His Unwanted Wife's Return With Secret Twins

"Sign it, and the thirty-million-dollar debt of the Pruitt family is wiped clean."

Bartholomew Watson-Astrid Pruitt's husband by contract-never appeared. His terms were delivered by his assistant, flat and cold, like the closing of any ordinary deal. The thin, neatly dressed man sat across the coffee table, his eyes fixed on the folder, waiting only to witness the signature and carry the papers back.

Astrid held a black Montblanc pen. The nib hovered over the signature line of the divorce agreement, and the glare off the white paper burned her amber eyes. Three years ago, her family had used her as collateral for a thirty-million-dollar trust to marry into the Watson family. Now, her contract as a despised, penniless wife was over.

Her chest tightened until she could barely draw air. She pressed her lips together, forced down the bitterness in her throat, and quickly signed her name. She slid the papers across the coffee table toward the assistant.

The bedroom door swung open. Cristen Richard swayed out holding two flutes of champagne, a triumphant smile curving her lips. As Astrid's stepsister and the pampered darling of the Pruitt household, Cristen had never hidden her ambition.

"Congratulations on getting your freedom back, Astrid," Cristen said, her voice dripping with sweetness.

She shoved one flute into Astrid's hand. Her manicured nails deliberately scratched the back of Astrid's skin as she leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper.

"Bartholomew was always mine."

Astrid didn't answer. The air in the apartment felt thick enough to choke on. She tilted her head back and drained the champagne in one gulp, the cold liquid burning all the way down her throat.

She slammed the empty glass onto the coffee table with a sharp crack and stared coldly at Cristen.

"Enjoy my leftovers."

Astrid turned on her heel, strode toward the foyer, and pulled open the heavy oak door without looking back.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, an abnormal wave of heat surged up from her lower abdomen. Her knees buckled, and she nearly dropped to the carpeted hallway floor.

She braced a hand against the cold wall, gasping for air as her vision blurred. That champagne had been spiked with an illegal drug.

Astrid bit the tip of her tongue, using the metallic taste of blood to stay awake. She stumbled toward the elevator, her trembling fingers hitting the wrong button and sending her up to the private executive suites on the top floor.

At the end of the dim corridor, the double doors to the presidential suite stood slightly ajar. That suite had been scheduled for a deep cleaning that afternoon; a young housekeeper had wheeled her cart inside, propped the door open with the doorstop so she could haul out the old linens, and then been called away to another floor by the front desk. The door had been left unlocked and unwatched ever since. Unable to hold herself up any longer, Astrid pushed the doors open and stumbled inside.

The suite was pitch-black, lit only by the faint neon glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air smelled of crisp cedarwood mixed with tobacco.

Fumbling in the dark, her hip knocked against a pedestal by the entryway. A porcelain vase crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces in the dead silence.

A large, bony hand shot out from the darkness, clamping around her wrist like an iron vise and slamming her back against the cold wall.

A familiar, deep voice rasped above her head, heavy with suppressed breathing.

"What are you doing here?"

Bartholomew had just finished a long meeting in the hotel's conference rooms and come up to the suite to rest-never expecting to find anyone here.

The drug had completely burned away Astrid's rationality. She failed to recognize his voice, driven only by instinct to press her burning body against his cool chest for relief.

Astrid sensed the man's frame freeze instantly, rigid as iron against her touch. Yet as her hair brushed his neck, releasing the faint scent of orange blossom, the harsh tension in his muscles suddenly gave way, his ragged breathing turning into a low, stifled rasp.

Astrid's slender fingers blindly tore at the buttons of his dress shirt, her fingertips brushing across an old scar just below his collarbone.

The man's breath hitched, breaking entirely as his control snapped. He lowered his head and crushed his mouth against her burning lips, his voice hoarse.

"You asked for this."

Clothes were torn and scattered across the floor in the dark. In front of the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, they tangled together without reservation as the heat between them climbed higher and higher.

Outside, a thunderstorm broke over Manhattan. Flashes of lightning tore across the night sky, briefly illuminating the overlapping silhouettes on the bed, yet never once lighting up their faces.

When the pale light of dawn pierced through the clouds, Astrid woke to a fierce, tearing ache throughout her body. The spot beside her was already cold.

Holding back the pain, she sat up, gathered her torn clothes from the floor, and fled the suite in terror.

She ran all the way from the hotel elevator out onto the street, hailed a yellow cab, and only dared to sob aloud once she was shut inside the back seat.

One month later, in a rundown rental apartment in Brooklyn, a rusty faucet dripped steadily. The cramped space reeked of cheap bleach.

Astrid sat on the closed lid of the toilet, her hands shaking as she picked up a white plastic stick from the sink edge.

In the tiny display window, two bright red lines stood out clearly, announcing the consequence of that reckless night.

Her stomach dropped like a stone. She threw the pregnancy test into the trash bin, ran to the desk drawer, and pulled out her passport.

She dialed the encrypted number of her best friend, Kamryn Jensen-an Upper East Side socialite who had cut ties with her own biased family to stand by Astrid, and who treated Astrid like her own flesh and blood.

"Kam, book me a one-way ticket to Zurich."

Kamryn's voice came through the receiver, sharp with alarm. "A ticket? What happened? What's going on?"

Astrid rested her palm over her flat stomach, her eyes hardening. "I'm pregnant."

There was a beat of dead silence on the line. "If he finds out," Astrid went on, "he will never let me keep this baby."

"Are you crazy?" Kamryn burst out. "Bartholomew's lawyers are still hunting for you to finalize the divorce filing! How are you supposed to get away right now?"

"Then the faster the better," Astrid said.

She stuffed a few simple clothes into a duffel bag and took one last look at the city that had trapped her.

Suddenly, frantic pounding echoed against the apartment door, followed by the rough roar of bodyguards outside.

"Miss Pruitt, open up! Mr. Watson wants to see you!"

Bartholomew had tracked her down himself, following the trail all the way to this shabby Brooklyn walk-up.

He wasn't going to let her vanish again.

Astrid slung the duffel bag over her shoulder, pushed open the back window of the Brooklyn apartment, and climbed out onto the rusted fire escape. The cold night wind whipped her long hair across her face as she scrambled down the metal steps.

She ducked into a pitch-black alley just as Bartholomew's bodyguards kicked the front door off its hinges. Bright flashlight beams swept wildly through the empty room upstairs.

Astrid clamped a hand over her mouth, holding her breath until the men cursed and stomped back down the stairs. The moment the coast was clear, she ran to the curb and jumped into a cab.

Eight months later, a violent storm lashed against the glass windows of a private church hospital on the outskirts of Zurich.

Inside the operating room, Astrid lay on the surgical table, her face as pale as paper. Sweat soaked through her sterile gown as her agonizing screams echoed down the corridor.

Outside the doors, Kamryn paced back and forth, her stilettos clicking rapidly against the terrazzo floor while the diamond stud on her right ear cuff glinted under the fluorescent lights.

A nurse burst through the double doors, her gloved hands covered in blood.

"The patient is hemorrhaging! It's triplets, but the youngest baby girl has congenital heart failure. Our equipment here can't keep her alive!"

Kamryn lunged forward and grabbed the nurse by the collar, her eyes bloodshot as she roared.

"Use the best medicine you have! Money is no object! You have to save all of them!"

Inside the operating room, the heart monitor let out a sharp, continuous flatline beep. After pushing out the third child, Astrid slipped into a deep coma.

The attending physician walked out shaking his head, carrying a tiny baby girl whose skin was bruised purple and whose breathing was barely there.

"This child won't make it through the night unless she's flown back to New York and placed in the Watson Group's top-tier life-support incubator."

Kamryn looked through the glass at Astrid, who was clinging to life on the operating table, and then at the two healthy baby boys in the bassinet. Jaw clenched, she made a brutal decision.

She told herself it was only temporary. Once Astrid was stable, she would tell her the truth and find a way to bring the little girl home.

That night, she contacted Bartholomew's personal assistant, lying that Astrid had died in childbirth and left behind only a critically ill daughter. Two hours later, Bartholomew's medical jet forced a landing in Zurich and took away the baby girl who could not even let out a cry.

Then Kamryn did the second thing, the one that hurt more. Before Astrid's coma could break, she arranged the paperwork-two death certificates, a mother and a nameless infant, quietly filed in a foreign hospital's archive-and spread the word that the woman and her sick daughter had both died on the operating table.

Watching the private jet vanish into the stormy clouds, Kamryn wiped her face, walked back into the ward, and let her tears fall as Astrid slowly opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Astrid. The little girl didn't make it."

Astrid shut her eyes in sheer despair. Silent tears slid down her temples into her hair as she hugged the two remaining baby boys tightly to her chest, locking her heart away for good.

Kamryn never learned what became of the child after that. The jet took off into the storm, the Watson side sealed every record behind its name, and no report ever came back to Zurich. She had no idea whether the girl had lived or died-and for six years, she carried that uncertainty like a stone in her chest.

Six years later, bright sunlight poured through the massive glass dome of the arrivals hall at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York.

Wearing a sharply tailored beige trench coat and wide sunglasses, Astrid walked out of the VIP lane in high heels, radiating an aura of cold authority. She was back as Dr. Sunny, chief cardiovascular expert at the Johns Hopkins Advanced Medical Research Institute.

Her left and right hands held two five-year-old boys dressed in custom miniature suits and matching sunglasses, drawing stares from everyone passing by.

Her older son, Daxton Pruitt, had a cold face. His fingers flew across a black tablet screen as he spoke without looking up.

"Mommy, New York's cybersecurity system is still full of holes."

Her younger son, Devaughn Pruitt, chewed bubble gum and raised an eyebrow, scanning the terminal.

"Don't be so boring, bro. The sheep on Wall Street are waiting for us to shear them."

Astrid chuckled softly and reached down to ruffle Devaughn's fluffy short hair.

"We came back to fulfill a medical contract this time. Both of you behave."

Daxton tucked his tablet under his arm and squeezed Astrid's hand firmly.

"Don't worry, Mommy. If anyone dares to bully you, I'll hack their bank accounts and bankrupt them."

As the three of them pushed their luggage cart toward the exit, a commotion broke out among the waiting crowd. Several bodyguards in black suits roughly shoved bystanders aside to clear a path.

Astrid instinctively pulled her two sons behind her back and looked toward the center of the disturbance.

A tall, imposing man walked forward surrounded by security, his gray-blue eyes sharp beneath jet-black hair.

Astrid's heart contracted violently. She yanked up the collar of her trench coat to conceal her face, then shoved both boys behind a massive Roman column.

Bartholomew walked past, holding a little girl in a pink princess dress steadily with one arm, his large hand gently cupping the back of her head.

Little Kallie Watson rested her chin on her father's broad shoulder, her dark brown eyes looking around curiously. When she smiled, two shallow dimples appeared on her cheeks.

Peering through the gap beside the column, Astrid dug her fingernails deep into her palms as a bitter taste spread across her tongue.

She assumed the girl was the child of Bartholomew and Cristen. So they had been together all along-long enough to have a child. Six years of resentment rushed back at once, the old wound tearing open like it had never healed. She had thought she was over him, but standing here, she realized that fire had never gone out.

Devaughn noticed the shift in his mother's breathing and followed her gaze toward the powerful man.

He nudged his brother with his elbow and lowered his voice.

"Bro, that stone-faced guy looks loaded. And he looks a lot like us."

Daxton locked his dark eyes onto Bartholomew, a dangerous glint flashing in their depths.

He raised his tablet, pulled up a facial recognition program, and ran the target against his encrypted database.

The profile of the CEO of the Watson Group popped up on the screen. Daxton curled his lips into a cold sneer.

"So he's the scumbag dad who abandoned his wife and kids."

Twenty feet away, Bartholomew was looking down while his assistant, Colin Hayes, reported his afternoon schedule.

His gaze swept casually across the terminal crowd-and froze.

A woman in a tailored beige trench coat was walking quickly toward the side exit, holding two small boys by the hands. Just as she pivoted to avoid his path, a strong draft blew through the open doors and knocked her wide sunglasses off her nose.

That fleeting, striking profile hit Bartholomew's chest like a sledgehammer.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ignoring everything else, he shoved the bodyguard in front of him out of the way and strode frantically toward the side exit.

The shoved bodyguard stumbled sideways and nearly knocked over a metal luggage cart, throwing the security formation into chaos.

Startled by her father's sudden movement, Kallie wrapped her small arms tightly around his neck and asked in a soft voice, "Daddy, what's wrong?"

Bartholomew heard nothing. His gray-blue eyes remained fixed on the glass doors, his voice terribly hoarse.

"Astrid..."

When he burst through the side doors onto the curb, there was only bumper-to-bumper traffic and travelers waiting for rides. The woman in the beige coat had vanished completely into the crowd.

Bartholomew stood rooted to the concrete, his thumb rubbing frantically against his dark jade ring as pain and self-mockery twisted in his eyes.

Colin ran up behind him, gasping for breath, and carefully held out a handkerchief.

"Boss, did you mistake someone else for her again? Madam passed away six years-"

Bartholomew shot him a freezing glare that cut the sentence short.

"Shut up. Pull all the surveillance footage from this terminal immediately. I want to know who that woman is."

Carrying Kallie, he turned and strode toward his private convoy waiting at the VIP curb.

Two hundred yards down the curb, beside the outdoor smoking area, Astrid had quickly recovered her sunglasses and was now staring at her phone screen, trying to reach rideshare customer service.

Daxton tilted his tablet screen away from her line of sight, quietly saving Bartholomew's profile into his encrypted cloud drive.

Devaughn rolled his eyes, crouched on the pavement holding his stomach, and put on a pained expression.

"Mommy, my tummy hurts so bad. I need to use the restroom."

Astrid hung up the call at once and squatted down in front of him, her brows knitting together.

"What's wrong? Did you drink too much iced soda on the plane?"

Daxton stepped forward and took his brother's hand.

"Mommy, you stay here and watch the luggage. I'll take him. The restroom is right inside the door."

Astrid hesitated for a second, looked at her sensible older son, and nodded.

"Go and come right back. Don't wander off."

The second the two boys were out of their mother's sight, they dropped their innocent act and wove through the crowd on their short legs.

Retracing their steps, they slipped back into the arrivals hall and ducked behind a massive backlit billboard near the VIP curb.

Outside the glass doors, Bartholomew was standing beside a stretch Lincoln, still holding Kallie in his arms while bodyguards loaded several limited-edition suitcases into the trunk.

Devaughn let out a low whistle and whispered, "Whoa, custom armored plating. This scumbag dad really values his life."

Daxton snorted coldly, reached into his small backpack, pulled out a miniature signal jammer, and flipped the switch.

Instantly, the electronic locks of the stretch Lincoln let out a piercing alarm. The headlights flashed wildly. The bodyguards tensed up at once, reaching inside their jackets to draw their weapons.

Bartholomew's eyes darkened as he pressed Kallie's head against his chest, using his broad back to shield her from every possible angle of attack.

Watching the man's tense posture from behind the billboard, Daxton smirked.

Devaughn tugged at his brother's sleeve and pointed at the girl in Bartholomew's arms.

"Bro, who is that little girl? Did he have her with some other woman?"

Daxton tapped his fingers rapidly on his tablet screen, reading the public records he had just pulled up, his eyebrows pulling together.

"The news reports say she's his sole heir, Kallie Watson."

Devaughn clenched his small fists, anger flashing in his brown eyes.

"Mommy almost died running away from him back then, and he's out here building a happy family with another woman!"

Daxton switched off the jammer. The Lincoln's shrill alarm cut off abruptly, leaving the bodyguards exchanging baffled looks as they checked the vehicle.

After patting his frightened daughter's back to calm her down, Bartholomew whipped his head around, his razor-sharp gaze slicing straight toward the billboard.

Moving fast, Daxton shoved his brother flat onto the floor behind the metal frame. Both boys held their breath, narrowly avoiding that piercing stare.

Outside, Bartholomew narrowed his eyes slightly at the empty space by the billboard before carrying his daughter into the back seat. As the tinted window rolled up, he left a cold command for his men on the curb.

"Find out where that signal interference came from. Security in New York is getting worse by the day."