The twins Revenge

The fluorescent lights in Dr. Evans' office hummed with a sound that felt like it was drilling directly into Katarina's skull.

She sat on the edge of the paper-covered exam table. The crinkle of the paper beneath her thighs was the only sound in the room besides the hum. She stared at her hands. They were swollen. Everything about her was swollen.

"Four months," Dr. Evans said. He didn't look at her. He was looking at a file folder, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. "You are four months pregnant, Miss Acosta."

Katarina felt the air leave her lungs. It didn't come back.

"That's not possible," she whispered. Her voice sounded thick, foreign to her own ears. "I'm on the pill. And with my weight... you said it was unlikely."

"Unlikely is not impossible," the doctor said, finally looking up. His eyes held no sympathy, only clinical detachment. "However, given your current BMI and the experimental hormone treatments you were subjected to as a child, your heart is already under immense strain. Carrying this pregnancy to term..." He paused, closing the folder with a finality that sounded like a gunshot. "It will likely kill you."

Katarina placed a hand on her stomach. It felt soft, yielding, and terrified. "So, I need... I need to terminate."

"It is too late for a standard procedure given the cardiac risks," Dr. Evans said. "Surgery would stop your heart before we even began. You are in a deadlock, Katarina. You keep it, you risk death. You try to remove it, you risk death."

She walked out of the clinic into the gray drizzle of the city. She caught her reflection in a shop window. A woman of two hundred pounds stared back. Her skin was dull, her eyes buried in puffiness. She looked like a mistake.

Her phone buzzed against her palm. It was Francis. Her father.

She answered, desperate for a voice, for anyone. "Dad, I-"

"The lawyers have drafted the papers," Francis's voice cut through the rain, sharp and clean. "You are no longer an Acosta. Your trust fund is frozen until you can prove you are mentally stable and physically fit. Which, looking at you, will be never."

"Dad, I'm pregnant," she choked out. "I'm sick. I might die."

There was a silence on the other end. A long, cold silence.

"Then do it quietly," Francis said. "Don't embarrass Candi. Her debutante ball is coming up."

The line went dead.

Katarina stood on the sidewalk. The rain soaked through her oversized sweater, plastering it to her skin. She felt heavy. Not just her body, but her soul. She looked down at her stomach again.

"Okay," she whispered to the rain. "Okay."

Her eyes shifted. The dullness evaporated, replaced by a cold, hard glint. If she was going to die, she would die fighting. And if she lived...

God help them all.

Five Years Later.

The automated doors of JFK International Airport slid open.

A pair of red-soled stilettos struck the polished marble floor. Click. Click. Click.

The sound was rhythmic, precise, and demanding of attention. Heads turned. It wasn't just the shoes. It was the woman wearing them.

She wore a blood-red trench coat belted tightly at the waist, emphasizing a silhouette that looked like it had been carved from marble. Her legs were long, toned, and moved with a predator's grace. She wore oversized black sunglasses that covered half her face, but her lips were painted a matte crimson that matched her coat.

Katarina Acosta adjusted her sunglasses. She didn't look at the travelers gaping at her. She looked through them.

"Mommy," a small voice piped up from beside her.

Kaylee sat perched atop a Louis Vuitton rolling suitcase, her legs swinging. She wore a denim jacket covered in patches and oversized headphones around her neck. She pulled a lollipop out of her mouth. "It smells like greed."

Katarina smirked. She reached down and smoothed her daughter's hair. "That's just New York, baby. It's an acquired taste."

Her phone vibrated. It was a secure line.

"Talk to me," Katarina said.