Finding My Genius Twins And Vengeful Wife

The scream that tore from Brianna Webster's throat was swallowed by the cracked ceiling of a backwoods delivery room-a place so remote that no one would hear her die.

Another contraction seized her, a merciless wave of fire that started in her spine and crushed her entire body. Her sweat-slicked fingers clawed at the stained sheets.

Where was Seraphina? She had promised to come. The thought surfaced through the agony-Seraphina, the sister of her heart, the stray she had taken in when the world had given her nothing. Brianna had given her a home, paid for her schooling, trusted her with every bruised secret. And Seraphina had found this hidden clinic, so far from prying eyes, to protect Brianna's reputation. Unmarried and pregnant, Brianna would be ruined if a whisper escaped. Sisters protected each other. That was what they did.

"You're doing so well, Brianna. Just breathe."

Seraphina's voice cut through the fog, smooth as silk. Her hand dabbed a cool cloth on Brianna's forehead-so tender, so loving.

Brianna tried to smile through cracked lips. "Sera... thank you for coming."

But through the haze of exhaustion, she saw it. Seraphina's back partially turned. Her fingers deftly adjusting the drip line on the IV bag.

Cold dread sliced through Brianna.

"Sera? What did you do?"

Seraphina turned. Her smile was perfectly in place-but her eyes were chips of ice. "Just a little something to help you relax, darling."

She leaned in close, her breath a sweet, poisonous whisper against Brianna's ear.

"You didn't really think Dad would let a bastard like you have this baby, did you?"

Brianna blinked. "What?"

"Did you never wonder," Seraphina purred, "why a stranger would be so kind to you? Why I let you take me in like a lost puppy?"

Brianna's blood went cold.

"I'm not an orphan, Brianna. I never was." Seraphina's smile widened, cruel and triumphant. "My mother was your father's mistress. I am his daughter. His real daughter. The legitimate one. You were just a placeholder-until I was ready to take what was always meant to be mine."

The words didn't make sense. Her father had welcomed Seraphina into their home with open arms. Had he known all along?

"You've been used," Seraphina whispered. "From the very first day. Every kind word I ever said to you was a lie. Every smile, every secret we shared-I was only waiting for the right moment to destroy you."

Brianna's heart shattered.

"That night," Seraphina continued, savoring each word. "The one you've tried so hard to forget. We found a toothless, filthy old beggar for you. Paid him fifty dollars to crawl on top of you. I stood in the doorway and watched-heard every sound you made."

Seraphina's laughter was soft and delighted. "Oh, I simply enjoy watching you carry that shame. Believing a beggar touched you, ruined you-when the truth would have been so much kinder. But where's the fun in that?"

Brianna couldn't speak. Every memory of that night was fog and terror. She had never known what was real. And Seraphina had fed the nightmare, let her choke on it.

"And guess who helped me plan it all?" Seraphina's lips brushed Brianna's ear. "Our dear father."

A choked sob.

"And your mother's death?" Seraphina added, almost as an afterthought. "That was part of the plan too. She had to go before she could expose us."

Brianna looked desperately toward the doctor and nurse at the foot of the bed. Their expressions were blank. Their silence was consent. The death certificate was already signed. Her body was already destined for the mountain-left for the wolves.

The heart monitor shrieked.

A final pressure built inside her. Her body, acting on pure instinct, gave one last push.

A faint, weak cry.

Her baby.

The doctor lifted a small, pale form.

Seraphina clamped her hand over the infant's mouth and nose.

The weak crying stopped.

Brianna watched her child's face go still. Watched the life drain out of him before her eyes.

"NO!" The scream tore from her throat-but it was too late. Her baby was gone. Murdered. By the woman she had called sister.

My child. My baby boy. He never even opened his eyes.

Tears streamed down her face, but she had no strength left to fight.

Seraphina's smirk was pure venom. She lifted the limp, tiny body by one arm, her expression one of utter disgust, and handed it to the doctor.

"Do whatever it takes," she commanded coldly in a whisper. "Make sure this brat stays alive."

For a split second, something flickered in her eyes-not grief, but calculation. This bitch really did have good luck. She had escaped the beggar Seraphina had arranged for her and stumbled into that powerful man's room instead. Brianna had no womb of her own. No way to birth an heir. If she wanted to secure her position, to hold onto the man of status, she needed a child. And this one-fathered by a man whose power could reshape her entire future-would serve perfectly.

Then she turned to Brianna's motionless form. "And this one? Dump her in the mountains. Let the wolves have her."

She turned and glided out without a backward glance.

My son is dead. The thought consumed Brianna. She killed him. Right in front of me.

The coldness that flooded her had nothing to do with the drug. It was the absolute zero of despair.

The doctor moved toward her, a syringe in his hand. This was it. The end.

Suddenly, the door burst open. A younger man in scrubs rushed in. "Dr. Albright? My shift started ten minutes ago. I'm here to take over."

The older doctor looked annoyed. "Fine. She's all yours." He tossed the syringe onto a metal tray and left.

The young doctor rushed to Brianna's side. His eyes swept the room-the pre-signed death certificate, the empty body bag.

His fingers found her pulse. "Your vitals are crashing, but you're alive."

Then he glanced at her abdomen. Froze.

His hand pressed against her belly. His eyes shot open.

"My God," he whispered. "There's another one. Twins. They missed it."His conscience would not let him stand idly by.

He ripped the IV from her arm and shut off the monitor. He worked with frantic urgency. The world was a blur, but Brianna clung to his words.

Minutes later, a second baby was born-smaller, scrawnier, the one who wasn't supposed to exist. But he let out a tiny, gasping cry. A thin, defiant thread of life.

The doctor wrapped the infant in a clean sheet and thrust him into Brianna's arms.

She looked down. A tiny, perfect face. A tuft of dark hair. Small, clenched fists. One hand had caught the edge of the sheet, holding on.

He was real. He was alive.

But his brother... his brother is dead. Murdered by Seraphina while I watched.

The image burned into her memory: Seraphina's hand over her baby's face. The crying stopping. The limp, tiny body being lifted like garbage.

Hate-pure, undiluted, all-consuming-ignited in her chest. But beneath it, something else. A promise.

She killed my child. She will pay.

"They think you're dead," the doctor said, his voice low and urgent. He pressed a bundle of clothes and a thick envelope into her trembling hands. "The death certificate is signed. They're planning to dump your body in the mountains tonight. No one will ever look for you. Which means no one will ever find you-if you disappear. Take this cash. It's all I have. I became a doctor to save lives, not to bury a woman who still has a chance to fight."

Brianna couldn't speak. She nodded-a fierce, desperate motion.

She slid off the table, agony shooting through every muscle. She bit her lip, tasting blood, and cradled her son closer.

I will survive. My son will survive. And Seraphina-

-one day, I will make her pay for what she took from me.

She stumbled toward the back door, pushed it open, and disappeared into the raging storm of the New York night.

Five years later, the woman who had fled into the storm was gone.

In her place sat Spectre-the most elusive designer in fashion. Her back was ramrod straight, her face a mask of cool concentration. The Florence sunlight streamed into her private atelier, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and glinting off the needle in her hand.

She was sewing the final black pearl onto the bodice of a wedding gown. The dress was a masterpiece of white silk and delicate lace, but a single, dark thread of obsidian beads snaked its way from the heart down to the hem. She called it "Betrayal."

"Mama?"

Brianna looked up. Weston stood beside her, holding out a glass of water. At five years old, he was a miniature man, serious and observant. He had her dark hair, but his eyes-a startling, stormy gray-were a mystery she had never solved. She could not remember the face of the man from that night. Only shadows. Only pain.

"Thank you, my love." Her voice, once soft, now held a low, velvety timbre.

Her phone buzzed on the workbench. The caller ID read 'Colin Hayes.' Her assistant.

She put the phone on speaker. "Colin."

"Spectre, everything is set for the New York auction," his crisp, British accent came through the line. "Seraphina Webster's personal assistant confirmed her attendance. She believes the gown is a commission for her engagement to Calhoun Richardson."

Brianna's lips curled into a smirk. "And we're really selling that dress to her? After what she did to you?" Colin asked, a note of hesitation in his voice.

"That dress?" Brianna let out a soft, mocking laugh. "I sketched it on a napkin during a flight from Paris. A doodle. A draft. Nothing more. And that desperate fool is paying a million for it? She has no taste. Only money-and soon, less of that."

"She is," Colin confirmed.

"A million is too low," Brianna said, threading a new needle with deliberate calm. "Find someone to bid against her. Let her prove she can afford her future husband-Calhoun Richardson. The news says she's about to marry that billionaire. "

A pause. Then Colin's voice, warm with understanding. "Consider it done."

She ended the call and turned to her son, her expression softening instantly. "Wes, it's time. We're going home."

Weston's gray eyes, so much older than his years, lit up with a mixture of excitement and gravity. "To New York? To see the bad woman?"

Brianna knelt, her hands framing his small face. "Yes. And to take back what she stole."

Her voice dropped, low and fierce. "She owes us two lives, my love. Your brother's. And mine. I intend to collect every penny."

A shadow passed over her features. There was another reason for their return. One that twisted her stomach into a knot of fear every time she thought of it. Weston's health. The doctors in Europe had been clear: his rare form of congenital anemia was progressing. His only hope was a bone marrow transplant from a compatible donor.

She did not know where to find that donor. She did not even know the donor's name. But she would find him. She had to.

The chaos of JFK International Airport was a jarring welcome back to the city. Brianna stepped out of the terminal like a queen descending upon a conquered province. Oversized sunglasses hid her eyes. A silk scarf draped her throat. Her heels clicked against the pavement in a rhythm that made people move aside without knowing why.

Colin walked beside her, Weston's small hand in his. The boy's gray eyes swept the crowd with quiet curiosity.

At the baggage carousel, a crush of bodies pushed forward. Colin wrestled their luggage off the belt. In the confusion, a man in a nearly identical black suit jostled him. Two identical black suitcases clattered to the floor. A luggage tag snapped off.

"Mr. Sullivan, we're late. Mr. Richardson is waiting for his computer-he needs to contact the designer Spectre about a collaboration," another man said impatiently.

Liam Sullivan, assistant to Calhoun Richardson, didn't give the suitcase a second glance. He grabbed the nearest handle, barked an apology, and hurried away, convinced he had the bag with his boss's laptop.

Colin, equally flustered, grabbed the remaining suitcase and rejoined Brianna, oblivious to the switch.

Brianna's phone rang. It was Dr. Charles Sterling, the young doctor who had saved her life five years ago, now a trusted friend and her primary contact in the U.S.

"Brianna, just confirming Weston's appointment for tomorrow morning," he said, his voice warm but professional. "We need to run a full panel."

The knot in her stomach tightened. "We'll be there, Charles. Thank you."

She hung up, the weight of her dual missions-revenge and salvation-pressing down on her shoulders.

A sleek black town car waited at the curb. Once inside, Brianna pulled off her sunglasses. Her gaze swept over the familiar skyline-the towers, the bridges, the city that had tried to kill her.

As they merged onto the expressway, the glass facade of the Webster Consolidated building came into view. A fire, banked for five long years, roared to life in her eyes.

"The Carlyle Hotel," she told the driver, her voice perfectly even.

Miles away, in the plush leather interior of a Rolls-Royce Phantom, Liam Sullivan was sweating.

"Sir, I have your computer," he said, placing the suitcase on the seat opposite his boss.

Calhoun Richardson didn't open his eyes. He sat in perfect stillness-a statue of bespoke tailoring and cold authority.

"The designer Spectre is expecting my email by noon," Calhoun said, his voice low and cold. "Open it."

Liam fumbled with the combination lock. It wasn't responding. It wasn't his boss's simple four-digit code.

"Sir... this isn't your lock code."

Calhoun's eyes opened. They were the color of a winter storm, and they pinned Liam to his seat.

"Then force it open."

Liam swallowed hard and pried the latches apart. The lid sprang up.

His face went white.

Inside the suitcase, there was no laptop. No computer. Instead, silk blouses, lace bras, and a red negligee spilled out onto the leather seat. Women's clothing. Everywhere.

Liam's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

Calhoun stared at the lingerie draped across his briefcase. His jaw tightened. His gray eyes darkened.

"Where," Calhoun said, each word dropping like ice, "is my computer?"

Liam's voice was barely a whisper. "Sir... I believe I took the wrong suitcase at the airport."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Spectre is the most sought-after designer in the world," Calhoun said, his voice dangerously soft. "It took me three months to get her to agree to a meeting. And now, because of your incompetence, I cannot even send her an email."

Liam felt his career flashing before his eyes.

"Find the woman who owns this suitcase," Calhoun commanded. "Get my computer back. And pray she hasn't thrown it into the East River."

Inside the Carlyle Hotel, Brianna was puzzled by her suitcase. She couldn't get it open.

The lock on the suitcase was intricate, a custom design she'd commissioned herself. And the code she was entering was correct.

Brianna's brow furrowed. She tried again. Nothing.

A cold realization washed over her. She straightened up, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the identical black suitcase. It wasn't hers.

Her mind raced. The dress. The one-of-a-kind garment meant to be her opening salvo, her public declaration of war, was in the hands of a stranger. And in that same suitcase, tucked into a side pocket, was a silk nightgown. Her favorite. The thought of a stranger's hands on it made her skin crawl.

"Colin," she snapped into her phone. "The suitcase was switched at the airport. Get to JFK security. I want surveillance footage of the baggage claim, now."

Weston, sitting on the plush sofa, was engrossed in a game on his tablet and didn't notice the sudden tension radiating from his mother.

Meanwhile, Liam Sullivan was using every contact in his considerable network. It took him less than twenty minutes to trace the airport taxi's destination and cross-reference it with recent check-ins. He had a name, a hotel, and a room number.

The Carlyle. Suite 1502.

Calhoun Richardson didn't wait for the doorman. He strode through the lobby, his presence sucking the air out of the opulent space. His patience had evaporated. The documents in that suitcase were tied to a multi-billion dollar merger. And on top of that, he had spent three months trying to secure a meeting with the elusive designer Spectre. His assistant had finally confirmed her interest, and the email address was saved on that computer. Every second without it was a second closer to losing the opportunity.

He would retrieve the suitcase himself.

He stood before the door of Suite 1502, his face carved from stone, and knocked. The sound was sharp, imperious.

Inside, Brianna sighed. She had just stepped out of the shower, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in her shoulders. Assuming it was room service with the champagne she'd ordered, she cinched the belt of her fluffy hotel bathrobe and went to the door.

She pulled it open.

The world stopped.

Standing in the hallway was the man from the news article. She recognized him instantly-Calhoun Richardson. Billionaire. Financier. The man who owned half of Manhattan. And, according to every tabloid for the past month, the fiancé of Seraphina Webster.

He was even more imposing in person. Taller. Broader. His gray eyes-those same gray eyes she had seen in the photograph-locked onto her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

And then she saw them clearly. His eyes.

They were the exact shade of stormy gray as her son's.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. It was a coincidence.There are too many people in the world with eyes of this color.

She tightened her grip on the bathrobe's lapels, her expression hardening into wary suspicion. "What do you want?"

Calhoun froze. The woman before him was breathtaking. Her dark hair was damp, clinging to her neck and shoulders. Her skin, flushed from the heat of the shower, seemed to glow. A faint scent of gardenias drifted from her, clean and intoxicating.

But the true shock came from within. Nothing. He felt nothing. No nausea. No prickling of his skin. No visceral urge to recoil-the reaction that had plagued him his entire adult life whenever a woman stood this close.

Brianna recovered first. "I asked you a question. What do you want?"

The man remained frozen for a moment longer, his gray eyes sweeping over her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "You have my suitcase."

Realization dawned. Of course. This was the owner of the other bag. She moved to step aside, a curt gesture for him to enter and make the exchange.

At that exact moment, a small rubber ball bounced out from the main room, followed by the sound of giggling.

" Catch!"

Brianna's head whipped around. "Wes, be careful-"

Her son appeared in the bedroom doorway, then stopped short. Seeing a tall stranger standing at the door, Weston's instincts kicked in. The boy ducked back behind the doorframe, his small face disappearing from view. Only the top of his dark head was visible for a moment before he retreated deeper into the room, peeking out cautiously from behind the wall.

Brianna lunged to grab the ball before it could roll into the hallway, her bare foot catching on the edge of the rug. She lost her balance, a small cry escaping her lips as she stumbled backward.

The belt of her robe came undone.

Instinct took over. Calhoun's arms shot out, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him to break her fall.

Time seemed to slow down, stretching into an eternity. Her soft, warm body was flush against his hard chest. The robe gaped open, revealing the swell of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her stomach. She could feel the frantic beat of her heart against his.

But to her shock, he didn't push her away.

His body went rigid for a moment-then his hold tightened. She saw a flicker of something-surprise, confusion, something deeper-in his stormy gray eyes. He held her closer, as if he couldn't believe what he was feeling.

Shame and fury warred on Brianna's face. She scrambled to stand, yanking the robe shut, her cheeks burning. "Let go of me!" she hissed, shoving against his chest.

The spell was broken. Calhoun released her as if he'd been burned, but his eyes remained locked on her, filled with a raw, searching confusion that mirrored her own.

Liam Sullivan, who had just caught up to his boss, stood frozen in the hallway, his jaw on the floor. In five years of service, he had watched Calhoun Richardson stand perfectly still while beautiful women threw themselves at him. He had seen the cold, dismissive disgust on his boss's face each time.

Liam blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating.

The two suitcases were exchanged in tense silence. But Calhoun didn't leave. He straightened his tie, a gesture that did nothing to conceal the turmoil in his eyes.

"What's your name?" he asked. It wasn't a question. It was a demand.

Brianna had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. She had a child to protect and a war to wage. This man-this billionaire, this fiancé of her mortal enemy-was a complication she didn't need.

"None of your business," she said, her voice dripping ice.

She slammed the door in his face, leaving him standing in the silent, opulent hallway, his world completely unmoored.