The Secret Twins Of The Contract Wife

Cleo Dorsey folded the single sheet of paper, the crisp edges a sharp line against her cold fingertips. The words "Routine Check-up" blurred. She slid it into her canvas tote bag, the rough fabric a small, grounding comfort. All she wanted was to escape the smell of antiseptic and money that clung to the air on the VIP floor of Mount Sinai Hospital.

She turned the corner, and her breath caught in her throat.

There, by the nurses' station, stood Axel Beaumont. Her husband. His tall frame was encased in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. He radiated a cold indifference that was as familiar to her as her own name.

But it was the woman beside him that made her stomach clench.

Isabelle Vanderbilt.

Her hand rested on Axel's arm, a gesture of effortless intimacy. Her blonde head was tilted toward him, her expression soft and vulnerable. Around her neck, a diamond necklace glittered under the harsh fluorescent lights. The "Morning Dew." Cleo recognized it from the auction last month, where Axel had acquired it for a staggering sum.

He was listening to whatever Isabelle was saying, his face, usually a blank mask of impatience when turned to Cleo, now held a sliver of patience.

A wave of nausea washed over her. Cleo took an involuntary step back, trying to melt into the shadows of a nearby alcove.

Too late.

Isabelle's gaze flickered over Axel's shoulder and landed directly on her. A flicker of triumph flashed in those sky-blue eyes before it was replaced by wide-eyed innocence.

"Axel," her voice was sweet, fragile. "Look, isn't that Cleo?"

Axel turned. His blue eyes, already cold, dropped another ten degrees. A frown creased his brow.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. The question was an accusation, as if her presence was an embarrassment.

Cleo gripped the strap of her tote bag, her nails digging into her palm. She forced her voice to remain steady.

"I came to get a check-up report."

"A check-up?" Isabelle let out a small, delicate laugh, laced with a fine thread of contempt. "At this hour? What a coincidence." The implication hung in the air: you were following us.

A few people in the hallway, recognizing Axel, began to whisper, their eyes darting between the three of them.

"I wasn't-" Cleo started, her voice hoarse.

"Enough, Cleo," Axel cut her off, his tone laced with irritation. "Don't make a scene here."

He turned back to Isabelle, his voice softening instantly. "Let's go. Don't let this ruin your mood."

But Isabelle, ever the performer, shook her head. She walked toward Cleo, her face a mask of concern. "Cleo, don't misunderstand. I know being Mrs. Beaumont must be stressful for you, especially with... your background..."

She let the words trail off, the insult sharp and clear. It was the same condescension Cleo had endured for three years. The housekeeper's daughter.

Cleo's face paled.

"It's just," Isabelle's eyes scanned Cleo's simple canvas bag and faded jeans, "sometimes, dressing the part is a form of respect. For Axel, and for the Beaumont family, don't you think?"

The words were a slap. Hot and humiliating.

Axel's frown deepened, but he said nothing. His silence was permission.

Seeing his reaction, Isabelle's smile widened. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only Cleo could hear. "Three more months. You should learn your place."

A tremor of pure rage went through Cleo's body. She lifted her head, her gaze meeting Isabelle's.

Her eyes were no longer evasive. They were calm, like the surface of a frozen lake, but with a chilling cold beneath.

Isabelle was taken aback by the look, instinctively taking half a step back.

Axel sensed the shift in atmosphere. He moved forward, placing himself protectively in front of Isabelle, his eyes locking on Cleo with a warning. "Cleo Dorsey. Watch your eyes."

That protective gesture shattered the last of Cleo's composure.

She looked at the perfect couple before her, a bitter, exhausting irony settling deep in her bones.

She didn't say another word. She simply dropped her gaze, turned, and walked toward the elevator, her back ramrod straight, each step taking every ounce of her strength.

Axel watched her go, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Isabelle leaned against him. "Did I say something wrong? She seems angry..."

Axel tore his eyes from Cleo's retreating back. "She's irrelevant," he said, his voice cold. "Not worth your time."

The elevator doors slid shut, cutting them off. Cleo leaned against the cold metal wall, closed her eyes, and a single, silent tear traced a path down her cheek.

Cleo stepped out of the elevator into the bustling main lobby, the air thick with the sounds of a city hospital. She just wanted to get outside, to breathe air that wasn't tainted with disinfectant and humiliation.

"Cleo, please wait!"

Isabelle's voice, sharp and demanding, cut through the noise.

Cleo didn't stop. She walked faster.

The click-clack of high heels hurried behind her. Isabelle cut her off at the main entrance, her mask of gentleness gone, replaced by an ugly flush of anger. Axel followed a few paces behind, hands in his pockets, observing like a king watching a minor squabble.

"What was that attitude back there?" Isabelle demanded. "I was giving you a kind reminder, and you give me that look?"

People milling around the lobby started to notice, their curious glances turning into stares.

Cleo looked at her, her voice quiet but clear. "A reminder? Miss Vanderbilt, I don't believe we're familiar enough for you to 'remind' me how to live my life."

She deliberately used the formal "Miss Vanderbilt," drawing a clear line in the sand.

Isabelle's face tightened. "You... what is that supposed to mean? Do you still think you're the housekeeper's daughter who successfully forced a marriage with a fake pregnancy three years ago?"

The words "forced a marriage" were like a poison dart. The murmurs from the crowd grew louder.

Axel's jaw clenched. The old, ugly story was a stain on his name, and he hated being reminded of it.

A cold, humorless smile touched Cleo's lips. The pain was a familiar ache, but today, something had snapped.

"Miss Vanderbilt," she stepped closer, her voice low but every word precise, "instead of worrying about my past, perhaps you should focus on securing your present."

Her gaze flicked meaningfully to the new-season Hermès bag clutched in Isabelle's hand. "After all, things that come from a man are like castles made of sand. One wave, and it's all gone."

The jab hit its mark. Isabelle's family was a minor branch of the Vanderbilts; her entire standing in New York society was propped up by Axel's favor.

The blood drained from Isabelle's face. Her lips trembled with rage. "You... how dare you speak to me like that!"

"Why wouldn't I dare?" Cleo stood straight, her gaze steady. "My marriage has three months left. But for these three months, I am still the legal Mrs. Beaumont. And you, Miss Vanderbilt, what are you?"

The directness of the attack, the cold logic, left the usually articulate Isabelle speechless.

Even the onlookers seemed impressed, their expressions shifting from curiosity to a kind of grudging admiration.

Shame and fury warred on Isabelle's face. Her eyes instantly welled with tears as she turned to the silent Axel. "Axel... did you hear her? How could she humiliate me like this..."

Axel's face was a thundercloud. He wasn't angry because Cleo had insulted Isabelle. He was angry because Cleo had disobeyed. She had challenged his control.

He strode forward and grabbed Cleo's wrist. His grip was like iron. A sharp pain shot up her arm.

"Cleo Dorsey, who gave you the nerve?" His voice was a low growl of fury. "Apologize to Isabelle. Now."

The bones in her wrist felt like they were about to crack, but Cleo lifted her chin, meeting his furious gaze without flinching. "I did nothing wrong. Why should I apologize?"

"You!" Her defiance pushed him over the edge.

"Axel, forget it..." Isabelle "kindly" interjected from the side, while shooting Cleo a triumphant look.

Her fake magnanimity was like gasoline on a fire.

"Apologize!" he repeated, his grip tightening, his voice a harsh command.

A cold sweat broke out on Cleo's brow from the pain, but she clenched her jaw and said nothing. Her silent, stubborn resistance was, in his eyes, another unforgivable provocation.

Suddenly, Isabelle let out a small cry, "Ah!" and stumbled, as if Cleo's struggling had accidentally pushed her.

Axel immediately released Cleo and steadied Isabelle. "Izzy, are you alright?"

"I'm fine... I just twisted my ankle..." Isabelle whimpered, leaning heavily against him, tears streaming down her face.

Axel shot Cleo a look of pure disgust. The loathing in his eyes was so cold, so absolute, it made Cleo's heart plummet into an icy abyss.

He didn't bother speaking to her again. He simply scooped Isabelle into his arms and, under the watchful eyes of the entire lobby, strode out of the hospital.

The Bentley Mulsanne pulled away from the curb, a silent, sleek predator disappearing into the New York traffic. Cleo stood alone at the hospital entrance, a statue abandoned by the world. The stares of strangers felt like tiny needles on her skin.

She looked down at her wrist, already red and starting to bruise. A dull throb pulsed from it, but it was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.

Her phone rang. "Axel" flashed on the screen.

She hesitated for a second before swiping to answer.

"Go to the Vanderbilt estate immediately and apologize to Isabelle in person." His voice was cold, devoid of any emotion. It wasn't a request. It was an order.

The line went dead. Cleo listened to the dial tone, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. He hadn't even asked for her side. He had already passed judgment.

She didn't go to the Vanderbilt estate. She hailed a yellow cab and gave a different address-the New York Hall of Science in Queens.

In the back of the cab, she sent Axel a single text message.

"I will not apologize. If you believe my actions have damaged the Beaumont name, we can initiate our divorce agreement ahead of schedule."

She hit send, then blocked his number and turned off her phone. Leaning back against the worn seat, she watched the Manhattan skyline recede behind her.

In Axel's car, he read the text. His handsome face darkened into a mask of fury. He threw the phone onto the empty seat beside him with violent force.

Isabelle watched him cautiously. "Axel, is she... refusing to come?"

"Her nerve is growing," Axel bit out, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. It was the first time Cleo had ever so blatantly defied him.

The taxi arrived at the Hall of Science. Cleo paid the driver and walked into the futuristic building.

An international summit on artificial intelligence was underway. She was the simultaneous interpreter for one of the German-language breakout sessions.

She slipped into the soundproof interpreter's booth in the back, put on her headset, and adjusted the microphone. The noise of the world faded away, leaving only her own voice and the language she was about to translate.

Her partner, a seasoned interpreter named Mr. Wright, gave her a nod. "Ready, Dorsey? Today's speaker is a fast one."

"No problem," Cleo replied, her voice calm and confident. Here, she was a professional.

The session began. The German expert's speech was rapid-fire, packed with dense, technical jargon.

Cleo's mind worked at lightning speed. Almost as soon as the words left the speaker's mouth, a smooth, precise English translation flowed from hers, delivered through the headsets to every member of the audience.

Her voice was steady, pleasant, her rhythm impeccable. She navigated the most complex sentences with an ease that belied their difficulty.

During the mid-session break, Mr. Wright gave her a thumbs-up. "Cleo, you're one of the best I've ever worked with. Your response time is like an AI's."

The conference organizer, a Mr. Foster, came over to thank her personally. "Miss Dorsey, your interpretation was outstanding, far beyond our expectations. We have a conference in Geneva next month, and we would be honored if you would consider working with us again."

Cleo smiled politely and thanked them. The pain in her wrist and the humiliation in her heart seemed to fade, replaced by the warm glow of professional accomplishment.

She realized that only here, in her element, was she not the pitied "Mrs. Beaumont," but Cleo Dorsey, a woman respected for her own abilities.

The work was a temporary balm, a fleeting moment of peace. As she stepped out of the Hall of Science at dusk, the setting sun painted the city in gold, but she knew the gilded cage of her marriage was still waiting.