The Ghost Surgeon's Secret Billionaire Twins

The bass from the ballroom speakers vibrated through the soles of Adelia's heels, traveling up her legs until it settled as a dull ache in her stomach.

She set the half-empty champagne flute on a passing waiter's tray. Her fingers were trembling.

Something was wrong.

The crystal chandeliers above the Manhattan ocean-view banquet hall blurred into streaks of blinding white light. A sudden, unnatural heat flared beneath her skin, starting at her chest and rapidly spreading to her fingertips. Her lungs felt tight, struggling to pull in the heavily perfumed air of the room.

She needed Greggory.

Adelia pushed through the crowd of silk gowns and tailored tuxedos, her vision swimming. She rubbed her collarbone, a nervous habit, but her skin felt too hot to the touch. She scanned the room, desperate to find her fiancé's familiar face, but the faces around her morphed into a dizzying smear of colors.

"Adelia? You look pale."

Bonny's voice sliced through the ringing in Adelia's ears. Her stepsister stepped into her line of sight, her manicured fingers gently covering her mouth in a picture-perfect display of concern.

"I feel like I'm burning alive," Adelia choked out, her knees buckling slightly. "What did you put in my drink?"

Bonny's eyes flickered-just for a split second-with something dark and feral. Then the mask snapped back. "Don't be dramatic, sister. You've had too much champagne." She reached into her sequined clutch and pressed a smooth piece of plastic into Adelia's sweaty palm. "He's waiting for you upstairs. Suite 1703. He saw you looking tired. Go rest, Adelia. I'll handle things down here."

Adelia gripped the keycard like a lifeline. The plastic dug into her skin.

"Thank you," she breathed out, her legs heavy as lead as she stumbled toward the elevator banks.

As the polished brass doors slid shut, Adelia leaned her feverish cheek against the cool metal wall. Through the narrowing gap, she caught a glimpse of Bonny's face. The concern was gone. Bonny's lips were curled into a sharp, chilling sneer-and she was counting down on her fingers. Three. Two. One.

The elevator ride was a blur of rising nausea.

When Adelia swiped the card and pushed open the heavy oak door of Suite 1703, the room was pitch black. The only light came from the faint glow of the Manhattan skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The drug in her veins hit its peak.

Her legs gave out completely. She collapsed onto the thick carpet, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The heat inside her was unbearable, melting her rational thoughts into a primal, aching need.

Suddenly, a hand clamped down on her upper arm.

The grip was scorching hot and bruisingly strong. Before she could scream, she was hauled upward. Her face crashed against a solid, muscular chest.

A heavy scent invaded her senses-sharp cedar mixed with the dark, bitter tang of tobacco. It wasn't Greggory's cologne, but her drug-addled brain couldn't process the discrepancy.

"Please..." she whispered into the darkness,