Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 519

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 519

The music begins.

Not the wedding march—not yet. Something softer. Strings and piano weaving together into a melody that sounds like remembering. Like the first warm day after winter. Like coming home to a place you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

I don’t know who chose the song. Scarlett, probably. Or Sophie. Or maybe Kyle, in one of those moments when he pretends not to care about details but secretly obsesses over every one.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is how it feels—the notes washing over me, through me, threading themselves into my heartbeat.

The doors open.

The October air hits my face first. Cool and crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves, late-blooming roses, and something else—something clean and bright, the particular smell of autumn in New York. The sun hangs low just above the treeline, casting everything in gold.

The garden stretches before me.

Two hundred chairs arranged in gentle curves that echo the shape of the rose arch at the end of the aisle. Two hundred faces turning as one, mouths opening in those small sounds people make when they see a bride—the gasps, the whispers, the soft ohs.

But I don’t really see them.

I see the aisle. White carpet strewn with petals—not just rose petals, but something else. Something smaller. More delicate. Forget-me-nots. Tiny blue flowers scattered among the white, catching the golden light like fallen pieces of sky.

Something blue.

Sophie.

My mother’s hand tightens on my arm.

“One step at a time,” she says. “Just one step. Then another. Then another. That’s all any of us can do.”

I take a breath.

And I step forward.

The aisle is longer than it looked from the doorway.

Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just that every step takes a lifetime. Every heartbeat stretches into something vast and immeasurable. Every breath holds entire years—all the years I’ve already lived, all the years still waiting for me—compressed into these few seconds of walking toward a man.

The faces blur as I pass.

Morton, in the third row, his hand clasped in Scarlett’s. She’s already crying again, mascara ruined, her face transformed by something that looks like pure, uncomplicated joy.

Thomas. Sitting at the end of a row in a navy suit that fits him perfectly, his posture relaxed in that deliberate way that means he’s trying very hard to look relaxed. Our eyes meet as I pass, and he smiles.

He nods once. A small gesture. A benediction.

Go, that nod says. Be happy. I’m okay.

I blink back a fresh wave of tears.

And beside him—

Nate.

I almost don’t recognize him at first. His hair is longer now, and there’s something different about the way he carries himself. Looser. Less guarded. Paris has changed him, softened the sharp edges that used to cut anyone who got too close.

He catches me looking. Raises one hand in a small wave. That crooked smile—the one that used to infuriate me and charm me in equal measure—flickers across his face.

Between them is an empty seat. And on that seat, a single white rose.

For Carol, I realize. Nate’s wife. The woman he loved and lost.

I keep walking.

But Gas is here.

She’s sitting in the front row, beside my mother’s empty chair, her golden fur brushed until it shines, a collar of white flowers resting around her neck. She’s gotten old in the past year. But when she sees me, her tail starts wagging—that familiar thump-thump-thump I’ve heard a thousand times before.

I know you, that tail says.

And beside her—

The children.

Alexander stands at the edge of the aisle, vibrating with barely contained energy. He’s supposed to be the ring bearer, but he already fumbled the pillow twice during rehearsal, dropped the rings once, and nearly chased a butterfly into the hedges. Right now, he’s bouncing on his toes, his suit already wrinkled, his hair already escaping the careful styling Scarlett spent twenty minutes on.

“MAMA!” he stage-whispers. It is not a whisper. It carries across the entire garden. “MAMA, YOU LOOK LIKE A PRINCESS!”

A ripple of laughter moves through the crowd.

“Alexander,” Ethan hisses beside him. “We’re supposed to be quiet.”

“I am being quiet. This is my quiet voice.”

“That is absolutely not your quiet voice—”

“Shh,” Madison whispers.

She stands between them, her flower basket still half-full because she got distracted examining the botanical composition of the petals and forgot to scatter them. Her dark hair is braided with tiny white flowers. Eleanor is tucked beneath her arm, dressed in a matching flower collar that someone—Sophie, probably—spent an absurd amount of time making.

She looks up at me as I pass.

Our eyes meet.

Something settles in my chest.

I reach out as I walk by. My fingers brush the top of her head—just for a moment. A touch. A promise.

I see you too. I love you too. You’re part of this story now. You always will be.

I don’t say it. I don’t have the breath.

I keep walking.

Kyle is closer with every step.

Or maybe I’m closer to him. It’s hard to tell the difference.

He’s not standing still anymore. He’s leaning forward slightly, his weight shifting toward me. His hands, once clasped behind his back, hang at his sides now. Open. Waiting.

God, his face.

I’ve seen Kyle in every state a person can exist in. Cold. Cruel. Closed off. Broken. Bleeding. Dying on a concrete floor while I screamed his name. Asleep—his face soft, young, achingly vulnerable. Angry. Desperate. Terrified. Ashamed.

But I’ve never seen him like this.

Not sobbing. Not falling apart.

Just tears.

Running down his face. Dripping from his jaw.

I’m crying too.

Of course I am. How could I not be?

Scarlett is going to murder me for ruining her makeup.

My mother releases my arm.

I feel the moment it happens—the gentle loosening of her fingers, the quiet withdrawal of her warmth. We’ve reached the end of the aisle. We’ve reached Kyle. We’ve reached the place where the past hands itself over to the future, where one story ends and another begins.

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

The officiant’s voice is deep and practiced—the voice of someone who has asked this question a thousand times, who knows exactly how to shape each word.

“I do.” My mother’s voice is steadier than I expect. “Her mother. With all my heart.”

She lifts my hand. Places it in Kyle’s.

The contact is electric. After everything. His fingers are warm. Strong. Trembling just slightly.

My mother leans in and kisses my cheek.

“Be happy,” she whispers. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For you to be happy.”

Then she steps back. Takes her seat.

And I’m standing before the altar, my hand in Kyle’s, our children arranged in a messy, beautiful line behind us.

“Hi,” I whisper.

His thumb strokes across my knuckles. Once. Twice.

“Hi,” he whispers back.

The officiant clears his throat.

“Dearly beloved…”

Kyle’s eyes never leave mine.

“…to have and to hold…”

“…from this day forward…”

“…for better, for worse…”

We’ve lived the worse.

“…for richer, for poorer…”

“…in sickness and in health…”

Kyle’s grip tightens.

“…to love and to cherish…”

“…until death do you part?”

“I do,” Kyle says.

His voice is rough. Cracked. The voice of a man feeling too much to hide.

The officiant turns to me.

“And do you, Mia Williams, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do you part?”

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

The words are there—I know exactly what to say—but they’re stuck somewhere between my heart and my throat, caught in the tangle of everything I’m feeling.

Kyle’s thumb strokes my knuckles again.

“Take your time,” he murmurs, so softly only I can hear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

A laugh escapes me—broken, wet, nothing like the composed sounds I’ve been trying to make all day.

“I do,” I say. “I do. I absolutely do.”