Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 430

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 430

“Come here,” Kyle says again, and this time his hands pull gently.

I let him pull me forward. My knees slide across the cold tile, and then his arms are around me, wrapping and encircling and holding. One arm spreads wide between my shoulder blades while the other settles lower around my waist, his fingers pressing into the soft part above my hip. He pulls me against his chest and my face hits his shoulder, my nose pressed into fabric that smells like hospital laundry detergent—that industrial clean smell that never quite leaves.

His chin comes down and rests on top of my head, and I can feel his heartbeat thudding too fast against my cheek through layers of cotton and skin. My hands hover uncertainly before they find his back, fists closing around fabric.

We sink down together in a graceless collapse, my knees giving out, his knees giving out, until we’re just sitting there, slumped and tangled together on the kitchen floor. The tile is so cold it radiates up through everything-through my dress, through his pants, making my legs feel numb.

“I’m getting your shirt wet,” I mumble into his shoulder, feeling the fabric grow damp under my face.

“I don’t care.”

“It’s going to be all gross and soggy.”

“I really don’t care, Mia.”

His hand starts moving up and down my back, soothing, making my breathing slow and the tears gradually subside. The refrigerator hums its low electrical sound, the ice maker clicks somewhere inside, and Kyle’s breathing is loud and rough in my ear with that wheeze underneath, his lungs working too hard for something that should be automatic.

“Your breathing sounds really bad,” I say.

“It always sounds bad.”

“You should be in the hospital right now.”

“Probably,” he admits, and his hand keeps moving up and down my spine. “But I’d rather be here with you on your kitchen floor, even if I can’t breathe properly.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Most romantic things are stupid when you think about them.”

The word catches me-romantic. I pull back just enough to look at his face, and

his gray-blue eyes find mine immediately, red-rimmed and exhausted.

“Romantic?” I ask.

“What else would you call sitting on a kitchen floor while you cry on me?”

“Pathetic?”

“That too.” His thumb comes up and catches a tear sliding down my cheek, and I notice the roughness of it, the way it catches slightly on my skin.

“You have calluses now,” I say. “On your thumb. You didn’t use to have calluses.” He looks at his hand. “Huh. I guess I do.”

“From what?”

“Physical therapy. They make me use these resistance bands, squeeze these foam balls to build strength back up.” He flexes his hand, opening and closing it. “Apparently it causes calluses.”

I catch his hand and bring it closer, studying the small ridges of thickened skin at the base of each finger and across the top of his palm.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“It did at first. Not anymore.”

“Mia.” His voice makes me look up, and his face is so close I can see individual eyelashes and the small scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike at eight years old.

That’s when we hear it. A small giggle, quickly muffled.

Both our heads turn toward the doorway where three small faces are peeking around the door frame, stacked vertically like a totem pole-Alexander on top, clearly standing on something, Madison in the middle, and Ethan at the bottom. All six eyes are wide with the look of being caught.

“Hi,” Alexander says brightly, like he wasn’t just spying. “We woke up.”

Kyle’s arms loosen around me but he doesn’t let go completely. “We can see that,” I say.

“You were crying,” Madison observes, her voice soft and worried. “Are you sad?”

“A little.”

“Is it because of Dad?” Ethan asks with his usual directness.

“Sort of.” The source of thɪs content is find{n}ovel.net

Alexander’s eyes dart between us with interest. “Are you fighting? Because you’re sitting really close for people who are fighting. When Ethan and I fight, he goes to the other side of the room.”

“We’re not fighting,” Kyle says.

“Then why is Mama crying?”

Kyle chooses his words carefully. “Sometimes people cry when they’re talking about hard things, even if they’re not fighting.”

“That makes sense.” He nods sagely, then adds, “Can we come in? We’re getting tired of standing in the doorway and Madison’s head is too pointy. It’s poking my stomach.”

“My head is not pointy!” Madison protests.

“It feels pointy from up here.”

“Are you going to stay there?” I ask, trying not to laugh.

They tumble into the kitchen all at once like a small avalanche of children. Alexander reaches us first-of course he does-and drops to his knees beside

us, his hand immediately reaching out to touch my puffy face.

“Mama, your eyes look like you got stung by bees.”

“Thank you for that observation, baby.”

“Really puffy. Like those blow-up things at the pool.” He pokes gently at my cheek. “Squishy too.”

“Alexander-”

“But still pretty!” he adds hastily. “Pretty puffy. Like a pretty marshmallow.”

Ethan arrives next and sits down

cross-legged, studying both of us with those serious eyes that always make him seem older than five. “Are you sick too, Mama? Because you’re sick, Dad shouldn’t be here. He could catch it and get more sick.”

“No, sweetheart. Just emotional.”

“What does emotional mean?”

“It means having a lot of feelings all at once.”

“Oh.” He nods like this makes perfect sense. “I have a lot of feelings too sometimes. Like when Alexander breaks my Lego builds on purpose.”

“It was an accident!” Alexander protests automatically.

“You said it looked like a building that needed to be destroyed by Godzilla.” “Yeah, but I didn’t mean ”

Madison is last to sit down, pressing her small body against my side, seeking contact and reassurance. “I get emotional too,” she says quietly. “When I think about my daddy.”

I extract one arm from Kyle’s embrace to wrap around her and pull her closer.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. That’s very normal.”

Now we’re all on the floor-five

people sitting on cold kitchen tile like this is a completely reasonable

place to have a family gatheret

Alexander looks at all of us thoughtfully, then scoots forward and wedges himself between me and Kyle, his back against my chest and his legs stretched out toward Kyle.

“This is cozy,” he announces.

“It’s cramped,” Ethan corrects. “There’s a difference. Cozy is when it’s nice to be

close. Cramped is when you’re squished and uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable, so it’s cozy.”

“If you say so.”

Kyle’s hand finds the back of Alexander’s head, his fingers threading through messy hair in that gentle touch that makes Alexander’s eyes close slightly like a cat being

petted. “Dad?” Alexander says.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Why are you and Mama sitting on the floor instead of the couch? The couch is

way more comfortable. I know because I tested it this morning by jumping on it fifteen times.”

“You what?” I ask.

“I was conducting an experiment about bounce factors,” Ethan supplies helpfully.

“He wanted to see if different parts of the couch bounced differently.”

“And do they?” Kyle asks, sounding genuinely interested.

“Yes! The middle bounces the most!” Alexander says enthusiastically. “The sides

are more firm. It’s because of weight distribution and—”

“We’re getting off topic,” I interrupt. “No more jumping on the couch.”

“But science-”

“No.”

Alexander sighs dramatically but doesn’t argue further. Instead he looks at Kyle.

“So why the floor?”

“Because sometimes when you’re having an important conversation, the floor is

the best place to be,” Kyle explains.

“Why?”

“Because you can’t fall any further.”

Alexander thinks about this with the same serious expression he uses when trying

to understand why he can’t have ice cream for breakfast. “That’s actually smart.

But the floor is really cold.”

“It is cold,” Kyle agrees.

“And hard. Like really hard. My butt is already getting uncomfortable.”

“Also true.”

“So maybe the couch would be better next time? For important conversations? Since you’ve already had this one and you know the floor isn’t great?” Despite everything, I actually laugh—a real laugh that comes out weird, half

hiccup, but genuine. Kyle looks at me and smiles, and for just a second it feels like before.

“Maybe you’re right,” Kyle tells Alexander. “Should we move to the couch?”

“I don’t know if I can move,” I admit. “I’ve been crying for twenty minutes and now

my body feels like jelly.”

“What kind of jelly?” Alexander asks with immediate interest.

“I don’t know. Strawberry?”

“I like strawberry jelly. Can I have some?”

“I meant-never mind.”

“I could carry you,” Kyle offers, and I look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“You can barely walk up stairs without getting winded.”

“I can carry my wife.” “Ex-wife,” I correct automatically, and the word sits between us like a stone.

Ethan is watching this exchange with the fascination of a scientist observing an experiment. “Are you going to get married again?”