The millionaire paid entire fortunes to cure his twins, but the truth was

uncovered by the nanny. The $15,000 Hermes Burkin briefcase slipped from

Alexander Sterling’s fingers and hit the Kurrara marble floor with a dull thud, but he didn’t even blink. His eyes were

rivaled to the scene before him. A scene that his brain, trained to negotiate Wall Street’s most ruthless

billion-dollar deals, simply couldn’t process. Right in the middle of the Upper East

Side penthouse’s medical therapy room, which typically rire of disinfectant and deathly silence, his twin sons, Oliver

and Ethan, were standing on their own two feet. Yes, those same children whom

top neurological specialists from Mayo Clinic to John’s Hopkins had confirmed suffered from duchen musculardrophe and

would never walk independently. Those same children Alexander barely dared to

touch for fear of breaking their fragile bones. Now dressed in tiny sky blue

doctor coats, the twins were moving around a figure lying on the emerald Persian rug with clumsy but undeniable

coordination. “Dr. Oliver, the patient’s losing her heartbeat!” Ethan shouted in a clear,

strong voice, a voice Alexander hadn’t heard in months. Oliver, the weaker of

the two, raised his hand and without holding on to anything, took two steady steps toward Emma’s head to check the

patients reflexes. Two steps without a walking frame. No

nurse supporting him, no trembling fatigue. Alexander’s blood froze, then boiled in

an instant. This image violently collided with the reality of his $80,000

monthly medical bills. If the boys could move like this, then

what the hell had he been paying for these past 2 years? But fear didn’t need logical answers. It only needed a second

to transform Alexander Sterling from a confused father into a territorial beast.

“Get away from her!” His shout reverberated through the double height ceiling like a gunshot, tearing through

the air that had been filled with joyful laughter moments before. All three people, Emma and the two boys,

jerked violently. The magic shattered into a thousand pieces.

Oliver, who had just been proud of his steps, lost his balance from the panic

at his father’s roar. The little boy fell face first onto the Persian rug,

knees hitting the floor, and immediately burst into tears, not from pain, but

from pure terror. Emma reacted with an instinct she didn’t even know she possessed. She sprang up from her lying

position with the speed of a wildcat, spinning half around to stand between the advancing Alexander and the two

children. Her navy blue clean co uniform was still damp with sweat from playing,

the bright yellow rubber gloves still on her hands, but now she was no longer a cleaning lady. She was a living wall.

Alexander crossed the room in three long strides, his expensive Oxford leather

shoes pounding the floor like courthouse gavvels. He completely ignored Emma,

dropping to his knees beside Oliver with hands trembling beyond control.

The hands that had signed billion-dollar contracts without hesitation now shook

uncontrollably as they gently touched his son’s knees, arms, shoulders,

searching for any sign of broken bones, searching for the damage doctors had warned would occur with any physical

activity. “Does it hurt? Did you break anything?” Alexander asked in a voice

choked with worry, while his eyes scanned every inch of Oliver’s small body for any indication of injury.

Oliver didn’t answer. He only cried and pointed toward Emma. Ethan, the twin

brother, also began to sob, trying to push his father’s hands away from his brother. We were just playing, Daddy. We

were helping the yellow lady. Ethan hiccuped through his tears streaming down his cheeks. Alexander looked up.

His dark eyes, usually cold and calculating in boardrooms, were now filled with rage mixed with pure horror.

He stared at Emma, who still stood there breathing heavily, her yellow gloved

hands clenched into fists. “I pay you $3,500 a week to clean, not to kill my

children,” Alexander hissed in a tone lower and more dangerous than his earlier shout. “I gave clear

instructions.” “No one touches the boys. No one lifts them from their chairs without certified medical supervision.

You could have disabled them permanently. Mr. Sterling, with all due respect, Emma

began. Her voice trembled, but her chin remained defiantly raised. With all due

respect, Alexander stood up, towering like a dark edifice. My children aren’t

about to break like you think. They need to move, not be tied to those chairs. A

moment of absolute silence passed. Alexander stared at Emma, stunned by the

audacity of the accusation. You’re doing this behind nurse Maggie’s back, behind

the entire medical team I hired at triple the market rate. Emma also stood

She was small compared to him, but indignation gave her height. That team

is keeping them tied up, Mr. Sterling. Look at them. Oliver just walked to me on his own two feet. Ethan was jumping.

When was the last time their medications gave results like that? Alexander opened his mouth to retort,

but another sound cut through. The expensive Dansco nursing shoes striking

the hardwood floor evenly, step by step, rhythmic as a countdown clock. That

sound was enough to make both children fall silent from crying, their small bodies suddenly going rigid. Nurse

Margaret Whitmore, Maggie as everyone called her, appeared at the doorway with the cold majesty of a judge entering a

courtroom. She was a sturdy woman of 52, her face always bearing an expression of

eternal severity, silver hair pulled tight into a high bun without a single strand out of place. Her uniform was

snow white and pristine, not a wrinkle, as if she just stepped out of a sterile operating room. In her hands was a

silver tray on which lay two syringes filled with amber colored solution.

“Good Lord,” Maggie exclaimed with carefully calculated shock, setting the

tray down on the side table with a metallic clatter. “Mr. Sterling, I heard

shouting, “What happened to the boys?” With the performance of a professional