Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 186

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 186

Whispers in the Snow

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.” 1 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 comer 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

Whispers in the Snow

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.

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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.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You could have asked. I would have brought it to you.”

“I didn’t want to disturb your work,” I replied, wrapping the scarf around my shoulders with hands I forced to remain steady. “Besides, I needed to stretch my legs.”

She nodded, accepting my explanation, though it seemed like she wasn’t entirely convinced. “Would you like some tea? I was about to make some.”

That would be lovely,” I said, following her from the room.

“Mom,” I began, settling onto a stool at the counter. “Are you… seeing someone?”

Her hands stilled momentarily before resuming their task. “What makes you ask that?”

“Just an observation,” I said carefully. “You seem different lately. Happier.”

She was quiet for a long moment, measuring tea leaves into the pot with deliberate precision. When she finally spoke, her voice held a note of caution.

“I’ve been… reconnecting with an old friend,” she admitted. “It’s nothing serious, just dinner occasionally, some conversation.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said.

A small smile played at her lips. “Thank you for understanding, darling.”

My phone buzzed insistently in my pocket, disrupting the moment. With an apologetic glance at my mother, I pulled it out, expecting another message from Scarlett or perhaps Robert with a legal update.

Instead, I found myself staring at a news alert that made my blood run cold:

BREAKING: Diane Porter’s Missing Diaries Discovered – Contents Could Implicate Multiple Business Leaders in

Cover–Up

I tapped on the link, scanning the article:

Sources close to the investigation have confirmed that several volumes of Diane Porter’s personal diaries have been recovered from a storage facility in Manhattan. The diaries, which span the year leading up to her death, reportedly contain detailed accounts of questionable business practices by Alexander Branson and several associates, including specific threats made against Porter when she threatened to go public.

The Manhattan District Attorney’s office has declined to comment on whether the diaries will lead to

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Whispers in the Snow.

posthumous charges against Branson or new investigations into living business partners who may have been involved in Porter’s death.

Taylor Matthews, who first brought allegations about Porter’s death to light, released a statement expressing satisfaction that “justice for Diana may finally be possible.” Matthews, who is facing charges related to an alleged attack on her stepsister earlier this year….

I stopped reading.

“Bad news?” my mother asked.

“Just more drama with the Branson case,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Nothing that affects us directly.”

She studied my face for a moment, pouring our tea into delicate cups that had belonged to my grandmother.

“Here,” she said, sliding a cup toward me. “This might help.”