On the eve of her high-society engagement party, my twin sister jumped out of her second-story bedroom window and ran. An hour later, a pair of newborns, fresh from their NICU incubators, were shoved unceremoniously under my covers. My father barricaded the bedroom door with his body, his face pale and slick with sweat. “You’re taking her place,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a desperate, ugly panic. “You marry him, or this entire family is dead!” I was already dialing 911 when my phone buzzed. It was a text from my sister, Bianca. “Those bastards belong to George Hurst. The man is ruthless, borderline psycho. Just play the meat shield and stay quiet.” I stared at the screen, then quickly looked up the Hurst family. A century-old dynasty with infinite wealth, whose influence reached every corner of the country. A meat shield? I let out a cold, quiet breath. Instead of panicking, I leaned over the bassinet, snapped a high-definition photo of the distinctive, lotus-shaped red birthmark on the back of one baby’s neck, and uploaded it to a local classifieds app. “99% new twins. Fifty bucks, shipping included. Likely of the Hurst bloodline.” An hour later, the wooden door my father had been so desperately barricading was kicked off its hinges, splintering into pieces. Three men stepped over the threshold, their eyes locking onto me with terrifying intensity: a tech billionaire, a chart-topping pop star, and the crown prince of the city’s real estate empire. “Where are my children!” … My father’s knees buckled. He hit the floor with a wet thud, a dark, spreading stain instantly soaking through his trousers. “Gentlemen, I swear, these kids have nothing to do with me!” he stammered, raising his hands in surrender. He pointed a trembling, accusing finger at the bassinet. “It’s all Bianca! The wild girl got knocked up and ran! Ask her sister! She knows everything!” A towering bodyguard in heavy combat boots stepped forward, pressing the sole of his shoe directly into my father’s face, silencing the rest of his pathetic groveling. I watched the scene coldly, reaching down to gently pull the protective canopy over the bassinet so the noise wouldn’t wake the babies. Chase Wilder, the pop star whose face was currently plastered across every billboard in Times Square, yanked off his designer sunglasses and face mask. “Where is Bianca?” he demanded, his voice tight. “She posted a photo of my ultrasound on her close-friends list, and then she vanished. Does she think I’m some kind of joke?” Beside him, Austin Crawford, the billionaire heir to a massive real estate empire, let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He kicked a broken wooden stool out of his path and shoved his phone screen directly in Chase’s face. “Look at the date, Chase,” Austin sneered. “When Bianca sent me that exact ultrasound, she was lounging on my private yacht in the Hamptons.” Chase’s face turned a violent shade of grey as he read the screen. “Enough.” George Hurst stepped between them, his presence immediately freezing the room. He was holding a printout of the classified listing I had posted, the high-res image of the red lotus birthmark facing outward. “You both got played like fools,” George said, his voice low, carrying the weight of absolute authority. “Bianca sent this birthmark photo to me. Only a Hurst carries this mark.” Chase and Austin both froze, their gaze shifting in unison to the quiet bundle in the bassinet. I didn’t say a word. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and set my Venmo and Cash App QR codes on the table. Then, opening the vanity drawer, I pulled out three sterilized medical tweezers and lined them up neatly on the desk. “Get in line,” I said, tapping the wood. “Three hairs each, roots intact.” Chase pointed a finger at my nose. “Who the hell do you think you are, ordering us around?” “Express processing is two thousand dollars, out of pocket,” I replied, not even looking up. “Pull the hair or get the hell out of my apartment.” Austin stepped forward, his eyes scanning my face, which was identical to Bianca’s. “You think having her face makes you untouchable?” He reached down, about to flip the table in a display of wealthy arrogance. “You spent millions monitoring local classifieds and tracked a birthmark to a run-down Queens apartment just to prove paternity, didn’t you?” I pushed the tweezers a fraction of an inch closer to him. “Is flipping my table going to tell you who the father is?” Austin’s hand hovered in midair. His face flushed a deep, embarrassed red. George Hurst gave me a long, calculating look. Without a word, he picked up the first pair of tweezers, reached up to his temple, and cleanly plucked three hairs. He dropped them into the sterile bag I had prepared. “Mr. Hurst!” his lead bodyguard protested. George raised a hand to silence him, pulled out his phone, and scanned the QR code. A second later, my phone chimed with a two-thousand-dollar transfer. “Three days for the results,” I said, sealing the bag. “Make it fast,” George murmured. “And until then, keep this place clean.” On the floor, my father began to squirm, his muffled voice rising from beneath the bodyguard’s boot. “Betty, you ungrateful little bitch! How dare you speak to Mr. Hurst like that!” George didn’t even look down. The bodyguard applied a fraction more pressure, and with a sharp gasp, my father passed out cold. Chase and Austin exchanged a tense, bitter glance. Gritting their teeth, they both snatched up the remaining tweezers, plucked their samples, scanned the codes, and paid. As George turned to leave, his leather shoes echoing against the linoleum floor, he paused at the doorway and looked back at me. “You have a backbone,” he said, a faint, cold smirk touching his lips. “Much more than your sister. Let’s see if you survive the next three days.” The next morning, the roar of three massive delivery trucks completely blocked the narrow, cracked alleyway of our neighborhood. Boxes of premium imported formula, two solid oak cribs, and crates of diapers from three different high-end brands were hauled up the narrow staircase. My forty-square-foot apartment was packed so tight there was barely room to stand. My father and my stepmother, Cheryl, showed up before the sun was fully up. Cheryl’s eyes practically turned to dollar signs as she ran her fake nails over the polished wood of the cribs. “My god, Frank… this wood alone must be worth tens of thousands,” she whispered, her mouth practically watering. Without saying a word, my father grabbed two crates of the premium formula and headed for the door. “Betty, help me carry the rest of these down to the local bodega,” he ordered, not even looking back. “The owner said he’d buy them at half price. That’s easy cash.” I stepped in front of the door, blocking his exit. “Put them down.” My father glared at me, spit flying from his lips as he yelled. “I am your father! I brought you into this world! I can take whatever the hell I want!” Cheryl didn’t say a word, already creeping toward the bassinet, her eyes darting greedily. “Frank, forget the formula. These two brats are the real lottery tickets. Let’s take them straight to the Hurst estate and demand a ten-million-dollar dowry.” My father dropped the formula and lunged toward the sleeping babies. I stepped back, pulled the heavy black communicator George had left me out of my pocket, and pressed the red button. “Attempted robbery of Hurst property. Queens, 4th Avenue, Apartment 2B.” My father threw his head back and laughed. “Who the hell are you trying to scare with a toy walkie-talkie?” Two minutes later, the security grates on the window shattered with a deafening crash. Glass rained down as three broad-shouldered men in tactical gear breached the room. Before my father could even register what was happening, the lead guard landed a heavy blow to his jaw. Two bloody teeth flew across the room, bouncing off the peeling wallpaper. Cheryl turned to run, but a swift kick to her lower back sent her sprawling face-first onto the dusty floor. The lead bodyguard turned to me, bowing his head slightly. “Miss Betty, how do you want us to handle this?” I pointed to the open door. “Throw them out like the trash they are. Don’t let them contaminate the children’s space.” The guards grabbed them by their collars, dragging them down the stairs. My father, clutching his bleeding mouth, screamed through his missing teeth. “You ungrateful bitch! I’ll call the cops on you!” I walked to the landing, looking down at him. “Go ahead,” I called down, my voice icy. “Tell the police you tried to steal the food out of George Hurst’s children’s mouths. Let’s see if they dare to write the report.” My father shut his mouth, trembling with sudden terror. He and Cheryl scrambled out into the street, not daring to look back. The lead guard walked back up and handed me a set of brass keys and a security keycard. “Mr. Hurst ordered this. He says this neighborhood is too dangerous. A high-security penthouse overlooking the East River has been prepared. We are moving you immediately.” I took the keys, glancing at the mountain of baby supplies. “Let’s go.” That evening, after settling the babies into their new, pristine nursery, I began sorting through the boxes of old belongings Bianca had shipped back before she fled. At the bottom of a box filled with used diaper packaging, my fingers brushed against something hard. I tore open the cardboard divider. Inside was an old phone with a spiderweb-cracked screen. I plugged it in, entered Bianca’s birthday, and the phone buzzed to life. An app titled “The Calendar: Time Management” was open. I tapped it. A meticulous, color-coded spreadsheet filled the screen. My fingers went cold as I scrolled through the entries. Just then, a text message from a Canadian number popped up on the cracked screen. “Just take the beatings, Betty. Be a good little dog and don’t ruin my fun in Vancouver.” I didn’t reply with words. Instead, I took a screenshot of the three men pulling their hair in my old apartment, paired it with the time-management spreadsheet, and sent it back. Within ten seconds, the screen lit up with incoming calls. Then came ten consecutive sixty-second voice notes. “Betty! Where the hell did you get that? If you show them that spreadsheet, I swear to God I will fly back and kill you!” I held down the microphone icon. “Before you try to kill me, you might want to figure out how to explain your calendar to these three men. They are currently hunting you down across the globe.” Silence fell over the chat. I muted the phone and tossed it onto the coffee table. Just then, there was a soft click at the window. A man wearing a black baseball cap and a dark face mask scrambled over the sill, tripped over a stroller, and fell flat on his face. Chase Wilder scrambled up, pulling down his mask. He whipped out a black American Express card and slammed it onto the table. “Ten million dollars. You tell everyone the twins are mine, and this card is yours.” I picked up the black card, spinning it between my fingers. “Midnight charity work, Chase? Buying yourself a family?” “Bianca loved me best. The kids have to be mine,” Chase insisted, his jaw tight. “I can’t let George or Austin steal my spotlight. My career can’t take that hit.” I tossed Bianca’s old phone right into his lap. “See for yourself.” Chase caught the phone, his eyes scanning the screen. Slowly, the color drained from his face. “Thursday… Chase, art gallery. Friday… Austin, yacht party…” He read aloud, his voice beginning to crack. “I was a Thursday-only special?” He looked up, his eyes wide and watery. “She told me I was her only soulmate! She said she loved my music!” I pointed to the crying baby in the bassinet. “Since you’re here, go prep the formula. The water needs to be exactly one hundred and four degrees. Don’t burn the baby. Your soulmate status looks pretty cheap right now.” Chase sniffled, wiping his eyes as he walked over to the bottle warmer, awkwardly measuring out the powder. “How could she do this to me? I wrote three songs about her! I kept front-row seats for her at every single show on my tour!” “Just pray the kids are yours,” I murmured, taking the bottle from him and feeding the baby. “Otherwise, you won’t even qualify for the Thursday slot anymore.” Chase squatted by the crib, watching the baby blow tiny spit bubbles, his tears splashing onto the hardwood floor. “They look like me. Look at that nose. It’s definitely the Wilder family nose.” I glanced at the baby, whose features were barely even formed. “Austin and George said the exact same thing. It’s amazing how identical your genes must be.” Chase snapped, standing up and pointing toward the door. “Bullshit! These are my kids! Just wait until the DNA results come back. I’m going to shove the paperwork right in their faces!” At three in the morning, the phone on the coffee table began to vibrate violently. It was the laboratory. The moment I pressed answer, static hissed loudly through the speaker. “Miss Betty, something is wrong. You need to—” The call was abruptly cut off. A text message popped up immediately, a bright red exclamation mark flashing next to it. “CRITICAL ANOMALY DETECTED IN DNA PATERNITY SAMPLES. REPORT HAS BEEN LOCKED AND CLASSIFIED.” The three-day deadline had arrived. I left the babies with the high-security nanny at the penthouse and took a cab to the laboratory. As the car pulled up, I saw a dozen men armed with metal pipes blocking the entrance. My father stood at the front, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he blew a slow ring of smoke. “Betty, hand over the DNA report,” he said, stepping forward. “Don’t make me get rough with you.” I stood on the bottom step, looking down at him. “You have no right to this report. You were never a father to us.” My father spat on the ground, crushing the cigarette butt under his heel. “I am your father! Bianca said if I destroy this report, she’ll wire me a hundred thousand dollars a month from Canada.” He waved his hand to the thugs behind him. “Grab her! Search her! Don’t let her ruin your sister’s future!” The roar of high-performance engines suddenly shattered the quiet street. Three luxury supercars tore onto the sidewalk, completely boxing in the thugs. The doors flew open, and a dozen men in dark suits descended on the crowd, swiftly disarming and flattening my father’s hired muscle. Austin Crawford stepped out of his custom McLaren, sliding off his sunglasses. “Old man, you’ve got some nerve,” Austin cold-eyed my father. “Laying a finger on someone under my protection?” My father’s knees gave out again. “Mr. Crawford, please! It’s a misunderstanding! I was just teaching my stubborn daughter a lesson, I swear!” Austin kicked him aside, not even looking down as my father hit the pavement. “Get out of my sight before I have your legs broken.” He turned to me, nodding toward the glass doors. “Let’s go inside and get the results. I already booked the private dining room for the celebration party.” I didn’t answer him. I walked straight into the clinic. The lobby was eerily quiet. There wasn’t a single nurse or receptionist in sight. I tapped on the glass of the front desk. “I’m here for the paternity report for Bianca Hurst.” A young receptionist slowly peeked out from under the desk, her face pale. “Miss Betty… we can’t access the report. The servers were locked down by the Hurst family thirty minutes ago. They took the chief geneticist with them.” Austin, who had followed me inside, slammed his sunglasses onto the desk. “What the hell does George think he’s doing? Trying to hijack the results? I don’t care how powerful his family is, he can’t pull this crap!” I pulled out my phone and dialed the direct number George had left me. It rang three times before he answered. “The report is finished,” I said. “Whose children are they?” There was only silence on the other end, punctuated by heavy, ragged breathing. “Mr. Hurst, staying silent won’t work,” I said, my voice tightening. “Someone needs to pay this clinic’s bill. I don’t have time for these wealthy mind games.” When George finally spoke, his arrogant demeanor was completely gone. His voice was low, laced with a chilling coldness. “The situation is far more complicated than you think.” “How complicated can it be?” I countered. “It’s three men fighting over who gets to be a father. Unless you’re telling me there’s a fourth?” “It’s not just about who the father is,” George said, pausing. “Bring the children to the Westside Estate. We need to speak face-to-face.” The line went dead. Austin leaned over, his brow furrowed. “What did he say? Did he bribe the doctors to change the results?” I put my phone away and walked back toward the exit. “He said it’s not just about who the father is.” Austin blinked, hurrying to keep pace with me. “What the hell does that mean? Did the kids drop out of the sky?” I stopped and looked at him. “Go get Chase. We’re going to the Westside Estate. Because this is about to get a hundred times worse than you being played for fools.”
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