Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 432

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 432

The dress hangs on the back of my bedroom door, swaying slightly in the draft from the heating vent that never quite closes properly. Navy blue. Simple. The kind of dress that says “I’m taking this seriously” without screaming “I’m trying too hard.”

I bought it three weeks ago at Nordstrom, spent twenty minutes in the fitting room staring at myself from different angles, then bought it. Returned it two days later because it felt too formal. Then bought it again last week because everything else I tried on felt wrong.

My hands are shaking as I reach for the zipper. Not a lot. Just enough that when my fingers first touch the metal pull, they slide off and I have to try again, catching it on the second attempt and pulling it up slowly. The sound of metal teeth meeting fills the quiet room, and I can hear my own breathing underneath it, slightly too fast, slightly too shallow.

Through the wall, I can hear Alexander’s voice, high and excited and talking so fast the words blur together into one continuous stream of consciousness.”—and then the judge will say ‘do you promise’ and Madison will say ‘I promise’ and then we’ll be OFFICIAL siblings! Not just regular siblings but LEGAL siblings which means nobody can ever say we’re not really family because there will be PAPERS and papers are OFFICIAL and-”

“Alexander.” Ethan’s voice cuts through, patient but tired in that particular way that suggests this is not the first time he’s heard this exact monologue this morning. “You’ve explained this seventeen times. I understand. We all understand.”

“But it’s IMPORTANT.”

“I know it’s important. You don’t have to keep saying the same thing over and over. That’s not how importance works.”

A knock on my door stops whatever Alexander was about to say next.

“Mia?” Madison’s voice is small, careful, the way it still gets sometimes when she’s not entirely sure if she’s allowed to interrupt, if her presence is welcome, if she’s being too much.

I cross the room and open the door, and she’s standing there in her new dress- pale pink, the color of early morning sky just as the sun is starting to think about rising. Little white flowers are embroidered around the collar in a pattern that looks like someone spent hours getting each petal exactly right. Her hair has been brushed smooth and pulled back with the butterfly clips I bought her last week.

“Does it look okay?” she asks, and her hands twist together in front of her, fingers lacing and unlacing and lacing again in that nervous gesture she does when she’s worried about getting something wrong, about being judged and found wanting.

“You look beautiful, baby.”

“Not too much?” Her eyes drop to the floor, to her black Mary Janes with the strap across the top. “The dress. Is it too much?” She stops, swallows, and I can see her throat working.

I kneel down right there in the doorway. “Look at me.”

She does, slowly, her brown eyes lifting to meet mine, and they’re wet but not crying yet, hovering on that edge.

“You look perfect. Not too much. Not too little. Just right.”

“Are you scared?” she asks.

“About today?”

She nods, and I can see her pulse beating fast in the hollow of her throat.

I think about lying, about saying no, of course not, everything will be fine, the words sitting ready on my tongue, easy and comforting and completely useless. But Madison has had enough lies in her short life, enough adults telling her things that sound good but mean nothing.

“A little bit,” I tell her instead, and I watch her eyes widen slightly at the honesty. “But the good kind of scared. The kind you get before something important happens. Like the first day of school. Or your birthday party. That butterfly feeling in your stomach.”

“I have butterflies too.” Her hand moves to press against her stomach through the pink fabric. “Lots of them. Like hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

“That’s okay. The butterflies mean you care.”

“Do they go away?”

“Eventually. After it’s done.”

“After I’m adopted?”

The word-adopted. Big and official and so real.

“Yes. After you’re adopted.”

She’s quiet for a moment, her eyes going distant like she’s trying to imagine a future that still feels impossible even though it’s only a few hours away. Then: “What if the judge says no?”

“He won’t.”

“But what if—”

“Madison.” I take both her hands in mine, feeling how small and warm they are, how her pulse is racing under the delicate skin of her wrists. “The judge isn’t going to say no. He’s going to look at all the reports and all the evidence and he’s going to see what I see that you’re my daughter already, have been for months now. Today is just making it official. Making it so nobody can ever say otherwise.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.”

“Like not-give-back forever?”

My throat closes completely, and for a second I can’t breathe at all because the question reveals so much about how she sees the world, about what she’s learned about love and belonging and how conditional it all is, how it can be taken away at any moment.

“Like not-give-back forever,” I manage to say, and my voice sounds rough even to my own ears. “Like you’re mine and I’m yours and nothing can change that.”

Now she smiles, really smiles, the kind that reaches her eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners and lights up her whole face. T

“Okay.”

The kitchen is controlled chaos when we walk in, the kind of organized disorder that happens when you have three children and limited time and everyone is excited about something big happening today.

Alexander has syrup on his face-on his cheek, on his chin, somehow on his left elbow in a way that defies both logic and the laws of physics. He’s attacking his waffle with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for action movies, cutting it into increasingly smaller pieces that he then stabs with his fork like he’s vanquishing tiny delicious enemies.

Ethan sits beside him, eating his own waffle with surgical precision, cutting it into perfect squares of exactly the same size and arranging them in a grid pattern on his plate before eating them in a specific order that only makes sense to him.

Gas is under the table, lying perfectly still except for her eyes, which track every movement of food with the patient intensity of a hunter who knows that Alexander will inevitably drop something because Alexander always drops something.

My mother stands at the stove, her back to us, flipping more waffles on the griddle with movements that are automatic and practiced, the muscle memory of thirty years of making breakfast. She’s humming something soft, a melody recognize from childhood but can’t quite name, something she used to. sing while cooking when I was small enough to stand on a chair beside her and help stir things.

“Mama, look!” Alexander holds up his fork with a piece of waffle dangling from it

precariously. “I made a flag! A waffle flag! For Madison’s special day!”

“That’s very patriotic, sweetheart.”

“What does patriotic mean?”

“It means you love your country.”

“I DO love my country!” He shoves the entire piece into his mouth, his cheeks

bulging like a chipmunk. “And waffles! I love waffles AND my country!” The words come out garbled and barely comprehensible around the food. “Dish ish sho good.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, baby.”

He makes an exaggerated show of chewing and swallowing, his whole face involved in the process. “Better?”

“Much better.”

Ethan looks up from his geometric waffle arrangement, his eyes finding mine with

that serious expression he wears when he’s about to ask a logistical question. “How long until we have to leave?”

I check my phone, the screen showing 9:47 AM in those clean digital numbers. “Forty-three minutes.”

“That’s enough time for me to finish breakfast and brush my teeth and—” He pauses, and I can practically see him calculating in his head, that little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “—and maybe read two chapters if I read fast.”

“No reading. We need to leave on time.”

“But-”

“No buts. Today we need to be exactly on time. Not early, not late. Exactly on time.”

He sighs in that long-suffering way that suggests this is a grave injustice but he’s going to accept it because he has no choice. He returns his attention to his waffles, cutting another perfect square.

Madison slides into the chair beside me, but she doesn’t touch her food. She just pushes it around her plate with her fork, making patterns in the syrup-swirls and figure-eights and abstract designs that might mean something or might just be a way to keep her hands busy.

“Not hungry?” I ask quietly, reaching over to smooth her hair back from her forehead.

She shakes her head, not looking up from her plate.

“Butterflies?”

She nods, and I see her throat work as she swallows.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. Today is different. Today

the butterflies get to win.”

“But you always say breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That our brains need fuel to work properly.”

“You’re right, I do say that. But today is special. Today your stomach is already full

-full of butterflies and excitement and maybe a little bit of nervousness. That’s okay. That’s allowed.”

She sets down her fork, and the relief that crosses her face is immediate and

visible, like I’ve just given her permission to stop pretending she’s okay when she’s really not.

My mother appears with coffee, setting it in front of me without a word, and the mug is warm in my hands, the coffee smelling like everything safe and familiar and

grounding. Steam rises from the surface in lazy spirals, and watch it for a moment before taking a sin, letting the beat and bittemess wake up parts of my brain that are still

foggy with sleep and nerves.

“You ready?” she asks, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

“I think so.”

“You think so or you know so?”

“I think so.” I take another sip. “Is that enough?”noveldrama

She smiles, and there’s something knowing in it, something that comes from

having lived longer and survived more. “Nobody’s ever really ready for the big moments. You just show up and hope for the best.”

Her hand touches my shoulder, just once, brief and warm and reassuring, before

she moves away to flip more waffles.

The doorbell rings.

Gas barks once-sharp and alerting-then seems to recognize the sound and the pattern of footsteps on the other side and switches to tail-wagging instead.

“I’LL GET IT!” Alexander is already running, his chair scraping back across the floor with a sound that makes my teeth ache.