Chapter 3
1131 Words
30 minutes ago
Who owns the twins?
The question ricocheted inside Elias Arlington’s skull like a .45 in a marble hallway. Me. Not Enzo. Not that street-rat bastard.
He sat alone in the private lobby of Summerville General’s VIP wing, legs crossed, Italian leather shoes gleaming under the recessed lights. His phone buzzed - Tokyo merger, London buyout, a senator begging favors.
But he let every call bleed to voicemail. The only merger that mattered now was the one growing inside Samantha Jones and how they'd become his.
He pictured her body beneath him that night: hips rocking, thighs trembling, the way she’d clenched around him when he’d buried himself deep and held still, letting every pulse flood her.
Another memory slithered in, colder this time. The model from last year. Platinum hair, tear-streaked cheeks, clutching a toddler with Elias’s cheekbones but not his blood. DNA report: 0.00% match. “I knew it, that kid is not mine,” he said.
He’d written the check anyway, monthly deposits, private school, a penthouse in her name. The kid called him “Uncle Eli” now.
Before her, the singer in Vegas, same story, different city. Then the actress in Milan, the heiress in Monaco. Four ghosts. Four times he’d built empires for children who weren’t his. All he wanted was one to carry blood. I’ve paid for lies. This time I want truth. This time I want blood that sings my name.
He pressed a thumb to the faint scar on his wrist, reminder of the night he’d punched through a glass table after the last paternity verdict. Never again.
“Sir?” His PA, Marcus, appeared at the threshold, tablet glowing.
Elias didn’t look up. “Lock it down. No press. No visitors. Enzo hears nothing until I say.”
“Already scrubbed the intake logs, sir. Paid the desk nurse triple to forget the name. Security’s on rotation…”
“Double it. Triple the bonus. Enzo’s crew sniffs anything, I want them choking on NDAs and broken kneecaps. And Marcus…” Elias’s voice dropped to a blade. “If one hair on her head is out of place, I’ll own your soul by sunrise.”
Marcus swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Elias leaned back, fingers steepled. I’ve raised ghosts before. This one will have my name.
The lobby doors hissed open with a violence that rattled the crystal chandelier.
Enzo stormed in like a hurricane wearing leather. Gold chain swinging, eyes wild, flanked by two goons in silk shirts and shoulder holsters. The air shifted, ozone before lightning.
“Where is she?” Enzo’s voice cracked like a whip, echoing off marble. “Heard you hauled in a girl. Same girl. Elite Space. Don’t fuckin’ lie.”
Elias rose slowly, buttoning his jacket with deliberate calm. “Visiting hours are over, little brother.”
Enzo flicked a grainy security still onto the coffee table. Elias’s convoy, Samantha limp in his
arms. Timestamp burned in the corner. “This is proof you brought her in. Don't give me s**t!”
“She is not the one!”
“Asshole! She fainted right where your van nearly clipped her knees. I know exactly where you picked her up.”
Elias’s smile was razor-thin, lethal. “Jealous I got to her first?”
Enzo stepped chest-to-chest, breath hot with espresso and rage. “I pumped her full, same as you. Remember? I had her on her knees, ass up, balls deep. That position? Gravity, genius. My swimmers won the race.”
Elias laughed, cold and sharp. “Doggy style? Amateur. I had her missionary, legs over my shoulders, cervix kissing my tip. Every drop stayed put. Science, Enzo. I bet you don't know that. You dropped out, didn't you? Look it up between your cocaine binges.”
Enzo’s fist clenched. He paused, jaw working, eyes flickering like he’d swallowed glass. Low sperm count. Eight percent. Doctor’s words from last month. The diagnosis had hit like a sledgehammer: “Your drug history is the cause, Mr. Arlington. Fertility is severely compromised. Odds of natural conception: less than one percent.”
He’d laughed in the doctor’s face. Then gone home and smashed a mirror, and then began the medication. This is my miracle. My only shot. I felt her take it. He shoved the thought down, locked it behind teeth.
“You think a boardroom b***r makes a father?” Enzo pressed harder, voice gravel and venom. “You’ll stick the kid in boarding school by age five. I’ll teach ‘em how to live, how to survive, how to win.”
“Live?” Elias sneered, stepping closer until their shoes touched. “You mean dodge bullets and launder blood money? Great bedtime stories. ‘Once upon a time, Daddy buried a rat in concrete.’”
Enzo’s nostrils flared. “I’m clean six months. And I felt her milk me dry. Twice. You can’t fake that.”
Elias’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Feelings don’t sign birth certificates. DNA does. And mine’s getting top billing.”
“It’s mine.”
“It’s mine.”
They spoke over each other, voices climbing, spit flying. The goons shifted, hands inching toward holsters. Marcus backed toward the wall, tablet forgotten.
A harried doctor burst through the stairwell door, face slick with sweat. “Gentlemen! Lower your voices or I’ll have security…”
Elias cut him off, already dialing. “How much for the hospital? Name the price. Cash. Tonight.”
The doctor paled, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Enzo leaned in, voice silk over broken glass. “Sell to him, I blow the whole fuckin’ place sky-high. Starting with your parking garage. Then your house. Then your dog.”
The doctor stumbled back, clipboard clattering to the floor.
Elias was already moving, long strides toward the private elevator.
Enzo bolted after him, shoulder-checking the doctor aside. “You don’t see her first, you son of a… s**t, we have the same mother.”
They hit the stairwell together. Elias taking steps two at a time, Enzo vaulting the railings. Ties flapped. Shoes slapped marble. The air crackled with testosterone and terror.
Fifth floor landing.
“Touch her before me, I’ll bury you in litigation so deep your goons’ll need submarines,” Elias roared.
“Lay one finger, I’ll put you in a pine box with a bow. And I’ll piss on the grave,” Enzo returned.
They crashed through the fire door shoulder-to-shoulder, breathing hard, eyes locked on Room 512. Behind them, the doctor shouted into a radio: “Code Black! Code Black!”
Alarms began to wail.
Two kings. One queen. Two crowns that wouldn’t fit the same cradle. The war had only just begun—and the hospital was the first battlefield.
- Writer
