Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 491

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 491

“DADDY’S HERE!” Alexander’s voice explodes through the house like a small

bomb. His feet thunder down the stairs-I’ve told him a thousand times not to run on the stairs, a thousand times—and Ethan follows at a more measured pace, though I can see he’s fighting the urge to run too.

Madison stands at the top of the staircase. Watching. Her pink elephant clutched against her chest.

“Come on, sweetheart.” I hold out my hand. “Let’s go see Daddy.”

She takes my hand. Her fingers are cold.

We walk down together, slow, her pace. By the time we reach the bottom, Alexander has already flung the door open and launched himself at Kyle like a heat-seeking missile.

“DADDY! DADDY! DADDY! We’re going to the AMUSEMENT PARK! There are RIDES! And COTTON CANDY! And—”

I round the corner.

And stop.

Kyle is standing in my doorway with Alexander wrapped around his legs like a barnacle. But that’s not what makes me stop.

He’s wearing-

I blink.

He’s wearing a dark blue athletic jacket. A light gray t-shirt underneath. Athletic pants. White sneakers.

I’ve seen Kyle in athletic wear before. Of course I have. Three years of marriage— I’ve seen him come back from the gym, seen him on the treadmill in our home, seen him in those obscenely expensive compression shirts.

But that was always at home. Behind closed doors. The moment Kyle Branson stepped outside, it was back to the three-piece suits, the hand-stitched Italian leather, the armor of a man who controlled boardrooms and bent markets to his will.

Kyle Branson does not go out in public looking like he’s about to coach a kids’ soccer game.

And yet.

Here he is.

His hair is different too. No product.

He looks… soft. Approachable. Like someone you might actually talk to at a PTA meeting instead of someone whose assistant’s assistant would schedule a call with your assistant.

I almost want to check if there’s a hidden camera somewhere. Kyle Branson:

Undercover Dad. Coming this fall to a streaming platform near you.

“Daddy!” Alexander is still yelling. “Daddy, we match! Look! LOOK!”

Kyle looks down at himself. Then at Alexander, who is indeed wearing a blue jacket. Then back at himself.

“So we do,” he says. “What a coincidence.”

“Technically,” Ethan says, examining both of them with scientific intensity, “your blue

is cobalt while Alexander’s is more of a navy. The wavelength difference is

approximately-”

“We MATCH,” Alexander insists. “We’re a TEAM. Team Blue!”

Madison tugs my hand. I look down at her.

“We’re like a team,” she whispers. So quiet. Like she’s afraid saying it too loud will make it not true.

Kyle hears her anyway.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is different when he talks to her. “We are.”

I watch him watching her. The way his eyes change. The way his whole body seems

to gentle itself, like a wild thing learning to be tame.

“Everyone has everything?” I ask for the third time. “Sunscreen? Hats? Alexander, where’s your hat?”

“I don’t NEED a hat-”

“You need a hat.”

Alexander groans dramatically but runs back upstairs. Ethan already has his a sensible beige bucket hat that makes him look like a tiny accountant on vacation. Madison’s hat is pink, to match her elephant.

I do a final check. Snacks. Water bottles. Wet wipes. Band-aids. Hand sanitizer.

Backup clothes-

“Mia.”

I look up. Kyle is watching me. That expression-the one I can’t quite read.

“It’s an amusement park,” he says. “Not a survival expedition.”

“You’ve clearly never taken three children anywhere.”

“I—” He stops. Because he hasn’t. Not really. Not like this.

“Hat obtained!” Alexander crashes back down the stairs, waving his baseball cap

like a victory flag. “Can we GO now?”

“We can go,” I say.

We walk out the front door.

And I stop again.

There’s a vehicle parked in front of my house. Vehicle is the right

word-car seems inadequate. It’s massive. Black. The kind of that seems to absorb light A Cadillac Escalade, but not like any

blackne

Escalade I’ve ever seen.

The windows are wrong. Too thick. The glass has a strange tint to it, almost opaque.

The tires look like they could roll over a landmine without flinching.

“Kyle.”

“Mm?”

“Is that an armored car?”

“It’s an SUV.”

“An armored SUV.”

“Armored is a strong word. Reinforced glass. Standard safety feature.”

“Standard for what? A presidential motorcade?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens the back door with a soft click-even the door sounds expensive, sounds heavy, sounds like it could withstand a battering ram.

“There are car seats,” he says. “Three of them. All new.”

As if that’s the point.