Hiding From The Billionaire

I, Isabela Sullivan, six months pregnant with twins, excitedly awaited my husband, Fremont Slater, to come home.

But instead of sharing my joy, he threw a divorce agreement on the coffee table.

Before I could even process the heartbreak, his mistress walked into our home.

She deliberately threw herself backward down the stairs, screaming that I had pushed her.

My husband didn't hesitate. He rushed to her side, looking at me with pure, murderous loathing.

"You are the most vicious creature I have ever met."

The sheer cruelty of his betrayal struck me like a physical blow, and a massive hemorrhage buckled my knees.

As a pool of crimson blood spread across the pristine marble, I reached out, begging him to save our babies.

But he just scooped up his mistress—who only had a sprained ankle—and walked right past my bleeding body without looking back.

I was pronounced dead in that cold hospital, taking my unborn children with me.

Why was my devotion repaid with such callous abandonment? How could he let his own flesh and blood die for a liar's fake tears?

Five years later, I returned, no longer the helpless, discarded wife.

I was now a legendary hacker, a miracle surgeon, and a rising Hollywood star, with my two genius sons alive and thriving by my side.

When my ex-husband finally tracked me down, pinning me against a wall with desperate, bloodshot eyes, I simply offered a polite smile.

"Sir, I believe you have mistaken me for someone else."

...

The electronic click of the front door lock sliced through the quiet anticipation in the living room.

Isabela Sullivan's hand stilled on the gentle curve of her six-month pregnant belly. Hope, warm and bright, surged through her. She pushed herself up from the plush sofa, a genuine smile gracing her lips for the first time all day.

"You're home," she began, her voice soft as she moved toward the entryway.

Fremont Slater stepped inside. He was as handsome as the day she met him, his dark suit perfectly tailored, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass.

He didn't respond. He didn't even look at her.

The smile on Isabela's face faltered. She watched him stride directly to the bar cart, his movements precise and economical. He poured a measure of amber whiskey into a heavy crystal glass, the clink of the bottle the only sound in the cavernous room.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. She took a tentative step forward, her hand instinctively returning to shield her stomach. "Fremont, dinner is..."

"Don't bother."

His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. He finally turned, but his gaze was fixed on a point over her shoulder. He pulled a slim leather briefcase onto the marble coffee table, the snap of its latch echoing in the silence. From it, he produced a sheaf of papers bound in a dark blue cover.

He tossed it onto the table. The heavy paper landed with a dull, final thud.

Isabela's eyes were drawn to the stark, white letters on the cover.

DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

The room seemed to tilt, the expensive art on the walls blurring into meaningless shapes. She looked from the document to his impassive face, her mind refusing to process the words.

"Fremont?" Her voice was a raw, trembling whisper. She took another step, her hand outstretched as if to ward off a physical blow. "I... I'm pregnant. It's twins."

She had been saving the news about the twins, a secret treasure she'd hoped would finally bridge the chasm between them.

For the first time, a flicker of something registered in his eyes. It wasn't joy. It was a cold, dismissive sneer.