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.