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

The silence that followed Hazel’s question was the loudest sound Griffin Drake had ever heard. It echoed in the sleek, leather-clad interior of his car, bouncing off the dashboard and settling into his very bones.

"What?" he managed to choke out, the word feeling foreign on his tongue.

"Our friend at school," Iris’s voice chimed in, clear and inquisitive. "She says people have the same eyes when they're related. I looked at your picture on the internet—the one where you’re winning the Tech Innovation award—and you have the exact same color eyes as me. And Hazel’s."

Griffin stared at the road ahead, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Ten years. Ten years of emptiness, of cold boardrooms, of building an empire just to have something to do with his hands. And now, in the span of three minutes, he was being confronted with a mirror image of his own soul.

"Girls," he said, his voice dropping, gravelly and desperate. "Listen to me. I'm almost there. Keep your mother comfortable. Don't touch anything, don't move her if you don't have to."

"Are you coming?" Hazel asked again, her voice smaller now.

"I’m driving as fast as I can," Griffin promised. "I’m ten minutes away. I'm not leaving you alone."

He hung up, but the silence didn't return. The ghosts of the past were screaming. He remembered Sloan—her fierce intelligence, the way she used to bite her lip when she was designing a structure, the way she had looked at him the night she told him she was moving to Portland. She had told him it was for a job opportunity, a fresh start. She had cried, and he had let her go because he thought he was doing the right thing by respecting her space.

He hadn't realized she had been pregnant.

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. She had left him, raised two children, and kept the world's most guarded secret for an entire decade. Why?

He pushed the car faster, weaving through the deserted streets. He didn't care about the speed limits or the cameras. He didn't care about his reputation or the stock price of Drake Industries. He cared about the woman who had been the architect of his heart and the two little girls who were currently looking at him through the digital veil of the internet, waiting for an answer he didn't yet know how to give.

When he screeched to a halt in front of the suburban house, the sirens of the ambulance were already wailing in the distance. He didn't wait for them. He sprinted up the path, his heart in his throat. The front door was unlocked, just as he had told them to do.

He burst inside.

"Hazel? Iris?"

They were standing in the hallway, two small, huddled figures illuminated by the dim light of the floor lamp. They looked identical, their hair the same messy brown as Sloan’s, their faces drawn with the same sharp, architectural bone structure he saw in the mirror every morning.

They looked at him.

And in that moment, there was no more mystery. He saw the curve of his own jawline on Iris. He saw the specific, curious tilt of his own head on Hazel. It was as if he were looking into a fountain of youth that held his own DNA.

He knelt down, ignoring the cold floor. "I'm here," he said softly.

Hazel stepped forward, her eyes wide. She looked at his face, then at the floor, then back at his face. She reached out a small, trembling finger and touched his cheek.

"You're real," she whispered.

Griffin felt the tears stinging his eyes—tears he hadn't shed since he was a boy. He didn't pull away. He didn't try to hide. He simply took her hand and pressed it to his skin. "I'm real. And I'm not going anywhere."

"They're taking Mommy," Iris said, pointing toward the office.

The paramedics were already rushing in, their gear heavy and loud, the peaceful air of the home instantly replaced by the sterile, jarring urgency of medical intervention. Griffin stood up, his eyes immediately locked on the figure on the floor.

Sloan.

She looked pale, fragile, almost ethereal in the harsh lighting. The decade had been kind to her, adding a touch of wisdom to her expression, but seeing her like this—unconscious and vulnerable—made him want to tear the world apart.