The Billionaire's Secret Twins

The chandelier above the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel looked like a frozen explosion of diamonds. It was beautiful, terrifying, and worth more than the entire medical school debt I had just finished paying off. I tightened my grip on the stem of my untouched champagne flute, my knuckles turning white against the fragile glass. Just one hour, I told myself, the mantra repeating in my head like a heartbeat. Show your face, shake hands with the hospital donors, smile at the board members, and leave. “Mommy?” A small tug at the red silk of my dress brought me back to earth. I looked down. Mia was staring up at me, her brown curls bouncing with every movement, her cheeks already flushed pink from the stifling heat of the room. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been brought to life by pure mischief. “I’m hungry,” she whispered, though in the hush of the gala, it sounded like a shout. “Can I have the strawberry tower? Please? The one with the chocolate?” I crouched down, ignoring the protest of my knees in five-inch stilettos, bringing myself to their level. “We talked about this, Mia. We have to wait for the speeches to finish. And you have to stay close to me. This place is big, and I don’t want you getting lost.” “I won’t get lost,” Max said. My son stood next to his sister, his tiny hand gripping hers tight enough to turn his fingertips pink. At four years old, Max didn’t look at the world with wonder; he looked at it with suspicion. He was wearing a miniature tuxedo that I had agonizingly fitted him for yesterday, and standing there with his chin lifted, he looked so much like his father that it physically hurt to look at him sometimes. He scanned the room, his ice-blue eyes narrowing. “I don’t like it here,” Max stated flatly. “It smells like fake flowers and old coins.” I almost choked on a laugh, smoothing his dark hair. “That’s just expensive perfume, baby.” “It smells like a trap,” he insisted, stepping closer to my leg. My heart skipped a beat. Max had an intuition that bordered on terrifying. He didn’t know who his father was—I had burned every photo, deleted every file—but he had inherited Lucas Knight’s predatory instincts along with his eyes. “It’s not a trap,” I lied, forcing a smile. “It’s just a party. We’ll leave soon, I promise.” I stood up, smoothing the crimson silk over my hips. This dress was my armor. The old Chloe—the one who wore thrift-store cardigans and apologized for taking up space—would never have worn something this bold. But Dr. Chloe Lang, the youngest Chief of Pediatric Surgery, had to look the part. I took a deep breath, scanning the crowd for the Hospital Dean. Instead, my gaze landed on a man standing near the orchestra. The air left my lungs in a violent rush. Time didn’t just stop; it shattered. Lucas. He was standing less than fifty feet away. He was wearing a midnight-blue tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders like a second skin. He was taller than everyone around him, radiating a kind of dark, cold gravity that pulled the entire room into his orbit. And he wasn’t alone. Clinging to his arm like a decorative vine was a woman in white lace. Blonde, statuesque, laughing with her head thrown back. Rebecca. The woman he had replaced me with before the ink on our divorce papers was even dry. Panic, cold and primal, flooded my veins. He’s supposed to be in London, I thought frantically. The news said the merger was taking all month. “Mommy?” Max asked, his voice sharp. “Your hand is shaking.” I looked down. Champagne was sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my glass. “We have to go,” I whispered. “Now.” I turned to grab Mia, but my hand grasped empty air. My heart stopped. I spun around. “Mia!” She had spotted the dessert table. She was toddling toward the chocolate fountain, completely oblivious to the sharks in tuxedos surrounding her. And standing right in her path, blocking the way with her voluminous lace skirt, was Rebecca. “No,” I breathed. I started to run, but the heels were too high, the floor too slick. I watched in slow motion as Mia reached for a strawberry. I watched Max dart forward to pull her back, his little legs pumping. I watched Rebecca spin around, her movement too fast, too careless, blinded by her own laughter. She collided with Max. A tumbler of dark red cranberry juice, perched precariously on the edge of a high table, wobbled. And fell. It splashed across the front of Rebecca’s pristine white bodice like a gunshot wound. “You little brat!” Rebecca’s shriek cut through the string quartet. She grabbed Max by the shoulder, her nails digging into his jacket. “Look what you did! Do you have any idea what this costs?” Max didn’t cry. He stood frozen, pale, staring at the stain. I was moving before I could think, dropping my glass on a passing tray. But someone else was faster. A shadow fell over my son. A large hand reached out and gripped Rebecca’s wrist, stopping her from shaking him. Lucas. He crouched down. Not to check on Rebecca. To check on Max. I skid to a halt ten feet away, paralyzed. Lucas was staring at Max. And Max, brave, foolish Max, was staring right back. They were identical. The jawline. The nose. The way they held their shoulders. And those eyes—those impossible, genetic-miracle eyes. It was like looking at a mirror through a time machine. Lucas went still. I saw the air leave his chest. I saw his pupils dilate. “What’s your name?” Lucas asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. Max hesitated, then stepped in front of Mia. “Max.” “Max,” Lucas repeated. He looked up then. He scanned the crowd, hunting. And his eyes locked onto mine. The world vanished. There was no ballroom, no music, no crowd. Just him. There was no warmth in his gaze. No nostalgia. Just a shock of recognition that instantly froze into a terrifying, possessive rage. He stood up to his full height. Six foot four of pure menace. “Chloe,” he mouthed. Panic overrode everything. “Come on,” I choked out, rushing forward. I didn’t look at Lucas. I couldn’t. If I looked at him, I would shatter. I grabbed Mia’s hand and scooped Max up onto my hip, ignoring his protest. “I’m sorry about the dress,” I threw over my shoulder to Rebecca, my voice shaking. “Send the bill to the hospital.” “You’re not going anywhere!” Rebecca screeched. “Chloe!” Lucas’s voice was a command, a thunderclap. I didn’t stop. I ran. I ran past the shocked socialites, past the security guards, out the revolving doors and into the biting New York night. I didn’t look back. But I could feel his eyes burning a hole between my shoulder blades. The wolf had found the scent.