Hiding His Twins From The Underboss

Addison POV

The ink on the NDA was barely dry when the door to my hospital room swung open again.

It wasn’t a nurse; it was Evelin.

She certainly didn’t look like a woman who had just destroyed a family heirloom. She looked radiant.

She floated to Bernard’s side, her hand resting protectively over her flat stomach.

“We did it, Bernard,” she squealed, her voice high and piercing. “The test came back an hour ago.”

Bernard froze.

He looked at her hand, and then he looked up at her face.

Slowly, a smile broke across his lips.

It wasn’t the guarded, cold smirk he gave the world. It was real. It was the kind of smile Ben used to give me when he managed to light the fire on a wet night—rare, unguarded, and warm.

He lifted her up, spinning her around.

“I’m going to be a father,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

I lay frozen in the hospital bed, my womb aching with the secret I had just denied. He was celebrating a life with her while I was mourning one with him.

The monitor beside me began to beep faster, betraying my heart.

“Get out,” I whispered.

They didn’t hear me.

“Get out!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat.

Bernard set Evelin down instantly.

He looked at me, and the joy evaporated from his face, replaced by that familiar, icy indifference.

“We are leaving,” he said coldly. “Send the bill to my office.”

They walked out. He held the door for her, and he didn’t look back.

I waited until the sound of their footsteps faded into silence.

Then, I reached over and yanked the IV out of my arm.

Blood welled up and dripped onto the stark white sheets, but I didn’t care.

I walked out of the hospital an hour later, bypassing the front desk.

I went straight to a women’s clinic on 4th Street and made the appointment for two days later.

I couldn’t bring a child into a world where its father looked at me like I was trash.

I went home.

My apartment felt like a museum of a dead man.

I took the puzzle we had started—a landscape of the Alps—off the table and swept the pieces into a garbage bag. I took the flannel shirts he left behind and threw them in after it.

I scrubbed the apartment until my hands were raw, desperate to wash away the lingering scent of pine and woodsmoke.

My phone rang.

It was Dr. Miles.

“Addison,” he said, his voice shaking.

“I quit,” I said flatly.

“You can’t,” he replied, panic rising in his tone. “Evelin Bennett called. She is demanding you continue her therapy. She says she is stressed about the pregnancy.”

“Tell her to find someone else.”

“I can’t, Addison. Bernard Logan called. He said if you don’t show up, he pulls the funding for the entire clinic. We will close. Everyone will lose their jobs.”

I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white.

He was doing this on purpose. He wanted to break me.

I hung up.

I walked to the window and looked down.

A black car was already waiting at the curb.

The driver looked up. It was one of his soldiers. He tapped his wrist, a silent command.

I grabbed my coat and walked downstairs.

I got into the car.

I wasn’t a therapist anymore.

I was a prisoner of war.