The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins by Artemis ZY

I was staring at a high-resolution photo of my husband burying his face in another woman’s neck when his text came through.

"Pizza or Thai?"

He wasn't just cheating. The photos showed him playing house with a woman named Serena and a little boy who had his exact nose.

He had told me he wasn't ready for children, yet here he was, giving his world to a secret family.

When I confronted them at his company gala, Serena didn't apologize.

She smirked, ripped the wedding ring off my finger, and shoved me hard.

I hit the floor with a sickening crunch. Pain exploded in my stomach.

"Help me," I gasped, clutching my belly. "My baby."

Michael looked at me. Then he looked at Serena and the boy.

He made his choice.

He turned his back on his bleeding, pregnant wife and escorted his mistress out the emergency exit to avoid a scandal.

He left me there to die.

He didn't know that the "son" he was protecting was a rental—a prop Serena hired to trap him.

And he didn't know that the baby he left to die on the gallery floor was the only real child he would ever have.

I didn't go home to cry.

I sent him a receipt for a cremation service for "Baby Boy Hayes," withdrew half our savings, and vanished.

He thinks he's free.

He has no idea I'm still alive, and I’m taking his real son with me.

Chapter 1

Liv POV

I was staring at a high-resolution photo of my husband burying his face in another woman’s neck when his text came through, asking what I wanted for dinner.

The timestamp on the email read three minutes ago.

The subject line was blank.

There were five photos in total, each one a distinct slide in a presentation of my life dismantling.

In the first, Michael was laughing. It wasn’t the polite chuckle he saved for dinner parties; it was a head-thrown-back, unguarded roar of joy I hadn’t witnessed in two years.

In the second, a woman with dark, cascading hair was wiping sauce from his chin.

In the third, they were strolling through a sun-drenched park, their bodies angling toward each other like magnetic poles.

But it was the fourth photo that made acid burn the back of my throat.

Michael was holding a child. A little boy.

The boy had Michael’s nose. He had the stubborn set of Michael’s chin.

I didn't just recognize the features. I knew that child.

I dropped my phone on the kitchen counter. The clatter echoed like a gunshot, shattering the silence of the house.

Two weeks ago, Michael had casually mentioned a college friend. He’d said the friend had a son named Jason, flashing a picture on his screen for a micro-second before swiping away.

It wasn't a friend's son.

My hands started to shake. It wasn't a simple tremor; it was a violent, bone-deep vibration that made my teeth chatter.

I looked around our kitchen. The granite countertops we had spent weekends selecting. The imported espresso machine he insisted was an investment.

It all looked like a stage set now. Props for a play that had already ended.

My phone buzzed again, vibrating against the cold stone.

*Michael: Liv? Pizza or Thai?*

The banality of it made me want to retch. I didn't reply.

I walked to the bathroom and splashed freezing water on my face, gasping as the cold hit my skin.

I stared at my reflection. Pale skin. Eyes blown wide with shock. The face of a woman playing house while her husband built a life elsewhere.

The last few months flooded back in a sickening montage.

The late nights at the office. The hushed phone calls he took on the balcony, sliding the glass door shut. The way he flinched, subtly but unmistakably, whenever I brushed his shoulder.

When I brought up trying for a baby last month, he told me he wasn't ready. He said he wanted to focus on his career. He said he wanted to give me the world first.

He was already giving his world to someone else.

I needed to see it.

I couldn't rely on pixels on a screen. Digital images could be faked, or old, or misunderstood. I needed the visceral, flesh-and-blood reality of it to kill the tiny, pathetic hope still breathing in my chest.

Tonight was his company’s anniversary gala.

He had told me not to come. He said it would be boring, a snooze-fest of speeches. He promised to make an appearance and come home early.

I grabbed my keys.

I drove to the downtown hotel on autopilot. My higher brain functions had shut down, leaving only a primal, animal instinct to hunt for the truth.