Five Years of IVF While He Already Had Twins

I almost died on the operating table trying to give Alexander Volkov a child. He already had a pair of illegitimate twins with his gray eyes.

My heart stopped when I found out.

I remember gripping the edge of the kitchen island, and then nothing.

Alec walked away from a nine-figure merger deal that had taken six months to negotiate, summoned his private Gulfstream, and flew through the night to get back to me.

Forty-eight hours without sleep. He just sat by my bed, his face pale as a corpse.

When the nurse came in to change my IV, her hands shook so badly she couldn't hold the needle. She wouldn't meet Alec's eyes. Not surprising, really. He was the man who made the New York underworld tremble.

When I opened my eyes, he was holding my hand.

"Ella." His voice was raw. He pressed my palm to his cheek. "You almost killed me. You hear me? You almost killed me."

I'd seen what this man could do. I'd seen him strangle a man with a necktie, his face completely blank. I'd seen him light a cigarette staring down a gun barrel, his hands steadier than a surgeon's.

Now he was trembling because I'd fainted.

Looking into his eyes—those eyes I'd trusted more than faith itself—hurt worse than the bullet five years ago.

But I couldn't help wondering... did he look at her like that too?

Angelina Forde.

The woman his mother picked. His childhood sweetheart.

The woman who gave birth to his twins.

If I hadn't seen the private investigator's report with my own eyes—the DNA results stamped in red, the signature on the father's line of those birth certificates—I might have lived forever in that fairy tale called the "perfect marriage."

But I understood now. Alec was a liar. A complete, flawless liar. On the other side of the city, he'd been breathing the same air as another woman for three whole years.

I turned my face away. Tears soaked the hospital pillow.

My hand drifted to my belly. There was new life there now—after five years of trying, countless failed IVF attempts, endless needles and hormone treatments. God had finally decided to give me a break.

Now it felt like the cruelest joke.

All I could do was protect my child.

He pulled me into his arms. His voice was low, carrying that tenderness he reserved only for me.

"Tell me what's wrong, honey. Whoever made you unhappy, I'll make them pay."

Then I smelled it.

Perfume on him—the expensive kind, the brand I never used. And something else. Fainter, but sharper.

Baby formula.

My stomach lurched. I pushed him away, staggered to the bathroom, and threw up.

"Ella!" Alec's voice was sharp with alarm as he followed me in. He knelt down. Gathered my hair back. Wiped my face with a cold, damp towel.

He hated mess. Hated the smell of hospitals. Hated anything out of control.

But there he was, kneeling on the bathroom tiles, whispering, "Breathe. I'm here. I've always got you."

For a moment, I almost broke. Because in that instant, he was the man I'd fallen in love with again.

The man who'd carried me three blocks to the emergency room after I took that bullet for him.

The man who'd held me all night, saying nothing, after every failed IVF cycle.

The man I'd thought was worth dying for, five years ago.

For one second, I wavered.

Maybe... if I just spoke up, if I told him I was pregnant, he'd cut ties with that other life completely for the sake of this hard-won child. Maybe we could still patch this crack.

I opened my mouth to tell him.

"Alec, I—"

His phone rang.

He glanced at the caller ID. His expression shifted. Just for an instant, but I saw it.

He kissed my forehead. "Something at the marina that needs handling. I'll be right back."

Then he was gone.

Twenty minutes later, Angelina's text arrived.

A photo.

Alec was holding a bottle for one of those children, his other hand gently patting the baby's back—so practiced, so natural.

This was the picture I'd dreamed of.

I'd spent five years on operating tables begging for one child, wanting to give him a complete family. And he already had one.

That photo killed the last of my hope.

I pulled the IV needle out of my hand and called Zoe—my oldest friend.

"Help me," I said. "I need you to fake my death."

"Why? What happened?"

"He betrayed me."

She was stunned. The whole world thought Alexander was the perfect husband.

So attentive, so devoted. How could a husband like that cheat?

But she didn't ask questions.

I knew Alec. He would never let me go.

If I wanted to protect this child, I had to disappear.

That night, after leaving the hospital, I went home.

I walked into the walk-in closet and took out every sweater I'd ever knitted for him.

I cut them to pieces with scissors and threw them in a garbage bag.

The Cartier bracelets he'd given me—I removed them and put them in an envelope for the housekeeper. "Give these back to the 'real Mrs. Volkov,'" I wrote.

The photo albums. Every picture we'd taken over five years, I threw into the fireplace one by one.

I destroyed every trace of my love. Except one thing.

Finally, I stood before the mirror, looking at the necklace around my throat. The pendant was a deformed bullet—the one they'd taken from my abdomen five years ago.

Alec had made it into a necklace and put it on me himself, swearing it was the bond of our life and death together.

I should have thrown it away, like all those photos.

But I didn't.

At midnight, my phone buzzed. It was from Zoe.

[It's done. Two days from now, when the fog's thickest. You'll disappear.]