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Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Roderic Penn

I stood at my mother's open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest's voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone-he brought Charla with him. He claimed she'd had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.

Modern Crime Revenge

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The bedroom was dimly lit, emanating a depressing aura. Melissa Sherman fell on the floor, clutching her stomach.

The pregnancy caused her discomfort. The stomach cramps were unbearable. Her face was pale as paper. She was drenched in a cold sweat.

Just then, the bedroom door flew open, and a man came into her sight.

Melissa reached out her hand, asking for help. "Honey, help me..."

However, a shiver ran down her spine when she met the man's cold, distant gaze.

"Melissa, is this what you want?" The man's voice dripped with disgust. "You played tricks and made me sleep with you. Do you think that will make me fall in love with you?"

Melissa and Everett Mayfield were engaged since childhood. Eventually, the two got married under their parents' arrangement. However, Everett didn't like her.

They were married for three years, but everyone knew her husband had no feelings for her, and she was just the nominal Mrs. Mayfield—nothing more than that. Therefore, everyone ridiculed her for three years.

Two months ago, the Mayfield Group held a banquet, and Melissa attended it as Everett's wife. Unexpectedly, she and Everett had sex that night.

Regardless of how much she explained, Everett thought it was her plot.

Melissa frantically shook her head. "No, it wasn't me. I was drunk that day. I don't know what happened... Please trust me..."

Melissa felt a piercing pain in her stomach. She stretched out her hand and held Everett's trousers in desperation. "My stomach hurts. Can you please take me to the hospital?"

"God, are you still acting?"

Everett's face turned grim when he heard the word "hospital". "Do you think you can get away with pushing Arielle downstairs and causing her miscarriage by pretending this way?"

His words were like a bolt from the blue. Melissa's eyes widened in horror.

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