Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 424

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 424

I’ve been watching her for too long.

Long enough that I’ve memorized the exact shade of late afternoon light filtering through the living room windows–that honey–gold that makes everything look softer, warmer, more forgiving than it has any right to

1. be.

I’m hoping she’ll look my way. That her eyes will find mine across this small universe of afternoon sunlight.

Or maybe I’m hoping she never stops spinning. That she stays exactly like this–head thrown back, smile breaking across her face like sunrise, arms spread wide like she’s trying to embrace the whole damn world.

I don’t know which outcome I want more.

She’s spinning. Really spinning. The kind of unself–conscious rotation that only children do, except she’s doing it too. Her sundress–pale blue cotton that skims her thighs–flares out with each turn, creating this bell- shaped silhouette that makes my chest tight. It’s not a performance. There’s no audience in her mind. She’s not thinking about how she looks or who might be watching.

She’s just… spinning.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long line of her throat. Her eyes are closed, lashes dark crescents against flushed cheeks. Her mouth is curved in this smile I haven’t seen in so long I’d almost forgotten it existed. It’s unguarded. Pure. The kind of smile that exists before pain teaches you to protect yourself.

Five years.

Five years,

two months, and thirteen days since I last saw that smile.

But who’s counting?

The children orbit around her like small planets around the sun. Three of them. Alexander moves with wild abandon, his whole body committed to the spin, arms windmilling, his favorite dinosaur t–shirt twisted halfway around his torso. Madison is more careful, hands held out for balance. And Ethan’s own feet follow the rhythm.

My sons.

I’ve missed everything. Every single goddamn thing that matters.

The first time they rolled over. That moment when they figured out their bodies could do that, when gravity stopped being an enemy and became something they could negotiate with. The first steps. Those wobbly, brave attempts at defying the laws of physics, chubby hands reaching for furniture, for Mia’s hands, for stability in a world that tilts and shifts.

The first words. “Mama” probably. It’s always “Mama” first. That sound that means everything–hunger, fear, comfort, love. The sound that means you are my whole world.

The first laugh. That pure, unfiltered joy that babies have before they learn that some things are funny and some

things aren’t, when everything is potentially hilarious. The first tears. The first time they needed comfort and I wasn’t there to give it.

The first time they called for a father who wasn’t there.

All the firsts. Every single one.

Gone.

The music fills the apartment–loud, unapologetic salsa. Tito Puente or maybe Eddie Palmieri, I can’t tell. Bright brass that cuts through the air like sunlight through clouds. Congas driving a rhythm that makes your hips want to move even if you’re trying to stand still. Piano montuno dancing over the top. That particular energy that makes staying still feel like a crime against nature.

I force myself to remain motionless. Because if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll move toward her, and if I move toward her, this moment will shatter like dropped glass.

So I stay.

I watch.

Mia’s dress catches my attention again.

It’s a sundress, simple cotton with thin straps that tie at her shoulders. The bodice fits close, then the skirt flares from her waist, hitting just above her knees. There’s nothing particularly special about it—you could buy it at a thousand places. But on her, with the afternoon light behind her, with her spinning like she’s forgotten how to be anything but joyful. Updates are released by Find[ɴ]ovel.net

It’s devastating.

Her hair is pulled up in what might have started as a neat bun but has come loose. Tendrils have escaped, stuck to her neck with the slight dampness of exertion. A few wisps plaster against her forehead. One curl bounces against her cheek with each rotation.

She’s not wearing makeup.

I could see the little freckles on her nose. She always tries to cover them up. But I always love them.

She’s real. Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with perfection.

Her feet are bare.

This detail stricks me for some reason.

She looks happy.

The spin is slowing now. The momentum gradually bleeding away. Her arms drop slightly. Her head comes forward. Her eyes open-

And find me.

The smile doesn’t disappear immediately. It takes a second. There’s this moment where she’s still smiling,

where her brain hasn’t caught up to what her eyes are seeing.

My mouth curves up. Just slightly. Just enough that she’ll know I’m seeing her.

I tried to keep my face neutral. I really did. I told myself to stay stone–faced,.

But seeing her face turn toward mine–seeing those eyes widen slightly as they register my presence–I can’t help it.

I smile.