Genius Twin: Hacking The Billionaire Father's Empire

"Sign it, Eleanor. At the end, I'll promise you one billion dollars as compensation for giving birth to two heirs for the Sterling family."

Damien Sterling stood with his back to her, a towering silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the glittering expanse of Manhattan. He hadn't looked at her once.

Immediately after, his assistant ,Arthur Foster slid a thick stack of papers across the polished mahogany desk.

Eleanor sat on the low leather sofa, her body still weak from childbirth. Her vision swam, and she had to blink several times to bring the bold letters on the top page into focus: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

Perhaps it was hard to believe. She looked up and confirmed with Damien. Her voice was hesitant. "You want to... divorce me?"

Damien didn't answer.

After two years of marriage to Damien, Eleanor has always fulfilled her duties as a wife.

But since she became pregnant, ten months have passed, and this is the first time he's come back.

She gave birth to a pair of adorable twins for him.

In the delivery room, she was in extreme pain due to severe bleeding. Over a dozen bags of plasma were transfused into her body. There were several critical condition alerts issued during her treatment.

She had been on the verge of death, and had just come back to life. Yet, this man wanted to divorce her.

She loved this cold-hearted man for ten years.

Since childhood, she was raised by the Sterling family. Everyone told her that she was Damien's future wife.

She learned the strict etiquettes of the Sterling family, striving to become a perfect his wife. For him, she gave everything she had.

Eleanor has always felt inferior deep down. She had a large birthmark on her face, which made her what others considered the "ugly daughter-in-law" of the Sterling family. To be worthy of Damien, she gave everything she had. Out of love for him, she became so humble as to seem like she belonged to the dust beneath their feet.

What he got in return was a divorce agreement?

Eleanor wanted to laugh, but she couldn't manage to do so.

Arthur placed the heavy, custom-made pen next to the documents. "After the contract is signed, one billion dollars will be transferred to the account you specify."

A billion dollars. Enough to buy a small country. Enough to erase a person from existence.

Eleanor's hand, resting on her knee, clenched into a fist. Her nails dug into her palm, the sharp, grounding pain cutting through the fog in her head.

She didn't reach for the pen.

"No," she said. Her voice was a dry rasp, unfamiliar to her own ears.

Damien finally turned. His jaw was a hard, sharp line, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his deep-set eyes. It wasn't anger. It was the irritation of a king whose decree had been questioned by a peasant.

He moved toward her, stopped directly in front of her, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. He was a mountain, and she was a stone at its base.

"This was never a marriage, Eleanor," he said, his voice a low, chilling rumble. "It was a contract. A transaction. You have fulfilled your purpose. You were a vessel, and you performed admirably."

A vessel. The word echoed in the empty space where her children should have been.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, the coppery taste of blood flooding her mouth. The pain was a shield, something to hide behind. She forced herself to meet his cold, empty gaze.

"I don't want your money," she said, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. "I only want one of the two children."

Yes, two children, but she only wants one.

The request landed in the room like a grenade, shattering the cold, business-like atmosphere. Arthur Foster shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Damien let out a short, humorless huff of air that wasn't a laugh. His eyes narrowed, turning from cold to dangerous. He looked at her as if she were a prey animal that had forgotten its place.

He leaned down, placing his hands on the armrests of the sofa on either side of her, trapping her in his shadow. The scent of his expensive cologne, a scent she once found intoxicating, now felt suffocating.

"Absolutely not," he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "A Sterling heir will not be raised in obscurity by... you. The bloodline remains pure. It remains here."

A bitter, desperate laugh escaped her lips. "My bloodline, you mean."

She saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, and it gave her a surge of desperate courage.

"You searched the entire world, Damien. You tested thousands of women. And in the end, there was only me. I am the only woman on this planet whose body won't reject the Sterling Bloodline Factor. The only one you've ever found who can give you a healthy heir."

Arthur Foster sucked in a sharp breath behind them. He took a half-step back, trying to melt into the shadows.

Damien's pupils contracted to pinpricks. The fingers of his right hand shot out, grabbing her chin, forcing her face up to his. His knuckles were white with the force of his grip.

He didn't deny it.

"Your genetic viability is your only value," he said, his words more brutal than any physical blow. "And that function has been served. Twice."

The pain in her jaw was excruciating. It sent sparks of light dancing behind her eyes, and tears pricked at their corners. She refused to let them fall. She would not give him the satisfaction of her tears.

He released her with a shove, her head hitting the back of the sofa with a soft thud. He stood up straight, pulling a silk pocket square from his suit jacket. He meticulously wiped his fingers, as if he had just touched something unclean.

He tossed the silk onto the table.

"This is your final offer, Eleanor. Sign the papers, take the money, and disappear. Or, you can refuse, and I will unleash the full legal and financial power of the Sterling Group upon you. I will bury you in lawsuits. I will ensure you can never work, never rent an apartment, never even open a bank account in this country again. You will cease to exist."

His words were not a threat; they were a statement of fact. A promise.

Her gaze fell to the billion-dollar check lying on the stack of papers. It was a cage, gilded and beautiful, but a cage nonetheless. She understood then. In his world, she didn't even have the right to fight. She only had the right to choose the manner of her surrender.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the heavy fountain pen. The cool metal felt like a weapon against her skin. The nib hovered over the signature line for three long, agonizing seconds. In her mind, she saw the faces of her newborn sons.

Then, she signed.

Eleanor Vance.

The name looked alien, the strokes of the pen twisted by a rage so profound it made her feel hollow.

Arthur moved forward instantly, retrieving the documents like a hawk snatching its prey. He checked the signature, then gave Damien a nearly imperceptible nod.

Damien adjusted his cufflinks, his expression unreadable. He didn't look at her again. He turned and walked toward the study door.

His hand was on the polished brass handle when he paused.

"Don't do anything foolish," he said, his back still to her. "There is nowhere on Earth you could hide from me."

The heavy door clicked shut, plunging the room back into silence. The only sound was Eleanor's own ragged, desperate breathing.

She collapsed back against the leather, every muscle in her body screaming with exhaustion. Her hand drifted down to her still-soft abdomen, a place that had been a home for nine months.

The emptiness in her eyes slowly, terrifyingly, receded. It was replaced by a cold, sharp light. A glint of terrifying calculation.

He was wrong.

There was one place she could hide. A place he would never think to look.

Eleanor pushed herself off the sofa. Her legs trembled, and a wave of dizziness washed over her, a cruel reminder of her body's recent trauma. She braced a hand against the wall, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

She walked to the desk, her eyes sliding past the billion-dollar check as if it were a piece of trash. She pulled open the bottom drawer. Tucked beneath a stack of old stationery was a small, worn leather pouch. Inside was a fake passport with a name she'd never used, a burner phone, and a thick wad of cash-her entire life savings from before Damien.

She moved silently through the cavernous penthouse, a ghost in the house she had been a prisoner in for two years. In her bedroom, she shed the silk dress Damien had forced her to wear for the meeting and pulled on a pair of black jeans, a plain gray hoodie, and a dark baseball cap. She looked in the mirror and saw a stranger-a pale, gaunt woman with shadows under her eyes. She was invisible. Perfect.

She didn't take the main elevator. Instead, she slipped through the kitchen and into the service corridor, her sneakers silent on the concrete floor. The service elevator smelled of disinfectant and old food. It carried her down fifty floors to the underground garage.

Her car, a beat-up ten-year-old Chevrolet she'd bought with cash and registered under a false name months ago, was parked in a dark corner. It was an ugly, anonymous vehicle, a blemish in a sea of polished Bentleys and Ferraris. It was her chariot to freedom.

The engine turned over with a reluctant cough. She pulled out of the garage and into the sleeping streets of New York City. The city that had been her prison now offered the perfect camouflage, its endless maze of streets a promise of escape.

She drove not away from the city, but deeper into it, heading for the private maternity hospital on the Upper East Side. The Sterling family's hospital.

She parked two blocks away, in a dark alley between a bakery and a laundromat. The air was cold, and she pulled the brim of her cap down low, burying her face in the collar of her hoodie. She walked quickly, her head down, just another anonymous shape in the city's late-night shadows.

She knew the hospital's layout by heart. She'd spent the last month of her pregnancy there, a prisoner in a luxury suite, and had used the lonely nights to plan. She bypassed the brightly lit main entrance and slipped through a side door used for laundry services, a door she knew was often propped open.

The fire escape stairs were cold and dark. She climbed, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her legs burning with the effort. She reached the fourth floor, the location of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and hope.

She peeked around the corner of the corridor. It was empty, save for a nurse, Maria Sullivan, who was walking away from her, pushing a cart toward the medication room. This was her chance.

Slipping from the shadows, Eleanor pushed open the heavy door to the NICU. The air inside was warm and smelled sharply of antiseptic. The only light came from the soft green and blue glow of medical monitors, their rhythmic beeps the only sound.

She walked directly to the two incubators in the far corner of the room, isolated from the others. Her sons.

Tears she had refused to shed in front of Damien now fell freely, hot tracks on her cold skin. She pressed her forehead against the cool plexiglass, her breath fogging the surface.

In the left incubator, Cody slept soundly. His breathing was even, his cheeks rosy. He was a fighter, strong and whole.

In the right, Leo was terrifyingly small. His tiny chest barely moved. Wires and tubes snaked from his frail body, connecting him to the machines that kept him alive. He was a fragile whisper of a life.

Her hand rested on the glass of Leo's incubator. It was cold, an unbreachable wall between them. A sob tore from her throat, a raw, animal sound of pure agony.

She knew she couldn't take him. Her meager resources, her life on the run-it was a death sentence for a child who needed constant medical care. The Sterling fortune could keep him alive. She could not.

The sound of the cart's wheels squeaking in the hallway jolted her. Time was running out.

She had to choose. It was a monstrous, impossible choice, a choice no mother should ever have to make.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood again, the pain a necessary anchor. She would save one. She had to save one.

With a final, heart-shattering look at Leo, she turned to the other incubator. Her hands trembled as she unlatched the side panel and reached in. Cody's skin was warm, his body a solid, living weight in her arms. She wrapped him tightly in a receiving blanket she had stuffed in her pocket.

As if sensing the separation, a tiny, piercing cry came from the incubator beside her.

Eleanor froze, her blood turning to ice. She whipped her head around. Leo was awake, his impossibly small fists flailing, his mouth open in a silent, desperate wail. He was fighting. He was calling for her.

For a terrifying second, she considered putting Cody back. Staying. Dying with them both.

But the footsteps in the hall were closer now.

Reason, cold and cruel, won. She leaned over Leo's incubator, pressing her lips to the cold glass, a phantom kiss.

"I will come back for you," she whispered, the words a sacred, desperate vow. "I promise."

Then she turned her back on her son.

Clutching Cody to her chest like a shield, she fled through a fire exit on the other side of the room. She ran down the stairs, her lungs screaming, her legs threatening to buckle. She burst out of the side door and into the cold night air.

Back in the car, she secured Cody in the infant carrier she'd installed in the back seat. Her hands were shaking so violently she could barely turn the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life. As she pulled out of the alley, a deafening alarm began to shriek from the hospital, its red lights flashing, painting the night in strokes of panic.

Eleanor stomped on the gas. The old Chevrolet shot forward into the darkness.

She didn't look back. In the rearview mirror, the glittering skyline of Manhattan receded, and with it, the woman she used to be.

In the sterile white NICU, Damien Sterling's fist connected with the wall. The sound was a dull crack, and the plaster spiderwebbed around his knuckles. Blood welled up, but he didn't feel it. All he saw was the empty space in the incubator, the faint indentation on the small mattress where his son had been.

"Find her," he had snarled at his head of security, his voice a low, terrifying promise of violence. "I don't care what it costs. A billion-dollar reward. I want every bounty hunter, private detective, and scoundrel from here to every corner of the world to go look for her. Find her, and find my son."

That was five years ago.

Five years of dead ends. Five years of false leads. Five years of silence.

The harsh white light of the hospital dissolved into the warm afternoon sun of a Brooklyn neighborhood. Eleanor, her face now etched with the fine lines of worry and exhaustion, emerged from the subway station. She held the hand of a small boy with bright, intelligent blue eyes and a mop of dark hair.

Cody.

He was five years old now.

They had survived. Eleanor had used every trick she knew, every hidden contact from a life before Damien, to build a new identity. They lived in a tiny apartment, she worked odd jobs for cash, and they never stayed in one place for more than a year. It was a life lived in the shadows, a life of constant, low-grade fear.

But today was an exception. Today was for Cody.

Eleanor drove to Manhattan with Cody, the city that was still a monster in her nightmares. They walked into a glittering, cathedral-like department store on Fifth Avenue, a place so far removed from their daily reality it felt like another planet. The opulence was suffocating, and Eleanor felt the stares of the wealthy shoppers on her worn coat and scuffed boots.

Cody, however, was unfazed. He stood before the window of a massive toy store, his gaze locked on an impossibly complex Lego model of the Death Star.

He didn't whine or beg. He simply stared at the price tag, his small brow furrowed in concentration.

"With New York state sales tax at eight-point-eight-seven-five percent," he said, his voice clear and precise, "the total comes to four hundred and eighty-nine dollars and sixty-eight cents."

Eleanor's heart ached. She looked at the number, then thought of the meager balance in her bank account. It was a chasm she couldn't cross.

Cody must have seen the flicker of pain in her eyes. His expression immediately changed. He broke into a wide, brilliant smile.

"Actually," he declared, "Lego is for babies. It's boring." He tugged on her hand, pointing toward a small, free play area in the center of the store. "I want to go on the slide! That looks way more fun."

Gratitude washed over her, so sharp and fierce it almost brought her to her knees. She knelt down and kissed his round, soft cheek. Cody threw his small arms around her neck and pressed a quick, warm kiss to her cheek in return.

"Okay, sweetie," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "You play here. Don't go anywhere, you understand? I'm just going to run up to the third floor. I saw a jacket for you in the discount section. I'll be right back."

"Promise," Cody said, puffing out his chest like a little soldier. "I'll stay right here."

She watched him scramble into the colorful plastic structure, his laughter echoing in the noisy store. She walked toward the escalator, her eyes fixed on him until the last possible second. As the escalator carried her upward, the play area was obscured by the floor above.

The moment he was out of sight, a sudden, violent shudder went through her. Her heart gave a painful lurch, a physical spasm of pure dread. It was so intense she pressed a hand to her chest, her breath catching in her throat.

It's nothing, she told herself. You're just on edge.

She forced the feeling down and hurried into the children's department on the third floor. Her fingers flew through the racks of clothes, searching for the navy-blue jacket she'd seen online. She found it, checked the price, and turned to head for the cashier.

That's when the announcement came over the store's intercom. The sound was distorted by static, the voice tinny and rushed.

"...looking for his mother... five years old... blue eyes... gray sweatshirt..."

The jacket slipped from her numb fingers and fell to the floor.

She didn't even notice. She was already running, shoving her way through the crowds of shoppers, ignoring their angry shouts. She flew toward the escalator, her mind a screaming void of white noise.

She ran against the flow of people coming up, her breath tearing at her lungs. Her eyes, wide and frantic, scanned the first floor.

She reached the railing of the play area, her chest heaving, and stared into the sea of colorful plastic balls. A few children were laughing and playing.

But the small boy in the gray sweatshirt was gone.

Cody was gone.

He had vanished, just as she had taken him five years ago. Snatched out of existence in the middle of a crowded store.