Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 480

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 480

The screen goes dark.

Time stops making sense after the fourth champagne.

Or the fifth. Or the shot that Marcos slides across the table with that smile the one that promises nothing good and everything fun.

“This one’s called Amnesia,” he says.

“That seems like a warning,” I say.

“That seems like a promise,” Sophie corrects, and we all drink.

The world softens at the edges. The bass becomes less a sound and more a feeling —something that lives inside my chest, syncing with my heartbeat until I can’t tell where the music ends and I begin. The lights are prettier now. The purple bleeds into pink bleeds into gold bleeds into something that doesn’t have a name. Like the club is breathing. Like we’re all inside some giant, glittering creature, and it’s swallowing us whole.

Sophie is dancing on the couch. When did Sophie get on the couch? Her heels are somewhere else—abandoned, forgotten—and her hair has come undone from its perfect chignon, spilling down her back in dark waves. She looks like a painting. Like something you’d see in a museum with a title like “Woman Untethered” or “Joy, Unfiltered.”

“I LOVE THIS SONG!” she screams.

“WHAT SONG?” Scarlett screams back.

“ALL OF THEM! EVERY SONG!”

Scarlett is laughing. Really laughing. That deep, uncontrollable kind that makes her whole body shake. Her leather pants are still pristine-how are they still pristine?— but her mascara has smudged and her lipstick has transferred to her champagne glass and she looks younger than I’ve ever seen her. Softer. Like the divorce and the reconciliation and all the hard years have melted away and left behind the girl she used to be.

“Mia.” Someone is touching my arm. “Mia, hey.”

I turn. The world turns with me-slower, like moving through honey.

Daniel’s face swims into focus. His beautiful face. His concerned face. Why is he concerned? Everything is wonderful. Everything is sparkling.

“How many drinks have you had?”

I hold up my hand. Count my fingers. There are too many fingers. When did I get extra fingers?

“Several,” I say. The word comes out wrong. Sheveral. “Shev-er-al.”

“That’s what I thought.” His hand is on my elbow now. Steadying. “Where are your car keys?”

“Don’t have any.” I’m very proud that I can form this sentence. “Sophie. Sophie drove. Sophie’s car. Sophie’s keys. Sophie’s everything.”

“Sophie is in no condition to drive anything.”

“Sophie is in PERFECT condition!” Sophie shouts from the couch. “PEAK CONDITION! OLYMPIAN CONDITION!”

“Sophie is going to sleep here tonight,” Daniel says. Gentle. Patient. “Scarlett too. I have rooms upstairs.”

“Rooms,” I repeat. The word is funny. Roooooms. “You have rooms. You have everything. You have a club and rooms and pretty boys and—”

“And you need to go home.”

“I don’t want to go home.” The words surprise me.

Daniel’s arm wraps around my waist. Solid. Anchoring.

“Come on. Let’s get you some air.”

The club moves around us. Or we move through the club. The lights are even prettier now-fracturing into prisms, into rainbows, into.

something that looks like the ine

of a kaleidoscope. The people are just shapes. Colors. Motion.

Someone waves. Someone laughs.” The music is a living thing, pressing against my skin from all sides.

“Almost there,” Daniel says.

The air hits me first. Cold. Sharp. Like being slapped awake by the night itself. I gasp, and the city rushes in-car horns and distant sirens and the smell of rain on concrete.

“Okay.” Daniel is shifting me, adjusting his grip. “I’m going to call you a car—”

“Daniel.”

The voice comes from somewhere. Everywhere. A voice I know better than my own heartbeat.

I turn.

Kyle. Standing on the sidewalk like he materialized from the shadows. Like the night itself shaped him into existence just for this moment.

Or maybe I’m hallucinating. Maybe this is what Amnesia does—conjures ex-

husbands from thin air like some kind of cruel party trick.

But no. He’s real. He’s here. He’s-

Too much. He’s too much.

The streetlight behind him turns his edges into gold. Or maybe halos. Do people have halos? He has one. A whole glowing outline like he’s something holy, something divine, something my drunk brain has decided to worship whether I want it to or not.

His trench coat is charcoal. Or black. Or the color of smoke right before it disappears. It moves when he moves-fabric rippling in slow motion, in movie motion, in that way things only move when you’ve had too much champagne and not enough sense.

The same gray t-shirt underneath.

The one from the video call. The one

with the flour. Is there still flour? I

can’t tell from here. I want to touch it and find out. I want to press my pale against his chest and feel if h heart is beating as loud as mine.

His jaw. God, his jaw. It’s doing that thing-that tight, clenched thing-and the muscle twitches once, twice, and I can see it from here can see every tiny movement

like I’ve developed superhuman vision, like the alcohol has turned my eyes into microscopes that only work on him.

He looks-

He looks-

Like something that hurts to look at. Like staring into the sun if the sun wore

expensive cologne and had opinions about your dress.

“I’ll take her.”

His voice. It lands in my chest. Reverberates there. Three words that sound like they

weigh a thousand pounds each, dropping through the night air and hitting the sidewalk and cracking it open.

Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m the one cracking open.