My Billionaire Husband Chose My Twin Sisters (Wives Betrayed #3)

Chapter 1 Two Weeks

The private island was supposed to be the place where they learned how to breathe again.

For four years, Joan Loft had carried Loft Haven in her mind as a sanctuary of raw limestone, weathered teak, and floor-to-ceiling glass opening onto the deep blue of the South Pacific.

The resort occupied a private island forty miles off Viti Levu, Fiji, close enough to reach from Nadi by helicopter or launch boat but distant enough to feel protected from the outside world.

Every line on the blueprints served the same principle: true luxury was not gold leaf or ostentation, but silence, space, and privacy.

Now, six weeks away from the Loft Haven press preview and soft launch, the private-island resort was nearly ready. Joan, however, was not.

She sat at the long walnut dining table in the Manhattan penthouse, morning light falling across the near-perfect architectural models spread before her.

Across from her, Reiner read a briefing on his tablet, his thumb moving with the precise efficiency that had helped him build Loft International into a multibillion-dollar empire.

At forty-four, Reiner carried the easy authority of a man accustomed to owning every room he entered. Broad-shouldered and dark-haired, he possessed a magnetic stillness that had once been Joan’s anchor.

"The board approved the final marketing budget for the Haven launch," Reiner said, his low baritone sending a familiar shiver down Joan’s spine. He did not look up from his tablet. "They’re projecting full occupancy for the first six months."

"Good," Joan said. "The interior textiles for the north villas were delayed out of Milan, but Lena assured me they’ll clear customs by Friday."

"Lena always delivers," Reiner murmured. He finally set the tablet down and looked across the table at her. His gray eyes were sharp, analytical, but beneath the surface lay a heavy, careful restraint that had settled between them like a glass wall.

Three months. It had been ninety days since the late-night hemorrhage, the emergency room, and the silent, terrifying ride home without the baby they had spent two years trying to conceive.

Joan had physically recovered. She had spent the first month moving between the bed and the sofa, barely able to face the empty nursery, before forcing herself back to her desk.

She had returned to the boardroom and continued her work as Chief Creative Officer.

She had thrown herself into the final touches of Loft Haven because work was the only structure that hadn't collapsed.

But every time Reiner looked at her with that tender, agonizing caution—as if she were made of thin ice—she felt the space between them widening.

She feared that if she gave the grief room, it would swallow her whole. Reiner mistook her composure for emotional detachment. They continued performing the roles of power couple and co-founders while stepping carefully around the empty nursery down the hall.

"You're working too late, Joan," Reiner said, reaching across the table. His long fingers brushed her knuckles. "The designs are flawless. You’ve given this project everything. Give yourself a moment to rest."

"Rest makes me anxious." Joan managed a small smile. "Besides, we have twenty-three international journalists arriving on the island in six weeks for the press preview and soft launch. Flawless is the minimum standard."

Before Reiner could answer, the penthouse elevator chimed, breaking the quiet hush of the morning.

The doors slid open, and the silence vanished.

"Surprise."

Macey Bellamy came sweeping into the foyer, a whirlwind of cashmere, oversized sunglasses, and designer luggage.

Right behind her walked Annabelle, identical to Macey in height, fair skin, and dark hair, but carrying herself with a sharp, poised composure that balanced Macey’s manic energy.

At thirty-six, Joan’s younger twin sisters were devastatingly beautiful, effortlessly charming, and undeniably chaotic.

"Joan. Reiner!" Macey dropped her leather tote onto the pristine marble floor and threw her arms around Joan, burying her face in Joan’s neck. "Oh, thank God you’re home. It’s been absolute hell."

Joan stiffened slightly before wrapping her arms around her sister. "Macey? What’s going on? You said you were in Los Angeles."

Annabelle stepped forward, pulled a chic leather jacket from her shoulders, and placed her handbag on the console.

Her expression was solemn, its vulnerability carefully measured.

"The venture capital firm pulled the funding this morning, Joan.

They seized the office, froze the accounts, and the landlord locked us out of the apartment two hours ago. "

"They took everything," Macey wailed, pulling back to look at Joan, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Our entire wellness line—gone. We didn't even have time to pack properly. We came straight from the airport."

Joan felt a familiar, heavy tightness settle in her chest. For fifteen years, she had played the role of the responsible older sister.

She was the one who paid their debt settlements, smoothed over their failed business ventures, found them apartments, and managed their public relations disasters.

Macey and Annabelle were a package deal—inseparable, competitive, and entirely reliant on Joan to catch them when their grand ambitions inevitably cratered.

"It's fine," Joan said automatically, taking a deep breath and slipping into her accustomed role as the family fixer. "We'll call the lawyers. I'll have Lena review the funding contract, and we can find you a temporary apartment near—"

"They don't need a hotel or a rented apartment, Joan," Reiner interrupted, stepping forward.

Joan turned to him, surprised. Reiner had always tolerated her sisters with a polite, distant patience, but he had usually supported her rule about keeping their personal space separate from her family’s drama.

Reiner smiled warmly at the twins, sweeping his eyes over their distressed expressions. "You two stay here. The guest suite on the East Wing is empty."

"Reiner, no," Joan said quickly, her tone sharper than she intended. She softened it immediately, catching herself. "They need space to organize their legal affairs. A penthouse during the final launch prep for Loft Haven is going to be chaotic."

"It's a nine-thousand-square-foot penthouse, Joan," Reiner said, his voice smooth and reassuring as he stepped toward her, placing a hand on the small of her back.

"There’s plenty of room. Besides, your sisters have had a rough morning.

They don't need to be exiled to a corporate apartment right now. "

Macey’s face lit up with a brilliant, tearful smile. "Oh, Reiner, you are a saint. An absolute savior." She stepped past Joan and threw her arms around Reiner’s neck.

A warning prickle moved across Joan’s skin as Macey held the hug a beat too long.

She pressed her face into Reiner’s shoulder, her fingers lingering against his tailored suit jacket.

Reiner laughed—a light, unburdened sound Joan had not heard from him in months—and gave Macey an easy pat on the back.

"Two weeks," Joan said, stepping into the center of the foyer to regain control of the room. She looked directly at both sisters. "You can stay in the East Wing for two weeks while Lena helps you clean up the legal mess with your investors. Then we find you your own place."

"Two weeks is perfect," Annabelle said smoothly, her eyes darting over Joan’s shoulder to the architectural blueprints spread across the dining table. "Thank you, Joan. Truly. You always save us."

Loft International tested its newest resort-security technology inside the penthouse.

In shared rooms, discreet emergency microphones activated only when the alarm system detected breaking glass, a panic command, or another security event.

The encrypted files were stored by an independent building-security contractor rather than on the family’s personal devices.

By evening, the quiet, disciplined atmosphere of the penthouse had dissolved.

Heavy floral perfume filled the living room, music pulsed through the surround-sound speakers, and documents from the twins’ collapsed business covered the coffee table.

Joan stood in her home office, reviewing the final security protocols for the private island, when she heard voices coming from the terrace. She walked to the open glass doors and stepped into the cool evening air.

Reiner leaned against the stone balustrade overlooking the Manhattan skyline, a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand. Macey stood far closer than necessary, her hip nearly brushing his leg, dressed in a silk slip with her dark hair tossed over one shoulder.

"I just think Joan works too hard," Macey was saying, her voice a soft, intimate purr. She reached out and casually plucked Reiner’s tumbler from his fingers, taking a sip right from the rim where his lips had been.

"She’s always so serious, Reiner. Even before...

well, before everything that happened three months ago. You look exhausted, too."

"It’s a massive launch," Reiner said, though he didn't move away from her. He looked down at Macey, a faint, flattered smile playing on his lips. "There’s a lot resting on both of us."

"Well, you deserve a break," Macey said, resting her hand lightly on his forearm. Her fingers lingered there, warm and affectionate. "You need someone around who knows how to make you laugh."

Joan’s stomach tightened. She stepped onto the terrace, her heels striking the stone tiles.

Macey didn't flinch. She simply turned, giving Joan a wide, innocent smile, and handed the glass back to Reiner. "Oh, Joan. We were just talking about how hard you're working."

"I'm sure," Joan said, her voice dry and steady. "Macey, if you're done with your crisis management for the day, I'd like to speak with my husband privately."

"Of course. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone," Macey chirped, pressing a quick, casual kiss to Reiner’s cheek before gliding past Joan back into the penthouse.

Reiner took a slow sip from his glass, turning to look at Joan. "You seem tense."

"She was drinking out of your glass, Reiner," Joan said directly, walking over to stand where her sister had just been. "And standing close enough to share skin."

Reiner sighed, a trace of annoyance crossing his face. "Joan, she’s your sister. She’s affectionate, and she’s had a terrible day. Don't turn a friendly gesture into a grand conspiracy."

"It's not a conspiracy, Reiner. It's boundaries," Joan said, her voice dropping, thick with exhaustion.

"We are six weeks away from the biggest launch of our lives.

My mind is stretched to its limit, and we're still...

we're still processing what happened to us three months ago.

I don't want them occupying our home right now. "

Reiner looked at her, his expression softening slightly, but the barrier remained. "Joan... maybe family is exactly what you need right now. You’ve been so quiet. So shut off from me since the loss. Having Macey and Annabelle here... it brings light into the house. It’s warm."

"What I need is privacy," Joan said, looking into his eyes, searching for the husband who used to read her thoughts before she spoke them. "I need us."

Reiner reached out, touching her cheek gently, but his thumb brushed her skin with that same agonizing lightness—as if he were afraid she would break. "We're fine, Joan. Let them stay for the two weeks. It's good for the house."

He kissed her forehead, a quick, familiar gesture, before turning to head inside.

Joan remained on the terrace, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face.

She stayed out there until the city lights blurred, trying to quiet the instinctive, dark warning whispering in the back of her mind. When she finally walked back inside at midnight, the penthouse was dim and quiet.

She walked toward the master suite, stopping in her tracks near the primary living room.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to glowing embers. Reiner was sitting on the sofa, a portfolio open in his lap. Resting right beside him, her head tucked naturally against Reiner’s shoulder, was Macey.

She was fast asleep, wearing Joan’s floor-length cream silk robe—the one Reiner had bought for their anniversary in Paris. Reiner’s hand rested along the back of the sofa, inches from Macey's shoulder, while he read his documents as if nothing about the scene were improper.

Joan stood frozen in the doorway, the blood draining from her face.

Reiner looked up, catching her eye. He didn't jump, nor did he look guilty; he merely held up a quiet finger to his lips, gesturing toward the sleeping woman.

"She fell asleep while we were going over her funding papers," Reiner whispered, his tone matter-of-fact. "Nothing happened, Joan. Don't make a scene."

Before Joan could speak, a light step sounded behind her.

Joan turned to find Annabelle in the hallway with a fresh mug of tea. Her gaze moved from Macey asleep against Reiner’s shoulder to Joan’s rigid posture.

Annabelle took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her lips curving into a faint, sharp smile that never reached her eyes.

"You know, Joan," Annabelle whispered, leaning in close so only Joan could hear, "you should be grateful. Reiner has laughed more in one evening with us than he has in months with you."