is something real and tangible, something good I’m bringing into the world alongside my children.

“The sensory garden is this way,” Javier guides me, careful to point out any uneven flooring or potential obstacles in my path.

We step outside into what will soon be a therapeutic outdoor space. Already, the basic structure is in place- winding paths, raised garden beds, a small stream feature that will provide both visual interest and soothing sound. Around the perimeter, workers are installing the pergola that will eventually support climbing plants, creating a natural canopy.

“It’s coming together beautifully,” I say, genuine pleasure warming my voice. “The water feature is exactly right -not too loud but audible enough to mask city sounds.”

Javier beams with pride. “Your specifications were very clear. We’ve also started installing the various textural elements you designed for the sensory stations.”

Gas trots happily ahead of us, sniffing curiously at each new feature, his tail wagging as he investigates his surroundings. This is where I found him all those months ago—a scraggly stray puppy wandering among construction materials. Now he’s a healthy, well–adjusted dog returning to where our journey together began.

I’m about to comment on the installation of the wind chimes when I notice a commotion near the site entrance. Several construction workers have stopped what they’re doing, gesturing toward a group of people trying to gain

access.

“What’s going on?” I ask Javier, squinting to see better.