Read The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins novel by Artemis Z.Y. Updated 2025 -26 - The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 520

The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins Chapter 520

The crowd laughs. Soft, affectionate laughter.

“The rings,” the officiant says.

Alexander explodes into motion.

“I HAVE THEM!” He’s already running, the pillow bouncing in his hands, the rings jangling. “DON’T WORRY, I DIDN’T LOSE THEM THIS TIME! I KEPT CHECKING! EVERY FIVE MINUTES!”

“Alexander—”

“THEY’RE RIGHT HERE! SEE?” He skids to a stop in front of us, holding up the pillow with the kind of triumph usually reserved for Olympic medalists. “BOTH OF THEM! STILL ATTACHED!”

Kyle takes the rings. His hand is shaking.

“Good job, buddy,” he says, his voice thick.

“I know.” Alexander grins—gap-toothed, unstoppable. “I practiced.”

He runs back to his siblings. I hear the inevitable argument starting—“You were TOO LOUD, Alexander—” “I was ENTHUSIASTIC, there’s a DIFFERENCE—”—but it fades into background noise as Kyle takes my hand again.

The ring is simple. A platinum band, unadorned. We chose it together, in a quiet moment that felt more intimate than any grand gesture. No diamonds. No decoration. Just metal shaped into a circle with no beginning and no end.

Kyle slides it onto my finger.

It fits perfectly. Of course it does.

“With this ring,” he says, “I thee wed.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

I take his ring. Hold it at the tip of his finger.

His hand is shaking. Mine is too. We’re both trembling, both crying, both so full of something that there’s no room left for composure.

“With this ring,” I say, “I thee wed.”

The metal slides into place.

Two rings. Two hands. Two people who’ve been moving toward this moment since before they understood what moments were.

“By the power vested in me by the State of New York,” the officiant says, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

A pause. The whole garden holding its breath.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Kyle doesn’t hesitate.

His hands rise to frame my face—those familiar hands, those beloved hands—and he pulls me toward him slowly, like he’s savoring every millimeter, every fraction of a second before our lips meet.

“Hi, wife,” he whispers.

“Hi, husband.”

And then he kisses me.

The kind of kiss that says I have time. We have time. We have the rest of our lives.

The crowd erupts.

Cheering. Applause. Whistles. Alexander’s voice cuts through it all—“THEY’RE KISSING! THAT’S WHAT MARRIED PEOPLE DO!”—but I barely hear it.

I’m too busy kissing my husband.

When we finally pull apart, the world rushes back in. The sound of applause. The golden light of sunset. The faces of everyone we love, watching us with tears and smiles.

Kyle rests his forehead against mine.

“We did it,” he says.

“We did it.”

“Third time’s the charm.”

“Mia.”

“Yes?”

He kisses me again. Shorter this time. A punctuation mark.

“We’re married,” he says. “Finally. Really.”

I look at him. At this man who broke my heart and healed it. Who’s standing here in the golden light with tears on his face, a ring on his finger, and an expression that says he still can’t quite believe this is real.

“Yes,” I say. “We are.”

The crowd is still cheering.

Our children are already running toward us—Alexander first, of course, crashing into Kyle’s legs; then Ethan, more measured, wrapping his arms around my waist; then Madison, smallest and quietest, slipping between us to press her face against both of us at once.

Gas is barking. Someone pops champagne. Somewhere, Scarlett is crying into Morton’s shoulder while Sophie pretends not to be moved.

And through it all, Kyle’s hand finds mine.

Holds on.

Doesn’t let go.

The reception is a blur of golden light and laughter.

The tent glows from within, strung with thousands of tiny lights like captured stars. Tables are draped in ivory and gold, centered with white roses and trailing greenery that spill over the edges like something wild and alive. Crystal catches the light. Silver gleams. Everything is beautiful in that particular way that only comes from careful planning and ridiculous amounts of money.

But I’m not looking at the decorations.

I’m looking at Kyle across the dance floor, bending down to talk to Madison. She’s showing him something—Eleanor, probably, or one of the flowers from her basket—and he’s listening with that particular intensity that means he’s giving her his full attention. Not pretending. Not performing. Actually listening.

She says something. He laughs.

Then he picks her up and swings her around. Her surprised giggle rings through the tent, high and bright—the sound of a child learning, slowly and carefully, that adults can be trusted after all.

“You’re staring.”

Scarlett appears at my elbow, champagne in hand, mascara still ruined.

“I’m not staring. I’m… observing.”

“You’re staring at your husband.”

Husband. The word still feels new. Strange. Like a garment I haven’t broken in yet.

“Is that allowed?”

“On your wedding day?” She takes a sip of champagne. “I suppose we can make an exception.”

The music changes.

Something slower. Something that makes my heart ache in ways I can’t name. The first notes of a song I recognize—the song from the first dance that never happened at our first wedding. The one we should have had. The one we’re finally having now.

Kyle sets Madison down.

Crosses the dance floor.

The crowd parts for him. Of course it does. Even now—even with tears still drying on his face and his bow tie slightly askew—Kyle has that presence that makes people step aside.

He stops in front of me.

Holds out his hand.

“Dance with me?”

I think about saying something clever. Something witty. Something that would make everyone laugh and ease the tightness in my chest.

Instead, I just take his hand.

“Always,” I say.

The dance floor clears.

Or maybe we just stop noticing anyone else. It’s hard to tell. Hard to care.

Kyle’s hand is warm on my waist. His other hand holds mine, raised slightly, positioned the formal way you’re supposed to dance at your own wedding in front of two hundred people.

But his grip isn’t formal.

It’s desperate. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur.

“I know.”

“You’re holding me like I might run.”

“Force of habit.” His mouth curves.

He nods toward the edge of the dance floor, where our children are clustered together.

Alexander is trying to teach Madison a dance move he’s clearly inventing on the spot. Ethan watches with that tolerant expression that says he’s calculating the exact percentage of failure in Alexander’s choreography. And they’re laughing. All three of them. Together.

“They’re the best thing I’ve ever done,” Kyle says quietly. “The only thing that matters. And I missed so much—”

“You’re here now.”

“I’m here now.” He takes a slow, steadying breath. “And I’m never leaving again. Not because of pride. Not because of fear. Not for any reason. I’m staying, Mia. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. All of it. Everything we just promised. I meant it. Every word.”

I believe him.

That’s the strangest part.

After everything—after the lies, the silence, the years of learning to live without him—I believe him.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Okay. I believe you.”

His face changes. Something cracks open behind his eyes—relief, maybe. Or joy. Or something too big to name.

“You do?”

“I do.” I smile. “Didn’t I just say that? In front of two hundred witnesses?”

He laughs. A full, real laugh. One I’ve been learning all over again.

“You did.”

“Then believe me when I say it again.” I reach up, touch his face. Feel the dampness on his cheeks, the warmth of his skin, the way his jaw tightens under my palm. “I believe you. I trust you. I choose you. Not because you’ve earned it—you’re right, you probably haven’t—but because I want to. Because seventeen years is long enough to wait. Because we’ve both made enough mistakes for one lifetime. And I’m ready to start making new ones. Together.”

His eyes close.

“Together,” he repeats.

“Together.”

The music swells around us.

We dance.

Later—hours later, after the cake and the toasts and the endless parade of people wanting to shake our hands, kiss our cheeks, and wish us well—I slip outside.

The garden is different in moonlight.

Softer. Daylight’s sharp edges blurred into something dreamlike. The roses are silver now, their petals ghostly in the dark. The fairy lights still glow, quieter somehow, their brightness softened by the vast indifference of the stars.

I find a bench at the edge of the rose garden.

Sit.

Breathe.

Footsteps behind me.

I don’t turn around. I don’t need to.

Kyle sits beside me. The bench creaks under his weight. His shoulder brushes mine.

“Escaping your own wedding?”

“Taking a break,” I correct him. “There’s a difference.”

“Mm.” He leans back, looking up at the sky. “It’s a nice night.”

“It’s a beautiful night.”

“Are you happy?”

The question lands softly. No pressure. Just curiosity.

I think about it.

Happy. Such a simple word for such a complicated feeling.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I think I am.”