Hiding His Genius Twins From The Billionaire

I, Isabela Sullivan, six months pregnant with twins, excitedly awaited my husband, Fremont Slater, to come home.

But instead of sharing my joy, he threw a divorce agreement on the coffee table.

Before I could even process the heartbreak, his mistress walked into our home.

She deliberately threw herself backward down the stairs, screaming that I had pushed her.

My husband didn't hesitate. He rushed to her side, looking at me with pure, murderous loathing.

"You are the most vicious creature I have ever met."

The sheer cruelty of his betrayal struck me like a physical blow, and a massive hemorrhage buckled my knees.

As a pool of crimson blood spread across the pristine marble, I reached out, begging him to save our babies.

But he just scooped up his mistress—who only had a sprained ankle—and walked right past my bleeding body without looking back.

I was pronounced dead in that cold hospital, taking my unborn children with me.

Why was my devotion repaid with such callous abandonment? How could he let his own flesh and blood die for a liar's fake tears?

Five years later, I returned, no longer the helpless, discarded wife.

I was now a legendary hacker, a miracle surgeon, and a rising Hollywood star, with my two genius sons alive and thriving by my side.

When my ex-husband finally tracked me down, pinning me against a wall with desperate, bloodshot eyes, I simply offered a polite smile.

"Sir, I believe you have mistaken me for someone else."

...

The electronic click of the front door lock sliced through the quiet anticipation in the living room.

Isabela Sullivan's hand stilled on the gentle curve of her six-month pregnant belly. Hope, warm and bright, surged through her. She pushed herself up from the plush sofa, a genuine smile gracing her lips for the first time all day.

"You're home," she began, her voice soft as she moved toward the entryway.

Fremont Slater stepped inside. He was as handsome as the day she met him, his dark suit perfectly tailored, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

He didn't respond. He didn't even look at her.

The smile on Isabela's face faltered. She watched him stride directly to the bar cart, his movements precise and economical. He poured a measure of amber whiskey into a heavy crystal glass, the clink of the bottle the only sound in the cavernous room.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She took a tentative step forward, her hand instinctively returning to shield her stomach. "Fremont, dinner is..."

"Don't bother."

His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. He finally turned, but his gaze was fixed on a point over her shoulder. He pulled a slim leather briefcase onto the marble coffee table, the snap of its latch echoing in the silence. From it, he produced a sheaf of papers bound in a dark blue cover.

He tossed it onto the table. The heavy paper landed with a dull, final thud.

Isabela's eyes were drawn to the stark, white letters on the cover.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

The room seemed to tilt, the expensive art on the walls blurring into meaningless shapes. She looked from the document to his impassive face, her mind refusing to process the words.

"Fremont?" Her voice was a raw, trembling whisper. She took another step, her hand outstretched as if to ward off a physical blow. "I... I'm pregnant. It's twins."

She had been saving the news about the twins, a secret treasure she'd hoped would finally bridge the chasm between them.

For the first time, a flicker of something registered in his eyes. It wasn't joy. It was a cold, dismissive sneer.

"So?" he said, the single word more brutal than a slap. "You think that will tie me to you? Isabela, don't forget what this marriage was. A transaction."

He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes raking over her, making her feel small and cheap. "You can't possibly believe that a child-or two-from some girl from an Appalachian trailer park deserves the Slater name. You don't belong here. You never did."

Each word was a perfectly aimed dart, striking at the core of her deepest insecurities. Tears burned at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She opened her mouth to argue, to scream, to tell him these were his children, his blood.

But before she could form a single word, the doorbell chimed.

Mrs. Martha, the housekeeper, appeared moments later, her expression carefully neutral. "Mr. Slater, Ms. Reed is here to see you."

Isabela's blood ran cold.

Lilah Reed.Her brother, died years ago due to a negligent accident in Fremont. Fremont has always felt guilty, so he has been taking care of Lilah. But she likes Fremont.

Lilah glided into the room like a phantom, dressed in a simple white dress that screamed innocence. She was beautiful, delicate, the kind of woman other women instinctively distrusted. Her eyes met Isabela's for a fraction of a second, and in them, Isabela saw a flash of pure, unadulterated triumph.

"Fremont," Lilah said, her voice a soft, melodic purr. "I heard you were back, so I came to see you."

The hard lines of Fremont's face softened almost imperceptibly. He gave her a slight nod. That tiny gesture, that minuscule shift in his demeanor, was a knife twisting in Isabela's heart.

"Get her out of my house," Isabela said, her voice shaking with rage. She pointed a trembling finger at Lilah.

Fremont's brows drew together in a dark line of annoyance. "She is a guest, Isabela. Control yourself. This is exactly the kind of behavior I'm talking about."

Lilah stepped forward, playing the part of the peacemaker. She placed a gentle hand on Fremont's arm. "It's alright, Fremont. She's just emotional. It's the pregnancy."

She then turned and walked toward Isabela, stopped just in front of Isabela, positioning her body so her back was to Fremont. Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of cold malice.

She leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper only Isabela could hear. "See? You're even less welcome here, and your children will never have the chance to call him father."

Isabela's eyes widened in horror. The threat was so blatant, so monstrous, it stole her breath.

Before she could react, Lilah's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. With shocking strength, Lilah pulled Isabela's hand toward her own shoulder, simultaneously throwing her own body backward with a piercing shriek.

It was a perfectly choreographed piece of theater.

From Fremont's perspective, it looked as though a hysterical, pregnant Isabela had violently shoved the smaller woman down the stairs.

"Lilah!" Fremont's roar of fury filled the room.

He moved with terrifying speed, rushing past Isabela to where Lilah lay crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, moaning in pain.

"My leg," Lilah cried, clutching his shirt as he gathered her into his arms. "Fremont, I think it's broken... it hurts so much..."

Isabela stood frozen at the top of the landing, her mind a maelstrom of shock and disbelief. It had happened so fast. The accusation, the lie, was so complete, so diabolical, she couldn't even form a defense.

She looked at Fremont, desperate for him to see the truth. But the look in his eyes killed any hope she had. It was a look of pure, unadulterated loathing. A look that bordered on murderous.

"Isabela Sullivan," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You are the most vicious creature I have ever met."

She gasped, doubling over, a strangled cry escaping her lips.

A warm, wet sensation spread down her thighs.

Her terrified gaze dropped. A dark, crimson stain was blooming on the fabric of her light-colored dress, spreading with horrifying speed. It dripped onto the pristine white marble of the landing.

Red. So much red.

Her vision started to swim. The last vestiges of her strength were draining away with the lifeblood of her children. She reached a hand out toward Fremont, a desperate, silent plea.

"Fremont..." The words were a choked sob. "Help me... please... save our babies..."

He stood there, holding the woman who had just destroyed her life, his face a mask of cold fury.

In Lilah's eyes, hidden from Fremont's view, a small, triumphant smile played on her lips.