The Ghost Surgeon's Secret Billionaire Twins

"Go upstairs. Now. Lock the door," Adelia commanded, her voice trembling with a suppressed panic that made Leo grab his sister's hand and run.

Adelia turned back to the VIP recovery room. She stood at the foot of the man's bed, her breathing fast and shallow.

She had to know. The uncertainty was a physical weight crushing her lungs.

She walked to the surgical tray and picked up a pair of fine medical scissors. Her hands, which had just flawlessly navigated an aorta, were shaking. She leaned over the sleeping man, carefully lifting a lock of dark hair near the nape of his neck.

Snip.

She collected the strands, ensuring the follicles were attached. Next, she grabbed a fresh syringe. She found a vein in his heavily bruised arm and drew a small vial of dark red blood.

She sealed both samples into a biometric cold-chain lockbox. Pulling out her encrypted phone, she fired off a high-priority message to Susan, her most trusted colleague in Europe: Run a full DNA panel against the kids. Priority zero.

She shoved the phone into her pocket. As she turned to leave the bedside, a hand shot out and locked around her wrist.

Adelia gasped.

The man's eyes were open. They were a piercing, icy gray-blue, like a Siberian wolf staring down its prey.

"What the hell were you just drawing my blood for?" His voice was a raw, gravelly rasp, heavy with the oppressive authority of a man used to giving orders. His jaw flexed, the muscles ticking dangerously.

Adelia swallowed the hard lump of panic in her throat. She forced her face into a mask of clinical indifference.

"Routine post-op labs," she lied smoothly, trying to yank her arm away. "Your white blood cell count needs monitoring."

He didn't let go. His cold eyes swept the room, taking in the state-of-the-art monitors, the proprietary IV pumps, the sheer wealth of the medical tech surrounding him.

"A standard private doctor doesn't have the hands to pull shrapnel off an aorta," he said, his gaze snapping back to her face, pinning her in place. "Give me your name. And tell me your price for keeping your mouth shut."

Adelia scoffed, her anger flaring to mask her fear. She wrenched her arm free. "You couldn't afford my consultation fee."

The man's eyes darkened. He reaches into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket resting on the bedside table. He pulled out a sleek, heavy piece of metal and tossed it onto the blankets.

A black Centurion card.

"Ten million dollars," he stated arrogantly. "That buys me this bed for a week, and your absolute silence."

Adelia stared at the card. The custom embossed logo in the corner made the blood drain from her face.

Hays Capital.

Her lungs seized. The man lying in her bed was Hilliard Hays. The most ruthless, bloodthirsty investment predator on Wall Street.

Before she could tell him to take his money and get out, her secondary work phone erupted in a frantic vibration.

She snatched it up. "Yes?"

"Dr. Compton!" It was Dr. Frye, the head of cardiology at Mount Sinai. He sounded terrified. "It's your grandmother. She's crashing. We've issued a critical condition notice."

Adelia's vision tunneled.

"And your father," Frye whispered frantically. "Enos is here with his lawyers. He's demanding we pull the plug. He's signing the Do Not Resuscitate order right now!"

Pure, unadulterated fury exploded in Adelia's chest. The heat of it burned away all her panic about Hilliard Hays.

She grabbed her car keys from the counter. She spun around, glaring at Hilliard with eyes that promised violence.

"Stay in that bed," she snarled. "If you rip your stitches, I'll let you bleed out."

She didn't wait for a response. The automatic doors hissed shut behind her as she sprinted for the garage.

Hilliard watched her go, his jaw tightening. The pain in his abdomen was blinding, but his mind was razor-sharp. He pressed the hidden comms button on his luxury watch.

"Alistair," Hilliard growled into the watch. "Track my GPS coordinates. Find out exactly whose clinic I'm sitting in."