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 the way the wind whipped her hair, but his expression hardened instantly. He looked around the empty alley, ensuring no cameras were present, before focusing his cold annoyance on her.

Avery stepped forward, lifting the umbrella high. She had to tilt it to cover them, exposing her own back to the freezing downpour. The water soaked through her blazer instantly. It ran down her spine, ice-cold.

"Oh, Avery," Scarlett cooed, her voice sugary. She leaned into Julian's chest. "I feel so terrible making you come all the way out here. Julian is just so protective."

Avery said nothing. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. She gripped the handle tighter, her knuckles white.

Julian ushered Scarlett into the back of the waiting car. He paused before getting in, turning to look at Avery. Rainwater dripped from her nose. She looked pathetic.

"You did your job," he said, his voice low so the driver wouldn't hear. "Take a taxi back. I need to debrief Scarlett on the ride. We can't have you listening in on sensitive matters."

He got in. The door slammed.

Avery stood on the curb. The taillights of the Rolls Royce faded into the gray mist. They hadn't offered her a ride. He had checked for paparazzi, ensured his reputation was safe, and left her in the rain.

By the time she got a taxi and returned to the penthouse, she was shaking so hard she couldn't fit the key in the lock. Her temperature was spiking. She curled up on the bed, her hands protective over her flat stomach.

Just us, she thought. It's just us.

Julian came home three hours later. He smelled of rain and Scarlett's floral perfume. He pushed open the bedroom door and saw her shivering under the duvet.

Avery let out a dry, hacking cough.

"Stop acting," Julian said, loosening his tie as he walked past the bed. "A little rain never killed anyone."

Avery closed her eyes. A single, hot tear leaked out, soaking into the pillow. She didn't make a sound. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

The headache was a dull throb behind her eyes when she woke up. The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning light.

Julian was sitting in the wingback chair by the window. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at an unlit cigar in his hand, rolling it between his fingers.

On the nightstand, next to a glass of stale water, was a thick document.

Avery sat up slowly. Her body felt heavy, like lead. She glanced at the paper. Dissolution of Marriage.

"The lawyers drafted it last night," Julian said. He didn't turn his head. "The capital injection into Sterling Group will continue until the contract term ends. You won't lose your family business."

Avery reached out and touched the paper. It was cold. Everything in this house was cold.

She thought about the shredded report in the bathroom wastebasket. She thought about the rain.

"Scarlett is back for good," Julian continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "She needs a place in society. You've been squatting in her seat for three years."

Avery picked up the pen lying on top of the document.

Julian stood up then. He walked over to the bed, looming over her. "Read it. Don't come back later asking for more alimony."

Avery didn't read it. She flipped to the last page. She found the line marked Wife.

"Okay," she said.

She signed her name. Her handwriting was steady, elegant. Avery Sterling Vanderbilt.

Julian froze. He stared at her signature, the ink still wet. His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering under the skin. He had prepared for a war. He had expected her to scream, to cry, to leverage his grandmother, Lady Eleanor. He had an entire arsenal of counter-arguments ready.

Her immediate compliance didn't feel like a victory. It felt like she was cutting a string he wasn't ready to let go of. It felt like a slap in the face.

"Okay?" he repeated, his voice dropping an octave. "That's it? Just 'okay'?"

"It's what you want," Avery said. She put the cap back on the pen. "I'll move out as soon as possible."

Julian snatched the papers from the nightstand. He gripped them so hard the pages crinkled. A vein ticked in his jaw. He looked at her, searching for the crack in her mask, searching for the pain he wanted to inflict.

There was nothing. Just a hollow exhaustion.

"You aren't going anywhere," he snapped. "You promised Grandmother you'd attend the family gala next month. You will stay here and play the part of the happy wife until then."

"I understand," Avery said. She turned her back to him, pulling the duvet up. "I'll cooperate."

Julian stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving with an anger he couldn't name. Then he turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the crystal perfume bottles on the vanity rattled.

Avery waited until his footsteps faded. She slid out of bed and went to the bathroom. She emptied the wastebasket into the larger bin, watching the tiny paper strips disappear into the darkness.

Then she went to her jewelry box. Inside a hidden compartment lay an old, water-damaged photograph. It was a blurry shot of a teenage girl pulling a boy out of the surf. Her back was to the camera.

Everyone said it was Scarlett.

Avery took the photo to the fireplace in the master suite. She stared at it, and a sharp, blinding pain shot through her temples. It was the same pain she felt whenever she tried to remember that day. The ocean. The salt. The screaming.

She couldn't breathe. The photo felt like it was burning her fingers.

"Make it stop," she whispered.

She struck a match. She watched the flame curl the edges of the photo, turning the memory to ash not to hide the truth, but to silence the noise in her head.

Let it die, she thought. If he wants her to be the hero, let her be the hero.

Avery was buttering a piece of toast when the doorbell rang. The sound echoed through the cavernous dining room.

Julian was at the head of the table, reading a financial report. He didn't look up.

The butler opened the doors, and Scarlett breezed in. She was followed by three movers carrying Louis Vuitton trunks.

"Julian!" Scarlett exclaimed, her voice breathless. "I'm so sorry to intrude."

Julian lowered the paper. "What's going on?"

Scarlett bit her lip, looking up at him through her lashes. "My apartment... a pipe burst. It's flooded. I didn't know where else to go."

Avery took a bite of her toast. It tasted like cardboard.

"You can stay here," Julian said immediately.

Scarlett turned to Avery, a sweet, apologetic smile plastered on her face. "Avery, you don't mind, do you? It's just for a few days."

Avery didn't look at her. She kept her eyes on her plate. "It's Julian's house. Ask him."

Julian's jaw tightened. "Put her in the East Suite."

The knife in Avery's hand slipped, clattering against the china. The East Suite was her painting studio. It was the only room in the house that was truly hers.

"That's Avery's studio," the butler murmured hesitantly.

"She doesn't paint anymore," Julian said coldly, his eyes fixed on Avery, waiting for a reaction. Any reaction. "It has the best light in the house. Scarlett needs a cheerful environment. Clear it out."

Avery felt the bile rising in her throat. She pushed her plate away.

"You look pale, Avery," Scarlett noted, sitting down in the chair to Julian's right. "Still recovering from that little cold?"

"It's not a cold," Julian said, flipping a page of his report. "It's laziness. Which reminds me-I've put you on mandatory leave from the Sterling merger."

Avery's head snapped up. "That's my project. I've worked on it for six months."

"And you're running yourself into the ground," Julian countered, his voice brokering no argument. "I've brought in the K&L consulting team to oversee the finalization. They are the best in the world. They will ensure your family's legacy is secure while you... recover. Stop embarrassing me with your frailty."

Avery stared at him. He wasn't doing this to be kind. He was stripping her of her purpose. He was dismantling her life, piece by piece.

The smell of the bacon on the table suddenly became unbearable. Avery stood up, her hand flying to her mouth. She rushed out of the room, barely making it to the powder room down the hall before she retched.

She gripped the porcelain sink, her knuckles white. She dry-heaved, her stomach cramping violently.

She heard footsteps.

"Dramatic," a voice said from the doorway.

It was Scarlett. She was leaning against the frame, arms crossed.

"He thinks you're doing this for attention," Scarlett whispered. "He hates weak women."

Avery rinsed her mouth, spitting into the sink. She looked at Scarlett in the mirror. "Enjoy the studio, Scarlett. The lighting is terrible in the afternoon."

Scarlett's smile faltered for a second. "You think you're clever. But you're just a placeholder. You always were."

"And you're a liar," Avery said, turning to face her. "Tell me, Scarlett, how are you going to enjoy the Jacuzzi in that suite? You always seem so... terrified of the sound of rushing water. Strange for a hero who swam into a riptide."

Scarlett's face went rigid. Before she could respond, Julian walked into the hallway.

Scarlett immediately sagged, putting a hand to her chest. "I was just checking on her, Julian. She... she said some awful things."

Julian stepped between them. He placed a hand on Scarlett's back and glared at Avery.

"Don't take your failures out on her," he warned. "Go upstairs. I don't want to see you until dinner."