# MY TWINS CALLED THEIR BILLIONAIRE BIOLOGICAL FATHER WHILE I WAS DYING ON THE FLOOR—AND HE KNEW THEY WERE HIS BEFORE ANYONE SAID A WORD

It was day three when Sloan’s eyelashes finally fluttered.

The relentless beeping of the ICU monitors provided a steady rhythm to the haze of pain in her head. She tried to swallow, but her throat felt like sandpaper. Slowly, the blurry shapes in the room sharpened.

She saw the sterile white walls. The IV lines snaking into her arms. And then, a shadow sitting in the corner armchair.

The man leaned forward into the dim light.

Sloan’s heart monitor spiked wildly, alarms trilling.

“Easy,” Griffin’s deep voice resonated, smooth and devastatingly familiar. He stood, moving to her bedside with the grace of a predator. “Breathe, Sloan. You’re in the hospital. You had a hemorrhage. You’ve been out for three days.”

“The girls—” she croaked, panic seizing her chest.

“Are safe,” he finished for her. His eyes, the same piercing gray she saw in her daughters every single day, bored into hers. “They’re at my penthouse. My housekeeper is baking them cookies right now.”

Sloan tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced her down. “You shouldn’t be here. You can’t have them.”

Griffin leaned in, his hands gripping the metal rails of her bed so tightly his knuckles cracked. “They called me, Sloan. From your phone. You kept me as your ICE contact for ten years. You hid my children from me for eight. We are going to have a very long conversation about why you stole my daughters, but first, you are going to get better.”