The Secret Twins Of The Contract Wife

The Bentley Mulsanne pulled away from the curb, a silent, sleek predator disappearing into the New York traffic. Cleo stood alone at the hospital entrance, a statue abandoned by the world. The stares of strangers felt like tiny needles on her skin.

She looked down at her wrist, already red and starting to bruise. A dull throb pulsed from it, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

Her phone rang. "Axel" flashed on the screen.

She hesitated for a second before swiping to answer.

"Go to the Vanderbilt estate immediately and apologize to Isabelle in person." His voice was cold, devoid of any emotion. It wasn't a request. It was an order.

The line went dead. Cleo listened to the dial tone, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. He hadn't even asked for her side. He had already passed judgment.

She didn't go to the Vanderbilt estate. She hailed a yellow cab and gave a different address—the New York Hall of Science in Queens.

In the back of the cab, she sent Axel a single text message.

"I will not apologize. If you believe my actions have damaged the Beaumont name, we can initiate our divorce agreement ahead of schedule."

She hit send, then blocked his number and turned off her phone. Leaning back against the worn seat, she watched the Manhattan skyline recede behind her.

In Axel's car, he read the text. His handsome face darkened into a mask of fury. He threw the phone onto the empty seat beside him with violent force.

Isabelle watched him cautiously. "Axel, is she... refusing to come?"

"Her nerve is growing," Axel bit out, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. It was the first time Cleo had ever so blatantly defied him.

The taxi arrived at the Hall of Science. Cleo paid the driver and walked into the futuristic building.

An international summit on artificial intelligence was underway. She was the simultaneous interpreter for one of the German-language breakout sessions.

She slipped into the soundproof interpreter's booth in the back, put on her headset, and adjusted the microphone. The noise of the world faded away, leaving only her own voice and the language she was about to translate.

Her partner, a seasoned interpreter named Mr. Wright, gave her a nod. "Ready, Dorsey? Today's speaker is a fast one."

"No problem," Cleo replied, her voice calm and confident. Here, she was a professional.

The session began. The German expert's speech was rapid-fire, packed with dense, technical jargon.

Cleo's mind worked at lightning speed. Almost as soon as the words left the speaker's mouth, a smooth, precise English translation flowed from hers, delivered through the headsets to every member of the audience.

Her voice was steady, pleasant, her rhythm impeccable. She navigated the most complex sentences with an ease that belied their difficulty.

During the mid-session break, Mr. Wright gave her a thumbs-up. "Cleo, you're one of the best I've ever worked with. Your response time is like an AI's."

The conference organizer, a Mr. Foster, came over to thank her personally. "Miss Dorsey, your interpretation was outstanding, far beyond our expectations. We have a conference in Geneva next month, and we would be honored if you would consider working with us again."

Cleo smiled politely and thanked them. The pain in her wrist and the humiliation in her heart seemed to fade, replaced by the warm glow of professional accomplishment.

She realized that only here, in her element, was she not the pitied "Mrs. Beaumont," but Cleo Dorsey, a woman respected for her own abilities.

The work was a temporary balm, a fleeting moment of peace. As she stepped out of the Hall of Science at dusk, the setting sun painted the city in gold, but she knew the gilded cage of her marriage was still waiting.