Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 518

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 518

The hallway outside the bridal suite is long.

I’ve never noticed how long hallways can be. How each step echoes. How the light shifts as you move through space—gold near the windows, silver in the shadows, something in between where the two blur together.

My mother walks on my left. Her hand rests in the crook of my arm, her fingers brushing the ivory silk, barely there but unmistakably present. She hasn’t stopped crying since she saw me in the dress. Silent tears—the kind that don’t need sound, that happen when the heart is too full to hold everything inside.

Scarlett walks ahead, champagne abandoned somewhere behind us, her emerald dress catching the light as she moves. Sophie brings up the rear. I can hear the sharp click of her heels.

The castle stretches around us.

The corridor opens into a gallery. The ceiling rises twenty feet—maybe more—supported by columns that curve upward like the ribs of some ancient, beautiful creature. The walls glow pale gold, the color of champagne, the color of late afternoon. Portraits hang at intervals, faces from another century watching us pass, their eyes following with the calm stillness of people who have seen everything and been surprised by nothing.

“Breathe,” my mother whispers.

I realize I’ve stopped.

I close my eyes.

Breathe.

When I open them, she’s smiling. That familiar smile—the one from before. Before the coma. Before Richard. Before everything fell apart and had to be rebuilt, piece by painful piece.

“Ready?” she asks.

I nod.

We walk.

The doors to the garden are glass.

Floor to ceiling, framed in wrought iron that curls and twists like living vines. Through them, I can see everything—the chairs set in perfect rows, the aisle carpeted in white, the guests turning in their seats, searching for me.

And at the end of it all, beneath an arch of white roses and trailing ivy—Kyle.

I stop again.

I can’t help it. My body refuses to move, rooted to the marble floor like something that’s grown there. My heart is doing something impossible in my chest—beating too fast, too loud, so loud that surely everyone can hear it. Surely Kyle can hear it from fifty feet away.

He’s facing the altar. I can only see his back—the broad shoulders, the clean line of his suit, the way he stands with his hands clasped behind him. Patient. Still. The posture of a man who has learned how to wait.

Then, as if he feels my gaze—as if some invisible thread connects us across the space—he turns.

Our eyes meet through the glass.

And everything else disappears.

The guests. The flowers. The castle, the gardens, the two hundred people gathered to witness this moment. All of it dissolves into background noise as the world shrinks to hold only two people.

After everything—after the lies, the loss, the four years of learning how to live without each other—we’re here.

His face changes when he sees me.

I watch it happen through the glass. The shift in his expression, the way something cracks open behind his eyes.

Scarlett appears at my elbow.

“The music’s about to start,” she says. Her voice sounds strange. Thick. “Mia. Mia, are you—”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re crying.”

Am I? I touch my face. My fingers come away wet.

“Happy tears,” I say. “Happy tears are allowed.”

She laughs. It’s watery, uneven. “God. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this. I specifically promised—”

“Scarlett.”

“What?”

“Go sit down. You’re supposed to be in your seat by now.”

“I know. I know, I just—” She grabs my hand and squeezes. Her fingers are cold, trembling, fierce. “I love you. You know that, right? I love you so much, and I’m so happy, and if you ever tell anyone I cried at your wedding, I’ll deny it until the day I die.”

“I love you too.”

“Shut up. Don’t make it worse.” She releases my hand, wipes her eyes, straightens her spine. “Okay. Okay. I’m going. I’m sitting down. Don’t trip on your dress.”

She’s gone before I can answer—a flash of emerald disappearing around the corner, heels clicking against the floor like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

Sophie steps forward.

“She’s right, you know,” she says quietly. Almost gently. “About the crying. I’ve never seen Scarlett cry at anything. Including her own weddings.”

“Don’t tell her I noticed.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She reaches out, adjusts something at my shoulder—a fold of fabric, a strand of hair, something only she can see. “There. Perfect.”

“Thank you. For everything. The ribbon, the—”

“Stop.” She lifts a hand. “If you thank me, I will also cry. And I am French. The French do not cry at weddings. We observe. We judge. We make comments about the wine selection.”

“And what’s your verdict on the wine?”

“Acceptable. Barely.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “Now go. Your husband is waiting.”

The music begins.