Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 514

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 514

“That’s okay,” Ethan says. His voice is steady. Certain. “We’re ready.”

“Yeah.” Alexander straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin. “We’re ready.”

I crouch down in front of them.

“I love you,” I say. “You know that, right? I love you so much it hurts sometimes.”

“I know, Mom.” He rolls his eyes, but his voice softens. “You tell me, like, a hundred times a day.”

“And I’m going to keep telling you. Until you’re old and gray and so tired of hearing it you want to scream.”

“That’s a lot of telling.”

“Get used to it.”

I kiss his forehead, letting my lips linger for just a moment. I feel the softness of his skin, the gentle warmth that isn’t a fever—just the natural heat of a child’s body. The heat of life.

Then I turn to Ethan.

He’s watching me with those calm, observant eyes—the ones that notice everything, process it all, file it away for later. But beneath the composure, I catch something else. Something close to uncertainty.

“Come here,” I say.

He does. He steps into my arms and lets me hold him—really hold him. Not the quick, tolerated hugs he usually allows. And for a brief moment, I feel him relax against me.

“The anesthesia,” I murmur into his hair. “It’s like sleeping. One second you’re awake, counting backward, and the next you’re waking up and it’s over. Like blinking.”

“That’s not scientifically accurate,” he says, his voice muffled against my shoulder. “Anesthesia affects consciousness in ways fundamentally different from natural sleep.”

“I know,” I say. “But that’s what it feels like. And that’s all that matters right now.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“I’m not scared,” he says, almost like he’s trying to convince himself.

“I know you’re not.”

“But if I was… if I was scared… that would be okay too. Right?”

My heart cracks—just a little, right along the seams.

“It would be more than okay,” I say. “It would be completely, perfectly, absolutely normal.”

He pulls back and looks at me. His glasses have slipped again, and I reach up to nudge them back into place.

“I think I might be a little scared,” he admits. “Just a little.”

“That’s because you’re smart,” I say. “Smart people know there are things worth being scared of.”

“But I’m doing it anyway.”

“Yes,” I say. “You are.”

“Does that make me brave?”

I think about all the times I’ve been scared and done something anyway. All the moments that felt impossible until they weren’t.

“The bravest people I know,” I say, “are the ones who are scared and do it anyway.”

He nods—small and serious—then steps back, straightens his gown, adjusts his glasses.

“I’m ready,” he says.

Madison appears beside me.

I don’t hear her approach—she’s like that sometimes, quiet as a shadow—but suddenly she’s there, Eleanor clutched to her chest, her dark eyes moving between her brothers.

“Can I hug them?” she asks.

It’s not a question she would have asked six months ago. Back then, she didn’t ask for hugs. Didn’t seek them out. Hugs were things that happened to her, not things she chose.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

She goes to Alexander first.

The hug is brief—Alexander has never been much of a hugger—but it’s real. His arms wrap around her for a second, squeeze, release. Then he ruffles her hair, flashing that gap-toothed grin.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be back before you know it. And I’ll probably have a cool scar. Maybe. Do bone marrow things leave scars?”

“I don’t think so,” Ethan says.

“That’s disappointing.”

Madison turns to Ethan.

This hug lasts longer. Ethan doesn’t usually like physical affection—it’s always made him uncomfortable—but he stands still and lets her wrap her arms around him. Lets her press her face to his chest. Lets her hold on.

When she steps back, her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t cry. She’s learned how to hold it in. I wish she hadn’t had to.

The nurses are waiting.

Dr. Emerson holds the door open, patient and unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world. As if this isn’t a schedule, a timetable, a carefully choreographed sequence of events that will decide whether my children come back whole.

Alexander takes one step. Then another.

At the doorway, he pauses and turns back.

“Daddy?”

Kyle is still by the window. His hands have stopped shaking—or maybe he’s just learned to hide it better—but his face is pale. Too pale. The color of old paper. Of forgotten things.

“Yes?” he says.

“After this,” Alexander says. “After I wake up and they put my stuff in you and you get better.” His voice is steady, matter-of-fact, like he’s talking about homework or the weather. “Can we go to the amusement park again?”

Kyle’s eyes close.

Just for a second. Long enough for me to see the tears gathering at the corners, threatening to spill.

“Yes,” he says. The word comes out rough. Broken. “Yes. We can go to the amusement park.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Alexander nods, satisfied, then turns and walks through the door, his too-big gown trailing behind him like a cape.

Ethan follows.

At the threshold, he pauses too. But he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look back. He just stands there for a moment, one hand on the doorframe, his posture straight and still.

“The statistical success rate for matched sibling donor transplants is approximately seventy-five percent,” he says—to no one in particular, and to everyone. “Those are good odds. Better than most things.”

Then he’s gone.

The door swings shut behind them.

And Kyle finally breaks.

“Save them for later.”

Kyle looks at me.

His cheeks are wet. His eyes are red. He looks nothing like the man I married—nothing like the CEO in the tailored suit, the cold executive who once made decisions affecting thousands without blinking.

He looks like a father who just watched his children walk away.

“What?” His voice is hoarse.

“The tears.” I cross the room and take his hand, feeling the tremor still hiding beneath the surface. “Save them for later. When they wake up. When they’re okay. When this is over.”