Stealing My Rival's Wife And Her Twins

Rhea Summerlin POV:

I braced my elbows against the mattress and pushed my upper body up, my hospital gown soaked through with cold sweat as a tearing pain ripped through my lower abdomen and made my fingertips tremble.

On the nightstand, my phone screen lit up and went dark again as my seventh call to my husband, Landon Sterling, went straight to voicemail.

A weak cry came from the twin bassinets beside my bed, where my newborn son Noah and daughter Lily lay. I stretched my arm out to touch the clear plastic wall, but my muscles gave out and I nearly slid off the edge of the mattress.

Breathing hard, I grabbed my phone and opened social media. Right at the top of my feed was a live red-carpet photo from a Manhattan charity gala featuring Landon, the star center and captain of the New York Blades, standing beside actress Amelia Hayes-my older adoptive sister. Growing up, Amelia and I had never gotten along, and she had spent years taking pleasure in pushing me into the shadows of our family.

Landon wore a tailored black suit, his dark golden-brown hair styled neatly as he flashed his signature confident smile at the cameras.

An interview clip played automatically. Amelia, forever my adoptive parents' golden child, pressed close to Landon's arm and laughed softly into the microphone.

"Tonight, Landon belongs to me and all the fans in this arena."

I clicked the screen off. A sour, metallic taste rose in the back of my throat, and the only sound in the room was the flat, steady beep of the heart monitor.

The night nurse pushed the door open carrying an IV tray, glancing at the empty visitor chair with pity in her eyes.

"Mrs. Sterling, have you still not reached your husband?"

I drew in a slow breath to steady my shaking voice.

"He has an important team PR event tonight. He can't make it."

The nurse shook her head and hung a fresh bag of oxytocin on my stand.

"No team event is important enough to leave a wife to deliver twins all by herself."

Inside the bassinet, Lily's crying grew sharp and high, her tiny face turning bright red while Noah kicked his legs restlessly beside her.

Ignoring the nurse's warning, I threw back the blanket and forced myself out of bed. My bare feet hit the freezing floor tiles, and my knees buckled, nearly sending me crashing down.

The nurse hit the call button and hurried out to fetch formula. Pressing my palm against the wall, I dragged myself step by step toward the rolling cart and lifted Lily into my arms.

I turned to edge back toward the bed, but postpartum anemia hit me hard. Black spots flooded my vision, my breath caught in my chest, and my body tipped backward toward the floor.

The half-closed door swung open, and a large, calloused hand caught my forearm with a firm grip.

A crisp scent of rink ice and cedarwood wrapped around me as a strong arm slid behind my back, steadying both me and my baby against a broad chest.

I looked up into a pair of deep steel-blue eyes. Standing right in front of me was Ciaran Whitlock, the captain and star defenseman of the Boston Monarchs-and Landon's biggest rival in the league.

Ciaran looked down at my pale face, his jaw tightening slightly as he spoke in a low, steady voice.

"Mrs. Sterling? Hold on to me. Don't let go."

His palm pressed firmly against my thin shoulder blades, the heat of his skin soaking through my damp hospital gown and making my racing heart skip a beat.

Held close to his calm presence, Lily's frantic crying softened into quiet whimpers.

With practiced ease, Ciaran freed his left arm and took my daughter into the crook of his elbow, keeping his other hand securely around my waist.

"You need to lie down right now."

His tone carried no extra emotion, just a quiet authority that left no room for argument. He guided me back to the mattress, helped me sit, and pulled the blanket up over my cold legs before stepping back.

The nurse rushed back in and froze near the doorway, staring at him in shock.

"Mr. Whitlock? What are you doing in this room?"

Holding tiny Lily against his chest, Ciaran's tall frame blocked the overhead light, his expression cold.

"I heard the alarm from the hall. Check her vitals immediately. She's in bad shape."

The nurse hurried over to wrap a cuff around my arm, gasping softly as the numbers appeared.

"Low blood pressure and severe exhaustion. You must stay in bed."

At the open doorway, five-year-old Asher Whitlock peeked inside, clutching a small hockey plushie as his gray-blue eyes fixed curiously on Noah's bassinet.

Ciaran glanced toward the door and kept his voice gentle.

"Asher, wait outside for Dad for two minutes."

Leaning back against the pillows, I watched the league's toughest defenseman brush the back of his knuckle softly across Lily's cheek.

"Thank you, Mr. Whitlock," I whispered, my throat dry. "Please don't mention tonight to the press."

Ciaran placed the sleeping baby back into her bassinet and turned toward me, his gaze dropping to my phone screen as another gossip alert lit up the nightstand.

"The captain of the New York Blades is popping champagne for an actress at a gala while his wife delivers twins alone."

Ciaran pulled his own phone from his coat pocket, his voice cold as ice water as he dialed Landon's private number right in front of me. The room went dead silent except for the ringing tone, until Landon picked up after the third ring and snapped through the speaker.

"Who is this? I don't have time for random calls right now."