Hiding The Tycoon's Secret Genius Twins

"Just one, Gia. For appearances."

Hailey Price held out the flute of champagne, her smile brittle. Gia took it. The stem was cold against her fingertips after a seventy-hour work week. She forced a polite curve onto her lips.

The ballroom at the Park Hyatt was suffocating—a sea of black ties and jewel-toned gowns, thick with expensive perfume and quiet ambition.

She brought the glass to her lips. The bubbles fizzed, dry and familiar. She swallowed.

Less than three minutes later, her vision swam. The chandeliers blurred. A wave of dizziness hit her, so sudden the floor seemed to tilt. She reached for a table, knuckles white.

Hailey—her stepsister— stepped close. "Are you alright?" Her voice was sharp with concern, but her hand on Gia's arm was a vise. "You look pale. Let me help you to your room."

Gia's heart hammered. This wasn't fatigue. The champagne had been laced with an aphrodisiac. She heard Hailey murmur to a passing waiter, "Suite 1205. She's had too much to drink."

The words cut through the fog like an alarm. Suite 1205—that's where a stranger would be waiting. Hailey meant to put her in some man's bed, ruin her. A cold dread cleared her head. She ripped her arm free, stumbling.

"I'm fine," she slurred.

She turned and pushed through the crowd, into the grand corridor. Footsteps echoed behind her—heavy, purposeful. Security.

Panic seized her. She ran, her evening gown tangling her legs. The VIP elevators glowed at the end of the hall. One set of doors was sliding shut. She threw her hand between them, the impact jarring her shoulder, and scrambled inside.

Her fingers stabbed the highest button—the penthouse. The doors slid shut as two men in dark suits rounded the corner.

The elevator shot up. Her stomach lurched. She slid down the wall, nails digging into her palms. Stay awake.

The doors opened onto a silent, dim hallway. Only one feature: a set of double mahogany doors at the far end, one slightly ajar.

Then she heard it—the low hum of another elevator ascending. They were coming.

No choice.

She ran, barefoot on the thick runner, pushed through the heavy door, and fumbled for the lock. The deadbolt clicked.

She leaned against the door, breath ragged. The suite was dark, curtains drawn tight. The air was wrong—sterile with rubbing alcohol and something else: crushed pine and winter air. Cedar.

Before her eyes could adjust, a hand clamped around her throat.

Brutally strong. Hot against her cold skin. She was lifted off her feet and slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs.

She clawed at the hand, finding only solid muscle. She tried to scream, but the pressure on her windpipe turned it into a strangled whimper. The drug burned in her blood, stealing her strength.

The man said nothing. He was a wall of shadow and heat, his breathing ragged. He was suffering—tremors ran through the arm that pinned her.

He thought she was an attacker. He was going to kill her.

Her struggles weakened. The room spun. A hot tear escaped her eye, tracing down her temple onto the back of his hand.

The heat of it startled him. For a fraction of a second, the pressure lessened.

Enough.

Gia opened her mouth and bit down on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. She bit with all she had left, tasting blood.

A low, guttural sound ripped from his chest. Not pain—something wilder.

He wrenched his hand away, seized both her wrists in one of his, pinning them above her head. His other hand tore the bodice of her dress. Silk ripped like a gunshot.

His mouth crashed down on hers—brutal possession. His lips were cold, his body feverish. He tasted of whiskey and blood.

The world dissolved into fear, pain, and drug-induced heat. She was drowning.

Later, in the deep of the night, a clap of thunder rattled the windows. Lightning flashed, stark and white. She was on a massive bed. In that split second, she saw him—not his face, but the broad expanse of his back.

And the scar. A jagged line across his left shoulder blade.

She tried to see his face, but a large hand covered her eyes, pressing her into the pillows. A low, gravelly voice murmured a warning lost in delirium and fading consciousness.

Then nothing.

Dawn sliced through a gap in the curtains. Gia's eyes flew open.

Her body felt broken. Every muscle screamed. The man beside her was still, breathing deep, still burning with fever.

Survival took over. She rolled off the bed, legs buckling. She found her dress on the floor—a ruined scrap. Shaking, she wrapped it around herself and crept toward the door.

On the nightstand lay a silver cufflink, embossed with a crest: a lion rampant within a shield. The Carlisle family crest. She didn't stop to think.

She unlocked the door and slipped out.

The taxi to the Upper East Side was a blur. She pushed open the heavy oak door of the Price townhouse. They were waiting.

Warren Price—her own father, but a mere live-in son-in-law who had married into the family's fortune— sat on the living room sofa beside Hailey. After Gia's mother died, Gia's grandmother had allowed Warren to remarry, bringing home a new wife who became Gia's stepmother. Warren and Hailey's expressions were a tableau of righteous disappointment.

Warren didn't ask if she was okay. He stood and flicked a stack of photographs into her face. The sharp edges stung her cheek.

"You worthless slut," he hissed.

She looked down. Photos showed a woman with her hair, her build, wearing her dress, being led into a hotel room by two different men. Fakes. Obvious fakes. But enough.

A setup. The champagne, the room, the guards—all to strip her inheritance.

Hailey started to cry, her sobs fake as the photos. "How could you, Gia? You've ruined the family name."

Gia felt no rage. Only a chilling emptiness. She bent down, picked up one photo, and looked not at it but at Warren—her eyes sharp and cold.

Her silence enraged him more than any outburst.

"That's it," he roared. "You're out. Removed from the trust. Accounts frozen. You get nothing."

The front door opened. Zane Sterling, her fiancé, stood on the threshold. He took in the scene—Gia in her torn dress, the photos, Hailey's tears. His face hardened into disgust.

He walked not to her but to Hailey, placing an arm around her shoulder.

"It's over, Genevieve," he said. "Our engagement is off."

Gia looked at the three of them—her father, her stepsister, the man she was supposed to marry. The last thread of hope snapped.

She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and walked to the door without a word.

She pushed it open and stepped into the raw, late-autumn morning. Cold rain began to fall, plastering the ruined silk to her skin. She had nothing. No money, no family, no home.

But the icy drops felt like a baptism. A promise.

She would be back. And they would pay. Every last one of them.