Hiding His Genius Twins From The Billionaire

The world was dissolving into a tunnel of wavering light and muffled sound. Isabela could hear Mrs. Gable's frantic, high-pitched screams in the distance, the words "ambulance" and "bleeding" cutting through the fog in her mind.

Her gaze remained locked on Fremont. He was her husband, the father of her children. He was her last hope. Her lips moved, forming his name over and over, but no sound came out.

Fremont's eyes darted from her crumpled, bleeding form on the landing to the whimpering woman in his arms. For a fleeting second, a flicker of raw conflict, of horrified indecision, crossed his face.

Then Lilah moaned again, a theatrical, breathy sound of pain. "Fremont, my leg... I can't feel my toes... I'm so scared." Her fingers dug into the fabric of his expensive shirt, a perfect damsel in distress.

That small, clinging gesture sealed Isabela's fate.

The conflict in Fremont's eyes hardened into cold resolve. He adjusted his grip on Lilah, holding her tighter against his chest. He turned to one of the household bodyguards who had rushed in at the commotion.

"Get the car. And send the lady to the hospital," he commanded, his voice tight and clipped.

The lady. Not Isabela. Not my wife.

The words struck Isabela with the finality of a death sentence. The last ember of light in her eyes flickered and died.

Fremont strode toward the front door, carrying Lilah as if she were a precious treasure. He didn't look back. He walked right past the spreading pool of her blood, his polished Italian shoes narrowly avoiding the crimson stain on the marble floor.

The last thing Isabela saw before the darkness consumed her was his broad, unrelenting back disappearing through the doorway.

The next thing she knew was the sterile, blinding white of a hospital ceiling. The air smelled of antiseptic and despair. The fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway hummed a relentless, monotonous tune.

Fremont paced the corridor, his tailored suit now rumpled, his hair disheveled. His assistant, Arthur Cole, stood nearby, speaking in low, urgent tones on his phone.

A doctor in green scrubs emerged from one of the treatment rooms. "Mr. Slater?"

Fremont stopped pacing instantly. "How is she?"

"Ms. Reed has a sprained ankle and some bruising," the doctor said calmly. "We've put her in a brace. She'll be sore for a week or two, but there's no serious damage. She was very lucky."

A wave of relief washed over Fremont, but it was immediately followed by a cold, creeping dread. A sprained ankle. That was all. His mind replayed the scene-the fall, the blood, Isabela's desperate plea.

Just then, the doors to another trauma bay burst open. A different doctor, his scrubs stained with blood, rushed out, his face grim. He was pulling off a surgical mask, his expression etched with exhaustion.

Arthur intercepted him. "Doctor, how is Mrs. Slater?"

The doctor looked from Arthur to Fremont, his eyes filled with a professional, weary sympathy. "Mr. Slater, I'm very sorry. Your wife suffered a massive hemorrhage. We did everything we could, but the blood loss was too severe."

Fremont stared at him, the words not making sense. They were just sounds, meaningless vibrations in the air. It felt like his ears were packed with cotton.

The doctor's voice softened, but his next words were like hammer blows. "We couldn't save the babies, either. I'm so sorry for your loss. One body, three lives. Please, accept my condolences."

One. Body. Three. Lives.

The phrase echoed in the sudden, roaring silence of Fremont's mind. The sterile white walls of the hallway seemed to press in on him. He swayed on his feet, the world tilting violently. Arthur reached out to steady him, but he didn't feel it.

He lunged forward, grabbing the front of the doctor's scrubs. His knuckles were white, his eyes wild and bloodshot. "No," he rasped, his voice a raw tear in the fabric of the quiet hospital. "That's impossible. You're the best. Get back in there and save them! Do you hear me? Save them!"

The doctor didn't struggle. He just looked at Fremont with profound pity. "There's nothing more anyone can do, sir. They're gone."

Fremont's grip went slack. He stumbled back, his shoulders hitting the cold, unyielding wall. A tidal wave of guilt, so immense and powerful it threatened to drown him, crashed over him. Isabela's face flashed in his mind-her smile when she greeted him, the terror in her eyes as she bled on the floor, her hand reaching for him.

Reaching for help he had denied her.

"Fremont Slater!"

A thunderous voice boomed down the corridor.

Fremont looked up, his vision blurry. Through the haze of his grief, he saw his father, Winston Slater, storming toward him. The family patriarch, leaning heavily on a silver-headed cane, was flanked by several other family members, his face a mask of pure fury.

Winston had always had a soft spot for Isabela. He'd admired her quiet strength and intelligence, seeing past the humble origins that Fremont could never forgive.

He reached his son and, without a word of warning, swung the heavy cane. It connected with Fremont's shoulder with a sickening thud. Fremont didn't even flinch, absorbing the blow as if it were a distant, disconnected event.

"What have you done?" Winston roared, his voice shaking with rage. He gestured with the cane toward the trauma bay. "Where is my daughter-in-law? Why was she brought here? And what in God's name were you doing with that Reed girl?"

Fremont's lips parted, but no words came out. His throat was a knot of unshed tears and suffocating regret.

Winston turned to the doctor, who quickly confirmed the tragic news. The old man's face crumpled in grief, which quickly morphed back into incandescent rage. He turned back to Fremont, his eyes blazing.

He jabbed a trembling finger at his son's chest. "You," he spat, his voice hoarse with sorrow and anger. "You let your wife and your children-my grandchildren-die. For an outsider. For that... that social-climbing parasite. You are a disgrace to this family. A sinner in the eyes of God and man!"

The accusation hung in the sterile air of the hallway, each word a brand searing itself onto Fremont's soul.