Five Years of IVF While He Already Had Twins

I nearly died on the operating table trying to give Alexander Volkov a child, only to find out he already had a pair of illegitimate twins. Twins with his exact storm-gray eyes.

When the truth hit me, I blacked out.

I didn't know how much time had passed before the steady beep of the heart monitor pulled me back.

I opened my eyes. Alexander was crushing my hand.

I’d learn later that the second he heard I collapsed, he abandoned a ten-million-dollar merger and flew halfway across the country overnight to get to me.

The nurse's hands shook so badly she could barely hold the IV needle. She didn't dare look Alec in the eye. I couldn't blame her—he was the man who made the entire New York mafia tremble.

"You stopped breathing, Ella," he rasped, pressing my knuckles to his cheek. He was shaking.

I had seen what this man was capable of. I’d watched him strangle a man with a silk tie without a flicker of emotion. I’d seen him light a cigarette staring down the barrel of a gun, his hands steadier than a surgeon's.

Now, he was trembling because I passed out.

I had to look away. Seeing raw terror in those signature gray eyes hurt worse than the bullet I took for him five years ago.

Because I knew exactly who else had those eyes.

Angelina Ford’s twins.

If I hadn't seen the PI's report with my own eyes—the red-stamped DNA results, his signature on the birth certificates—I probably would have lived out the rest of my life in this fairy-tale "perfect marriage."

But now I knew the truth. Alec was a liar. An absolute, flawless liar.

My free hand slipped down to my stomach. A new life was growing there—the result of five grueling years of IVF, countless failed attempts, a living hell of hormone injections and needles. God was finally on my side.

But now, it was nothing more than a sick joke.

Alec leaned over, his shadow swallowing me. "Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me who did this, and I’ll bury them."

That was when I smelled it.

Hiding beneath his crisp Tom Ford cologne was a fainter, sickeningly sweet scent.

Baby formula.

My stomach violently rebelled. I ripped my hand away, dragging the IV pole as I scrambled to the bathroom. I hit the floor tiles, dry-heaving into the toilet.

"Ella!" Alec didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees, not caring that the puddle on the floor was soaking into his bespoke trousers. He gathered my hair back and pressed a cold towel to my neck. "I’m right here."

A sob tore from my throat. This was the absolute agony of it—in this exact second, he was still the man I would die for.

Kneeling on the cold bathroom tiles, he murmured, "Deep breaths. I'm here. I'm always here."

I almost broke down completely. Because for a split second, he was the man I fell in love with again.

The man who carried me bleeding for three city blocks to the ER after I took a bullet for him.

The man who held me through the night after every single failed round of IVF.

The man I thought was worth my life five years ago.

Maybe... if I just opened my mouth, if I told him I was pregnant, he would cut ties with them for this hard-won child? Maybe we could fix this shattered mess?

I wiped my mouth. "Alec, I—"

His phone vibrated.

A flash of annoyance crossed his face. He kissed my forehead, already standing. "A situation at the docks. I need to take care of it."

He walked out.

Twenty minutes later, my phone lit up. An anonymous text.

A photo. Alec sitting in a sunlit nursery, expertly feeding a bottle to a chubby toddler. He looked at total peace.

He was already living the life I had craved for five years. Just with someone else.

That photo was the mercy kill my dying hope needed.

With surgical precision, I ripped the IV needle from my vein. Ignoring the blood, I dialed Zoe.

"I need you to help me disappear," I said.

"What?"

"He has another family."

Dead silence. Zoe knew how Alec’s world worked. He would never divorce me. He’d lock me in a gilded cage until I suffocated. If my baby and I were going to survive, Ella Volkov had to cease to exist.

The second I got home from the hospital, the purge began.

I stood in his walk-in closet. Taking tailoring shears, I slashed every cashmere sweater I’d hand-knit for him into ribbons.

I unbolted the Cartier love bracelets from my wrists. I dumped them on the kitchen counter with a note: [For the real Mrs. Volkov.]

In the living room, I threw five years' worth of photo albums into the fireplace. I watched his smiling face turn to ash.

Every memory of my devotion was destroyed, except for one thing.

Finally, I stood before the mirror, looking at the necklace around my throat. The pendant was a warped bullet—the exact one surgeons pulled from my abdomen five years ago.

Alec had it turned into a necklace and clasped it on me himself, swearing our lives were forever bound.

I was just about to throw it into the trash can when my phone vibrated.

Zoe: [Done. 48 hours, when the sea fog is thickest.]