Chapter 3

Rhea Summerlin POV:

Carrying the heavy scent of expensive cologne and chilly spring air, Landon strode into the room, his angry gaze sweeping over me and Dr. Quentin.

His broad shoulders cast a dark shadow under the ceiling light, the old surgical scar along his left collarbone visible through his unbuttoned collar.

"Rhea, what kind of game are you playing?" Landon demanded in a low voice, glaring around the room. "Where is Whitlock? Why the hell was he touching my kid?"

Leaning against the pillows, I looked at the man I had quietly supported for three years, feeling nothing but an icy calm in my chest.

"He caught me when I nearly fainted on the floor," I said flatly. "While you told him over the phone to mind his own business."

Landon's face darkened, and he stepped forward to grab my wrist.

"Don't use that tone with me! You know tonight was a crucial dinner for the Blades to secure the Summerlin Performance endorsement!"

Dr. Quentin stepped squarely between us and knocked Landon's hand away with a firm slap.

"Step back, sir. My patient requires complete rest right now."

Landon glared at Dr. Quentin, clearly failing to recognize that the man in the white coat was a senior board member of the very empire he was trying to flatter.

"A night-shift doctor dares to meddle in my family business? Do you have any idea who I am?"

"Landon Sterling, captain of the New York Blades," Dr. Quentin replied with a cold sneer. "And medically and legally, an absent husband who abandoned his wife during a high-risk delivery."

Landon's face flushed dark red before he shifted his eyes awkwardly toward the bassinet.

"The twins... how are they?"

"They are fine, and they don't need your fake concern," I cut in coldly. "I already signed the divorce agreement. You can take it to the notary tomorrow."

Landon froze for a second, then yanked at his tie in irritation.

"Signed it? You think threatening me with divorce right now will make me give up Amelia and my commercial deals for you?"

"I'm not threatening you, Landon," I said, meeting his gray-blue eyes without blinking. "I'm informing you that this marriage is over."

Letting out a harsh laugh, Landon pulled out his checkbook, scribbled a figure, and tossed the paper onto my nightstand.

"Here's your advance maintenance. Don't cry to me later—without me, you won't survive a week in New York."

His phone buzzed with Amelia's name on the screen, and after checking his watch, he turned around and walked out without looking back.

The door slammed shut. I stared at the check on the table, the corners of my mouth curving into a dry, bitter smile.

Dr. Quentin picked up the check, ripped it cleanly in half, and dropped the pieces into the trash can.

"A daughter of the Summerlin family doesn't take insulting handouts."

Pulling a secure satellite phone from his pocket, Dr. Quentin dialed a private family line, his posture straightening with deep respect.

"Edward, it's me," Dr. Quentin said, his voice catching in his throat. "Get the car ready. Bring Evelyn and the boys to NewYork-Presbyterian. We found our little girl."

A loud crash of a chair tipping over echoed from the phone, followed by the deep, trembling voice of Edward Summerlin, Chairman of Summerlin Performance.

"What did you just say, Quentin? Are you certain?"

"The DNA match is one hundred percent. She's right here with me, and she just gave birth to a pair of beautiful twins."

Chaos erupted on the other end of the line as my mother Evelyn broke into sobs and my three older brothers shouted for coats and car keys.

"Lock down the entire floor! I'm bringing the legal team and security convoy right now!" my eldest brother William called out in a sharp, commanding tone.

"Clear the flight path for the helicopter!" my second brother Henry barked like the federal agent he was.

"Wait, my little sister had twins? I'm an uncle?" my third brother Oliver shouted, his voice cracking with tears and laughter.

Hanging up, Dr. Quentin smiled warmly at me.

"They're coming from the Upper East Side and Long Island. Twenty minutes at most."

A strange, warm current spread through my chest, melting away the cold loneliness of the past twenty-three years.

Outside in the hallway, the crisp sound of marching dress shoes echoed as eight security guards in black suits took up positions outside my door.

The hospital director hurried in, wiping sweat from his forehead as he bowed slightly to Dr. Quentin.

"Dr. Summerlin, the penthouse presidential medical suite is ready for immediate transfer."

Two senior nurses gently rolled Noah and Lily's heated bassinets out while Dr. Quentin pushed my wheelchair into the private VIP elevator.

We rode straight to the top floor, passing through double carved doors into a massive suite overlooking the Manhattan skyline, where nurses tucked me under a warm silk comforter.

Above us, the heavy roar of helicopter blades shook the rooftop helipad, and seconds later, the suite's main doors burst open as five figures in custom evening coats rushed inside.