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.