Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 492

“Reinforced.”

“There’s a difference?”

He didn’t answer. Just opened the back door and helped the children in one by one, Madison last, lifted into her car seat like she was made of something precious and breakable.

I shook my head. “Kyle. You really don’t do dramatic well. Just like you don’t do jazz.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine-barely a whisper, because even the car knew its place around Kyle Branson.

Then he tapped the screen.

Baby Shark.

I blinked.

Baby Shark. In an armored vehicle. With bulletproof glass and military-grade engineering and probably a secret compartment for emergency caviar.

I had no words for this aesthetic commitment. None.

The children, however, had plenty.

Tank plus favorite song—it was like they’d brewed their coffee with Red Bull and chased it with a shot of pure chaos. Alexander was already straining against his car seat straps, the only thing between him and full gravitational escape, his whole body vibrating with the kind of energy that made me tired just watching.

“BABY SHARK DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO ”

And then it began. The concert I never asked for.

Alexander’s voice filled the armored interior, bouncing off bulletproof glass and leather seats, off-key in a way that was almost impressive, like he was actively trying to find notes that didn’t exist. He’d appointed himself lead performer and conductor simultaneously, one hand waving in the air, the other slapping against his car seat in what he clearly believed was rhythm.

“Madison! You be the vocal! The MAIN vocal!”

Madison blinked, startled. “The what?”

“The VOCAL. Like bands have. I saw it on YouTube!” He didn’t wait for consent. Democracy was not part of Alexander’s artistic vision. “Ethan’s the drummer because he’s the best at beats. Ethan, go like this-DUM DUM DUM DUM—”

Ethan sighed the sigh of a five-year-old who had already accepted his fate in life. Then he started tapping his knee—reluctantly, precisely, exactly on rhythm, because God forbid Ethan do anything without mathematical accuracy.

And Madison, sweet Madison, began to hum along. Soft at first, barely audible over her brothers, her voice threading through the chaos like a tentative ribbon. But she was smiling. Actually smiling. Her pink elephant clutched against her chest, her eyes on her brothers, her whole small body swaying just slightly to the beat.

The three of them together-Alexander conducting his imaginary orchestra with the passion of a man possessed, Ethan providing reluctant but flawless percussion, Madison humming her uncertain harmony-filled the car with something loud and messy and completely, utterly alive.

Baby Shark had never sounded so unhinged. Or so perfect.

Any corner of this planet. Wherever Alexander Branson existed, you would never lack for entertainment.

Or trouble.

Same thing, really.

I glanced at Kyle. His face was neutral, eyes on the road, hands at ten and two.

“Mom.” Alexander’s voice cut through his own concert. That gleam in his eyes—the one that always preceded either a stroke of genius or a complete catastrophe. “I figured it out. I’m starting a band.”

“Are you.”

“Madison’s the vocal. I’m keyboard and harmony. Ethan’s drums.”

I turned around. “I’m thrilled you’ve learned so many music terms from the internet

Alexander. But you can’t just assign your siblings’ futures.”

He wasn’t listening. His attention had already shifted to a new target.

“Daddy.”

Kyle’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.

Alexander’s face transformed. The wild energy vanished. In its place: a smile so

sweet, so calculated, so utterly manipulative that I didn’t know which parent he’d inherited his negotiation skills from.

“Daddy, you’re really rich, right?”

Oh.

“Can you invest in my album?” He paused, savoring his pitch. “I think I can win a GRAM-MY.”

Grammy. One word. Two syllables. He’d somehow made it three.

I closed my eyes. Breathed. “Alexander. Take that back.”

“But-”

“Alexander.”

The danger zone. My children knew it well. The temperature in the car dropped approximately ten degrees.

Then-warmth.

A hand over mine. Light. Brief. Gone before I could even register its weight.

I looked over. Kyle’s eyes never left the road. But he shook his head. Just barely. Just enough.

Don’t.

“Alexander.” Kyle’s voice was calm.

“I’ll support any dream you have. Every single one. But dreams aren’t something you buy. They’re

1.n

something you build. Note by note. Hour by hour. Being terrible at. Something until one day you wake up and you’re not.”

He paused.

“When you’re ready to put in the work, I’ll be there. But I’m not handing you a trophy

before you’ve run the race. That’s not how it works. Not for anyone.”

Silence from the backseat. Alexander processing. I could almost see the gears turning, the five-year-old cost-benefit analysis running behind his eyes.

“So… I have to practice first?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“A lot.”

Alexander considered this. Weighed the effort against the glory. Made his decision.

“Fine.” A pause. “But when I win the GRAM-MY, you have to come watch.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Promise?”

Kyle’s hands tightened on the wheel. Just for a second. Just enough for me to notice.

“Promise.”

Twenty minutes later, the highway curved, and there it was.

The amusement park rose from the horizon like a fever dream made

real-the massive Ferris wheel turning stow and lazy against the October sky, its passenger cars

glinting in the morning sun like

jewels strung on an invisible thread.

Behind it, the skeleton of a roller coaster twisted and climbed and plunged, a frozen scream of steel and engineering, and beyond that, towers and spires and structures I couldn’t name, all of it wrapped in color, draped in flags that snapped and danced in the autumn breeze, red and yellow and blue against the pale wash of clouds.

Even from here, I could hear it or maybe I was imagining it, maybe it was memory

—the distant ghost of music and laughter and mechanical whirring, the sound of a thousand small joys happening all at once.

It looked like something out of a children’s book. Like something that shouldn’t exist

in the same world as armored SUVs and terminal diagnoses and custody lawyers.

“WE’RE HERE!” Alexander’s shriek nearly shattered the bulletproof glass. “I SEE IT! I SEE IT! THE FERRIS WHEEL! THE ROLLER COASTER! I SEE—”

“I also see it,” Ethan said. “You don’t need to narrate.”

“I’M EXCITED!”

“We know. Everyone in a three-mile radius knows.”

Madison pressed her face to the window, her breath fogging the glass, her eyes wide. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to Her whole body had gone still with th particular stillness of a child who had never been taken anywhere, seeing something wonderful for the first time.

Kyle glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

I saw his throat move. Swallow.

“Almost there,” he said. Quieter than before. “Just need to park.”

He turned into the lot.

And that’s when the consequences of his earlier choices became painfully apparent.

The parking lot had been designed for normal cars. Sedans. Hatchbacks. Sensible minivans driven by sensible parents who did not feel the need to transport their children in vehicles rated for active combat zones.

Kyle found an empty spot. Pulled in.

The Escalade stuck out on both sides by a solid foot. A linebacker trying to squeeze

into a phone

booth.

He backed out.

Second row. Third. Each attempt more futile than the last.

“Daddy?” Alexander’s face appeared between the front seats. “Why do we keep

moving?”

“Finding the right spot.”

“But there was a spot right there—”

“That spot was inadequate.”

Fourth row. Fifth. A woman in a Prius watched us circle with the expression usually

reserved for nature documentaries about large predators experiencing confusion.

Kyle’s jaw tightened. That muscle twitching.

“This,” I said, “is what happens when you choose dramatic.”

“Next time,” I said. “Minivan.”

“Never.”