The Billionaire Thought I Aborted, Then He Met My Twins

The tiles of the bathroom floor were cold enough to seep through the fabric of her socks, chilling the soles of her feet. But Avery couldn't feel her feet. She couldn't feel her legs. All the sensation in her body had pooled in her stomach, a heavy, churning nausea that had nothing to do with the flu and everything to do with the crumpled medical report resting on the marble counter.

"Positive," the paper read. The ink was stark against the white page. Quantitative Beta-hCG. There was no ambiguity.

Her hand shook as she reached for the document. The paper rustled-a sharp, accusing sound in the quiet luxury of the penthouse. She didn't just throw it away. She tore it. Once. Twice. Then she fed the pieces into the small, personal shredder she kept by the vanity for sensitive documents. She listened to the mechanical whine as it chewed up the truth, turning a life into confetti. Then she buried the bin's contents at the bottom of the trash can, beneath a pile of cotton pads and empty makeup wipes.

Her phone buzzed on the vanity. The screen lit up with a single name: Julian.

Avery stared at it. Her heart did a painful flip against her ribs. She pressed accept.

"Scarlett didn't bring an umbrella," Julian's voice came through the speaker. No greeting. No warmth. Just the deep, clipped tone of a man issuing an order. "Bring one to the private rear exit of the 21 Club. The unmarked one on 52nd Street."

Avery looked toward the window. The New York skyline was barely visible through the sheets of gray rain hammering against the glass. It was a deluge.

"I'm not feeling well," she whispered, her throat tight. "Can't the driver-"

"You are Mrs. Vanderbilt," Julian cut her off. The disgust in his voice was a physical blow. "We are in the middle of a delicate negotiation with the board. I cannot have staff running errands and drawing attention. I need discretion. Don't make me wait."

The line went dead.

Avery lowered the phone. She felt lightheaded. She walked to the closet and pulled out a black Chanel suit. It felt like armor. It felt like a shroud. She applied lipstick with a trembling hand, masking the bloodless pallor of her lips.

Thirty minutes later, the Rolls Royce pulled up to the secluded service alley behind the 21 Club. The rain was torrential. It bounced off the pavement, creating a knee-high mist. Avery stepped out. She opened the massive black golf umbrella, the wind nearly tearing it from her grip.

The heavy steel security door opened.

Julian walked out first. He looked impeccable, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his face set in lines of irritation. Tucked securely against his side was Scarlett.

Scarlett was wearing a slip of a dress, shivering theatrically. She looked small. Fragile. She looked like everything Avery wasn't allowed to be.

Julian's eyes landed on Avery. His gaze swept over her wet shoes and