The shrill, unbroken sound of the heart monitor pierced the hospital room like a scream no one could escape. A flat line. A single tone that meant one thing only—the heart of Isabella Grant, the woman who had endured twelve hours of brutal labor, had stopped.
Doctors rushed forward. Nurses shouted commands. Code blue. Defibrillator. The room exploded into frantic motion, blood and urgency everywhere. And yet, in one corner, there was a chilling calm.
Standing there was Nathaniel Grant, her husband. At his side stood Margaret Grant, his mother. And clinging tightly to Nathaniel’s arm was Claire Monroe, his personal assistant.
When the chief physician, Dr. Adrian Cole, removed his mask and quietly announced the time of death, Nathaniel didn’t cry. He didn’t fall apart. Instead, a soft breath of relief escaped his lips. Margaret crossed herself—not in mourning, but in gratitude. And Claire smiled. A small, sharp smile of triumph.
They believed they had won. They thought the final obstacle between them and Isabella’s vast inheritance was gone.
They were wrong.
Dr. Cole stepped forward, his eyes cold behind his glasses. He pulled off his gloves and spoke softly.
“They’re twins.”