Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 511

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 511

“Is it fair?” Ethan’s brow furrows. “The distribution appears equitable, but we haven’t established any criteria for the naming process. What if someone chooses a name another person wanted?”

“Then they deal with it,” Kyle says.

“That seems arbitrary.”

“Life is arbitrary, Ethan.” Kyle’s mouth curves—just slightly. “The sooner you learn that, the happier you’ll be.”

Ethan opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“That’s surprisingly nihilistic for six a.m.,” he says finally.

Kyle laughs. The sound is weak—barely more than a breath—but it’s there. Real. And something in my chest loosens just a little at the sound.

“Okay.” Alexander is already moving, sliding off the couch and crossing to the whelping box with the kind of energy only five-year-olds and certain breeds of terrier possess. “I get to pick first because I’m the oldest.”

“You’re not the oldest,” Ethan says. “We’re twins.”

“I was born seven minutes before you.”

“Seven minutes doesn’t constitute—”

“SEVEN MINUTES.”

“Fine.” Ethan sighs—the sigh of someone who’s had this argument before and knows he’ll have it again. “You pick first.”

Alexander kneels beside the box. His hands hover over the puppies—not touching, just hovering—as if he’s trying to feel their energy, their essence, the thing that makes each one unique.

“This one,” he says at last, pointing to the dark brown puppy with the white patch. “This one is… Champion.”

“Champion?” Ethan wrinkles his nose. “That’s not a name. That’s a title.”

“It’s BOTH. He’s a champion. He helped his brother survive. He provided emotional support.”

Alexander moves to the next puppy—the golden one. His hand hovers for a moment, then descends, brushing the soft fur, light as a feather.

“And this one is Sunny,” he says. “Because she’s gold. Like sunshine. Like… like happiness.”

“How do you know it’s a she?” Ethan asks.

“I just do.”

“That’s not empirical.”

“Some things don’t need to be empirical, E. Some things you just know.”

Ethan stands and crosses to the whelping box. His movements are deliberate—measured, careful—as if he’s approaching a complex equation instead of a pile of sleeping puppies.

“This one,” he says after a long moment, pointing to the black-and-tan puppy. “This one is Newton.”

“Newton?” Alexander scrunches his face. “Like the cookie?”

“Like the scientist. Sir Isaac Newton. He developed the laws of motion and universal gravitation. He also made significant contributions to—”

“Ethan. We get it. Science guy.”

“He was more than just a science guy. He was one of the most influential figures in—”

“ETHAN.”

“Fine.” Ethan pushes up his glasses. “Newton. Because I like the name. That’s my reason.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Ethan’s second choice takes longer. He studies the remaining puppies with the intensity he usually reserves for advanced math problems. His lips move slightly—counting, calculating, processing in the way only Ethan does.

“This one,” he says finally, pointing to the pale cream-colored puppy. “This one is Ghost.”

“Ghost?” I ask.

“Because of the coloring,” Ethan says matter-of-factly. “The pale fur. It’s almost translucent in certain light. Like something that isn’t quite there.”

“That’s…” Alexander searches for the word. “Actually kind of cool.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

Madison shifts in my lap, her weight redistributing—heavier on my left, lighter on my right. She’s watching her brothers, the puppies, everything, with those dark eyes that always seem to see more than she says.

“Madison?” I brush the hair from her face. “It’s your turn, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t move at first. Just sits there, staring at the whelping box, at the two remaining puppies—the patchwork one and the fighter.

Then she slides off my lap.

Her movements are careful. Deliberate. She crosses to the box and kneels, her pajamas pooling around her knees, Eleanor still clutched in one arm.

“This one,” she says softly, pointing to the patchwork puppy—the one with brown and white fur and the dark streak along its spine. “This one is Patchwork.”

“Patchwork?” Alexander repeats.

“Because she’s made of different pieces.” Madison’s finger traces the air above the puppy’s back, following the places where one color meets another. “Different colors. Different patterns. All put together into something whole.”

The room goes quiet.

I look at Madison—at this girl who came to us in pieces, who’s been slowly learning how to fit herself back together, who still has seams and gaps and edges that don’t always line up.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I say.

She nods but doesn’t look at me. Her gaze settles on the last puppy.

The fighter.

“And this one,” she says. Her hand reaches out—slow, hesitant—and rests on the dark gray fur, on the small white star. “This one is Star.”

“Star?” Ethan’s voice is soft. Softer than usual.

“Because of the mark,” Madison says, tracing the shape on the puppy’s chest. “And because… because stars are the things you wish on. When everything is dark and you can’t see anything, and you don’t know if it’s ever going to be okay again… you look up, and there’s a star. And you make a wish. And sometimes… sometimes the wish comes true.”

Her hand stays on Star’s fur.

The puppy stirs, making that same small sound as before—half protest, half confusion.

But it doesn’t pull away. It just settles deeper into the warmth of its siblings, into its mother, into the place where it belongs.

“We’re keeping them.”

Alexander’s voice cuts through the quiet. He’s back on the couch now, sitting up straight, shoulders back, chin lifted in that particular way he has when he’s making a declaration he expects to be treated as law.

“All of them?” Ethan asks.

“All of them.”

“Alexander.” I finally find my voice. It sounds tired even to me. “Six puppies is a lot. We’d have to—”

“I don’t care.”

“—feed them, and train them, and take them to the vet, and—”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

He’s looking straight at me. Those gray eyes—Kyle’s eyes—locked onto my face with an intensity that feels too big for a five-year-old. Too certain. Too unshakable.

“They’re family,” he says. “You don’t give away family.”

“Baby—”

“They’re Gas’s babies. Gas is our baby. So they’re our babies too. That’s how it works. That’s how family works.” His voice cracks on the last word, just slightly.

“You don’t throw away family just because it’s hard.”

I don’t have an answer for that.

“He’s right,” Ethan says quietly. He’s not looking at me—he’s looking at the puppies, at the way they’re piled together, at the way Gas has curved her body around them like a shield. “From a developmental standpoint, separating them could cause psychological distress to both the mother and the offspring. Dogs form strong social bonds, and—”

“Ethan,” Alexander snaps. “Can we not do the science thing right now?”

“I was supporting your position.”

“I know. But you were doing it in a boring way.”

“My way isn’t boring. It’s factual.”

“Same thing.”

Madison hasn’t spoken. She’s back in my lap—when did she climb up again?—her body warm against mine, her breathing slow and steady. She isn’t asleep. I can feel the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s listening.

“Madison?” I ask gently. “What do you think?”

She’s quiet for a moment. Her fingers find Eleanor’s ear and begin to worry the worn fabric.

“When I was little,” she says finally, “before… before everything. My daddy had a dog. A big one. Brown. His name was Captain.”

She pauses. Swallows.

“When Daddy got sick, Mommy said we had to get rid of Captain. She said we couldn’t take care of a dog and a sick person at the same time. So Captain went away.”

Her voice is barely audible now, a thin thread in the quiet room.

“And after that… after that Daddy got worse.” She looks up at me, her dark eyes shining. “Please don’t make us throw them away, Mama. Please.”

I can’t speak.

There’s something lodged in my throat—a stone, a knot, something heavy and immovable. My arms tighten around Madison, around this small girl who has already lost too much and is asking me to let her keep something. To let her love without fear of it being taken away.

“Okay,” I hear myself say. The word comes out rough. Broken. “Okay. We’ll keep them.”