650 My Twins Called the Billionaire I Never Told Them About When I Collapsed, and He Broke When They Called Him Daddy

Swedish Medical Center’s Intensive Care Unit was quiet except for the rhythmic, mechanical beep of Sloan’s heart monitor.

Griffin sat in a vinyl armchair beside her bed, holding an unlit silver lighter in his right hand—a nervous habit he hadn't indulged in five years. Across the room, nestled together under a heavy fleece blanket on a small hospital sofa, Hazel and Iris were finally asleep. Griffin had used his influence to clear the entire private VIP wing, posting two of his personal security detail at the double doors down the hall.

The doctor had just left. Sloan had suffered an acute vasovagal syncope brought on by severe anemia, extreme dehydration, and prolonged sleep deprivation, complicated by a mild concussion from hitting the heavy oak table. She was stable now, receiving IV fluids and blood transfusions, but she hadn't woken up yet.

Griffin looked down at his own hand. He was holding Sloan’s right hand. Her fingers were slender, marked by tiny calluses from holding drafting pencils for hours on end. There was no ring on her finger. There had never been another man.

"Why, Sloan?" he rasped into the dim room, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "Why did you run?"

A soft murmur broke the quiet. On the sofa, Iris stirred, her small brow furrowing. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and looked across the room at Griffin.

"Is she going to die?" Iris asked quietly.

Griffin immediately let go of Sloan's hand and walked over to the sofa, kneeling beside the little girl. "No, Iris. She is very sick and very tired, but the doctors are giving her medicine. She’s going to be okay. I promise you."

Iris studied him. Unlike Hazel, whose eyes were a mirror of Griffin’s, Iris possessed Sloan’s deep, warm hazel eyes. But her sharp, analytical gaze was all Griffin.

"Mommy works three jobs," Iris said plainly, wrapping her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "She draws houses for rich people during the day, she grades papers for the community college at night, and on weekends she bakes cakes for the grocery store."

Every word felt like a physical blow to Griffin’s chest. He was worth four point two billion dollars. He owned private jets, estates in Aspen and Saint-Tropez, and a real estate portfolio that spanned three continents. And the mother of his children was working three jobs until her body literally collapsed from malnutrition and exhaustion.

"She doesn't have to do that anymore," Griffin said, his voice laced with an iron vow.

"Are you really our daddy?" Iris asked, leaning forward. "Hazel says you are because of her eyes. But Mommy told us our daddy was an astronaut who died in space."

Griffin let out a wet, harsh laugh that sounded more like a sob. "An astronaut?"

"Yeah. She said he went so far into the stars that he couldn't come back." Iris tilted her head. "Did you go to space?"

"No," Griffin whispered, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of dark hair behind Iris’s ear. "I was right here in Seattle. Just a few miles away. I was looking for you every single day, Iris. I just didn't know where to look."

The door to the ICU room clicked open.

Griffin’s head snapped up. His personal assistant and head of security, Marcus Vance, stepped silently into the room, holding a encrypted tablet. Marcus’s face was grim.

"Boss," Marcus whispered, stepping toward the window to keep his voice away from the sleeping girls. "We have a problem."

Griffin stood up, nodding at Iris to stay put, and walked over to Marcus. "What is it?"

"The media just got wind of the ambulance call. Someone at the 911 dispatch leaked that a squad was sent to Sloan Callaway's house, and that your private vehicle was spotted at the scene," Marcus reported in a hushed tone. "Furthermore... your mother just landed at Boeing Field. Victoria Drake knows you cleared the VIP floor at Swedish."

Griffin’s jaw locked. His mother, Victoria Drake, was the matriarch of Drake International—a cold, ruthless woman who had spent Griffin’s entire youth managing his life like a corporate board. Ten years ago, Victoria had made no secret of her deep hatred for Sloan, viewing the middle-class architecture student as an opportunistic gold-digger unfit to marry the heir to the Drake empire.

"Keep my mother out of this hospital," Griffin growled, his eyes darkening to the color of a stormy sea. "If she steps one foot on this floor, have security escort her out. I don't care if she calls the mayor."

"Understood, sir," Marcus said. "And the media?"

"Draft a press release. State that Sloan Callaway is a senior architectural consultant for Drake International who suffered a medical emergency, and I am personally ensuring her care. If any paper prints a single word speculating about the children, buy the paper and fire the editor."

Marcus nodded once. "Yes, sir."