Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 469

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 469

Kyle’s POV

The parking garage is quiet.

That particular underground silence where every sound gets swallowed by concrete. The tick of the engine cooling. The soft rustle of the children’s clothing in the backseat. Gas shifting, her nails clicking against the leather seat.

And Mia’s breathing.

Steady. Slow. The rhythm of someone who has let go of consciousness completely. Who trusts the space around her enough to fall this deep into sleep.

I should wake her. Should say her name. Tap her shoulder. Something appropriate. Something that respects the distance she keeps between us.

But I don’t move.

My hands are still on the steering wheel. Ten and two. Like I’m still driving. Like we haven’t been parked for thirty seconds. Forty. A minute now.

The lines.

They spread across her hip like rivers on a map. Like the branches of a tree. Like cracks in old marble-the kind that doesn’t diminish the stone but proves its age. Its survival.

Silver against her skin. Pale. Almost iridescent in the dim light of the parking garage. The way they catch what little illumination exists and turn it into something like starlight.

“She says—” Alexander pauses. His voice gets even quieter. Almost reverent. she says those are her favorite scars.”

My throat closes.

“We came to her.” Alexander’s voice is simple. Matter-of-fact. Like he’s explaining something obvious. Something everyone should already know. “Me and Ethan. We gave her those lines when we were in her tummy. And she says that makes them beautiful.”

Madison leans forward. Her small face appearing in the gap between the front seats.

“Mama says scars mean you survived something,” she adds quietly. “That you were brave.”

I can’t speak.

My hand moves before I tell it to.

My fingers hover.

Just above her skin. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body. Close enough that if I breathed wrong, I’d touch her.

But I don’t touch. Not yet.

I just look.

The lines tell a story. I can read it if I try. The way they spread-outward from her center like ripples in water. Like something expanding. Growing. Making room. Making room for them.

For Alexander and Ethan. For the two boys who exist because of her. Who survived because she held onto them. Who came into the world early and fighting and alive because she refused to let them go.

I wasn’t there when these lines formed. Wasn’t there to watch her body change. Wasn’t there to put my hand on her stomach and feel them moving inside her. Wasn’t there to tell her she was beautiful.

My hand lowers.

The first touch is barely a touch at all. Just my fingertips. Just the very tips of them. Making contact with her skin.

She’s warm.

Warmer than I expected. That particular warmth of sleep. Of a body that has relaxed completely. That has let go of all tension and just exists.

The texture under my fingers is different where the lines are. Slightly raised. Slightly smoother than the surrounding skin. Like satin ribbons woven into cotton.

I trace one line.

Slow. So slow it barely counts as movement. Just my fingertip following the path it carved. From her hip bone inward. Toward her navel. Disappearing under the waistband of her jeans.

“Daddy?” Alexander’s whisper again.

I don’t look up. Can’t look away from what I’m touching.

“Why are you touching Mama’s scars?”

I don’t have an answer.

My finger traces another line. This one curves differently. Branches halfway through. Splits into two paths that run parallel before converging again.

Like a river delta. Like lightning captured in skin.

“Because they’re beautiful,” I hear myself say.

The words surprise me. Not that I said them. But that they’re not enough. That no word in any language could capture what I’m looking at. What I’m touching. What I missed.

Madison makes a small sound. Agreement maybe. Understanding.

“Mama thinks so too,” she says quietly. “She showed me once. When I was sad about the marks on my arms.”

I look up then. Meet Madison’s eyes.

She’s holding her arm out slightly. The sleeve of her jacket pulled back. And I can see what she means. Small scars. Thin ones. The kind that children get from falling. From playing too hard. From being small in a world built for bigger people.

“She said marks mean you lived,” Madison continues. Her voice has that particular quality she gets when she’s repeating something important. Something she’s memorized because it matters. “That you did things and survived them. That your body tells your story even when your mouth doesn’t.”

My hand stills on Mia’s stomach.

Her body tells her story.

“We should go inside,” Ethan says. Practical. Grounding. “Mama’s going to get cold

if we keep sitting here with the engine off.”

He’s right.

The car is already cooling down. The heater died with the engine. In a few more minutes, the November air will start seeping in. Finding its way through the seals. The windows.

I pull my hand back.

The loss of contact feels wrong. Like pulling away from a fire in winter. Like leaving something important behind.

“Okay,” I say. My voice still rough. “Let’s get you three inside first. Then I’ll come back for Mama.”

“You’re going to carry her?” Alexander’s eyes go wide. “Like in the movies?”

“Yes.”

“That’s so ROMANTIC!” He claps his hand over his mouth immediately. Remembering he’s supposed to be quiet. “Sorry,” he whispers through his fingers. “That was too loud.”

“A little.”

I open my door. Slowly. The sound of the handle clicking seems too loud in the underground silence. The dome light comes on—I reach up and switch it off before it can disturb Mia’s sleep.

The air outside the car is cold. Sharper than I expected. That particular concrete- and-exhaust smell of parking garages. Familiar and strange at the same time.

I walk around to Alexander’s door. Open it. Unbuckle him from his car seat with hands that have learned this motion only recently. The mechanism still feels unfamiliar. Too complicated. Too many buttons and clips for something meant to be operated by tired parents.

“Can you carry the elephant?” I ask him.

“Obviously.” He clutches it tighter. “I’m never letting go of this elephant. This is MY elephant now. Forever.”

“Good.”

Madison is next. Her buckle is different-a simpler one because she’s older. She slides out of the car carefully. Her shoes hitting the concrete with small taps. Ethan unbuckles himself. He always does. Has insisted on it since the second time he rode in my car. “I’m capable of operating a standard seatbelt mechanism,” he’d told me. Very serious. Very Ethan.

Gas is last. She’s awake now. Alert. Her ears perked forward. That particular

attention dogs get when they sense something interesting happening.

I clip her leash on. Hand it to Ethan.

“Can you manage?”

“Of course.” He wraps the leash around his hand. Professional. “Gas and I have an

understanding.”

The dog looks up at him. Her tail wags once. Agreement.

We walk to the elevator. The children’s footsteps echo in the empty garage. Alexander’s sneakers squeak with each step-that sound rubber makes on painted concrete. Madison’s shoes are quieter More careful. Ethan walks with Gas, their movements synchronized in a way that suggests they’ve done this

before.

I press the elevator button. The machinery groans somewhere above us. That old-

building sound of cables and pulleys working.

Madison’s hand finds mine. Her fingers small and warm.

The elevator arrives. The doors open with a sound that’s too loud. I hold them.

Gesture for the children to enter first.

They file in. Alexander first, clutching his elephant. Madison second, still holding my hand until the last possible moment. Ethan last, with Gas walking calmly beside him. The elevator is small. Old. The kind with brass fixtures that have gone dull with age.

A mirror on the back wall that’s spotted with something-age or cleaning product or

both.

I press the button for their floor. The doors close.

We rise.

The numbers tick by. One. Two. Three.

“When you bring Mama up,” Alexander says, “can I see? I want to see you carry her

like in the movies.”

“It’s late. You should be getting ready for bed.”

“But I want to SEE-”

“Alexander.” I use my quiet voice. The one that works better than volume. “Bed.”

He huffs. Crosses his arms. The elephant gets squished in the process but he doesn’t notice.

“Fine.”

The elevator stops. The doors open.

Mia’s hallway, know it by sight now.

The particular color of the carpet-something between gray and blue, worn thin in paths that show where people walk most. The

light fixtures that buzz slightly. The door numbers that are brass but some of them have lost their shine.

We walk to it. The children ahead of me. Gas’s nails clicking on the thin carpet. Alexander still hugging his elephant. Madison counting doors under her breath-a habit she has, counting things, finding patterns in numbers.

I unlock the door. Mia gave me a key weeks ago. After everything that happened. After Victoria. After the kidnapping. After she decided that maybe, possibly, having me able to enter her apartment in an emergency wasn’t the worst idea.

The key still feels like a gift.

The apartment is dark. Just the small lamp in the living room that Mia always leaves

on. That crooked shade I’ve noticed before. That warm yellow glow that makes the space feel lived in even when everyone’s gone.

“Pajamas,” I tell the children. “Teeth. Bed.”

“But—” Alexander starts.

“Now.”

He goes. Dragging his feet. Making sure I know he’s unhappy about this. But going.

Madison follows more quietly. She stops at her door. Looks back at me.

“Daddy?” “Yes?”

“Thank you for winning me the elephant.” Her voice is small. Sincere. “Even though

Alexander took it.”

“I’ll win you one next time.”

She smiles. Just slightly. That smile she has that’s still learning how to be free. How

to exist without checking first if it’s allowed.

Then she disappears into her room.

Ethan is unclipping Gas’s leash. Hanging it on the hook by the door. The hook that’s

slightly crooked—I’ve noticed that too. Noticed everything about this apartment. Every small imperfection. Every sign of life.

“You should hurry,” he says. Without looking at me. Just matter-of-fact. “The parking garage gets colder as the night progresses. The concrete acts as a heat sink. Mama will lose body temperature at approximately 0.3 degrees per minute without the

car’s heating system.”