Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 515

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 515

The waiting room is painted the color of old butter.

Not quite yellow. Not quite cream. Something in between—a shade chosen by someone who thought it would be calming, but instead just makes everything feel faintly nauseating.

There are chairs lining the walls. Hard plastic with thin cushions that do nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. A small table sits in the corner, stacked with magazines that are at least six months out of date. A television is mounted near the ceiling, the news playing on mute, closed captions scrolling across the bottom in words no one is reading.

Scarlett sits by the window. Sophie is on the opposite side of the room.

“The new Valentino collection was interesting,” Scarlett says. Her voice is too bright. Too forced. The voice of someone desperately trying to fill the silence with something—anything—other than worry. “Did you see the show? That red dress at the end? I nearly died.”

“I saw it,” Sophie says. “Very dramatic.”

“I called it theatrical. Morton called it ridiculous.”

“I said it looked impractical,” Morton corrects calmly. “Which it was. No one could actually sit down in that dress.”

“That’s not the point of a runway piece, darling.”

“Then what is the point?”

“Art. Expression. Making people feel things.”

“I felt concern,” he says dryly. “For the model’s spine.”

Scarlett swats at him, halfheartedly.

Kyle is standing again. He’s been standing, sitting, then standing all over again for the past hour—unable to settle, unable to stay still. He’s worn a faint path into the carpet, pacing back and forth, and I’ve stopped trying to make him stop.

Madison is beside me.

She fell asleep about twenty minutes ago, her head resting on my shoulder, Eleanor clutched against her chest. Her breathing is slow and even—the deep, surrendered rhythm of a child who has finally given in to exhaustion. Her weight is warm against my side.

I keep checking the clock.

They took the twins in at 9:30. Dr. Emerson said the procedure would take two to three hours. That means at least another hour. At least sixty more minutes of this—of waiting, of silence, of too-bright conversation no one is really listening to.

I’ve done this before.

I’ve sat in waiting rooms and watched clocks, counted minutes that felt like hours. I did it when Kyle was shot. I did it when he collapsed after the CAR-T therapy. I did it when the twins were born—premature and fragile, their lungs not quite ready for the world.

You’d think it would get easier.

It doesn’t.

Every time feels like the first time. Every minute stretches like taffy, pulling and pulling until you’re sure it’s going to snap.

“The Schiaparelli show was better,” Sophie says. “That gold mask? Stunning.”

“Too avant-garde for my taste,” Scarlett replies. “I like my fashion wearable.”

“Since when?”

“Since always.”

“You wore a dress made of actual feathers to that charity gala last year.”

“That was different. That was for a cause.”

“What cause?”

“Looking fabulous,” Scarlett says. “Which is always a cause.”

Morton laughs quietly—the kind of laugh you make when you’re not really in the mood, but you appreciate the effort. His hand stays on Scarlett’s knee, moving in slow, steady circles.

I wonder what it’s like for them. Being here. Waiting for someone else’s children to come out of surgery. Carrying worry that doesn’t technically belong to them.

I wonder if they ever think about the children they might have had. The family they might have built, if life had gone differently.

Kyle stops pacing.

He’s at the window now, staring down at the courtyard below. There’s a garden there—or what passes for one in a hospital. A few benches. Some trees. A fountain I can’t hear from here but can see, water arcing upward and falling back down in an endless loop.

“Kyle.”

He doesn’t turn.

“Kyle. Come sit down.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re making yourself crazy.”

“I’m already crazy,” he says flatly. Distant. “Have been for days.”

I want to go to him. Want to take his hand, make him look at me, make him see that he’s not alone—that we’re all here, waiting together.

But Madison is still asleep against my shoulder, and I can’t bring myself to move her.

“They’re going to be okay,” I say instead. The words feel hollow. Insufficient. “Dr. Emerson has done hundreds of these procedures. She knows what she’s doing.”

“I know.”

“The boys are healthy. Strong. They’re the perfect match.”

“I know.”

“So stop pacing and sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”

He turns then. Looks at me. Those gray eyes—still red-rimmed, still bloodshot—lock onto mine.

“I hate this,” he says quietly. “I hate that they’re in there. I hate that I let them do this. I hate—”

“They wanted to,” I say.

“I know.”

“They chose this. You didn’t make them.”

“I know.” His jaw tightens, that muscle beneath his ear working.

“There wasn’t another way.”

He doesn’t answer. He just sits there, holding my hand, staring at the clock like he can force it to move faster through sheer will.

The minutes crawl.

Scarlett and Sophie drift to another topic—maybe a restaurant, maybe a trip. Their voices blur into background noise, becoming part of the texture of waiting.

Madison stirs against my shoulder.

Her eyes flutter open. Blink. Focus.

“Mama?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“About an hour.”

“Are the boys done?”

I glance at the clock.

“Not yet. Soon.”

She nods and settles back against me, but she doesn’t close her eyes. She just watches—the room, the people, Kyle—with those dark, observant eyes.

“Daddy’s still scared,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“But it’s different scared now,” she continues. “Before, he was scared they’d get hurt. Now he’s scared they won’t be able to help.”

I look at Kyle. At the tight line of his jaw, the white knuckles gripping my hand.

“You’re very perceptive,” I say.

“Miss Linda says that too,” Madison says. “She says I notice things other people don’t.”

“Is that good?”

She thinks about it.

“Sometimes,” she says. “Sometimes it’s hard. But mostly it’s good. It means I can help.”

“Help how?”

“I can tell when people need things,” she says. “Even when they don’t say it.” She pauses. “Like Daddy. He needs to know they’ll be okay. But he can’t believe it until he sees it. So he’s stuck—between wanting to believe and being too scared to.”

I don’t have an answer for that.

So I just hold her a little tighter. Press my lips to her hair. Breathe in the scent of her shampoo—strawberries and something floral—and try not to think about all the ways this day could still go wrong.

The door opens.

Everyone freezes.

Dr. Emerson steps inside. Her surgical cap is off, her mask hanging loosely around her neck. There’s something on her scrubs—something I don’t want to identify—but her face is calm.

Relaxed.

And she’s smiling.

“They’re done,” she says. “Both boys did beautifully. They’re in recovery now. You can see them in about twenty minutes.”

The air leaves my lungs.

I don’t realize I was holding my breath until it’s gone—until my chest is empty, my eyes burn, and something in my throat breaks loose, sounding like laughter and sobs tangled together. Kyle’s hand crushes mine. I don’t care.

“They’re okay?” he asks, his voice breaking. “They’re… they’re both okay?”

“More than okay,” Dr. Emerson says, her smile widening. “Alexander woke up asking if he could keep the needle. I had to explain that medical equipment isn’t typically given out as souvenirs.”

I laugh. The sound bubbles up from somewhere deep—somewhere I didn’t know still existed—and spills into the room.

“That sounds like him.”

“And Ethan is already calculating his recovery timeline,” she adds. “He wanted to know the exact percentage of bone marrow regeneration in the first twenty-four hours versus the first seventy-two.”

“That sounds like him too.”

Dr. Emerson nods. “I’ll send someone to get you when they’re ready. But for now—” Her gaze sweeps the room, taking in Kyle’s tear-streaked face, my shaking hands, Madison’s wide eyes, Scarlett’s smudged makeup. “For now, breathe. The hard part is over.”

She leaves.

The door swings shut behind her.

And Kyle breaks.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. He just… collapses inward. His face crumples. His shoulders shake. His hand—still crushing mine—trembles so hard I feel it in my bones.

I pull him close. His face presses into my neck, his tears hot and wet against my skin.

“I know,” I murmur. “I know. It’s okay. They’re okay.”

He doesn’t speak. He just holds on.

Scarlett is crying too now. Morton has his arm around her, his face buried in her hair. Sophie dabs at her eyes with a tissue, her composed exterior finally cracking at the edges.

Madison slips off my lap.

She walks over to Kyle and stops in front of him. Waits until he lifts his head, until his red-rimmed eyes meet hers.

“I told you,” she says simply. “They’re brave. Like you.”

Kyle stares at her.

Then he opens his arms, and she steps into them.

I watch them.

And I think: we’re almost there.

Not at the end—nothing ever really ends, not the way stories pretend—but at the end of this. This chapter. This stretch of the journey that began with a warehouse and a little girl who gave her pendant to a frightened boy.

There will be more waiting. More fear. More days when it feels like the world is trying to break us.

But for now—

For now, we’re still standing.