Keeping to the Family

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.

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"ESTELLE!" The voice cuts through the hallway like a blade, shrill and unforgiving.

I wince as it echoes in my ears. Miss Russell storms toward me, her face twisted with a sneer. "You're eighteen today. That means I can finally get your freeloading ass out of this orphanage."

She looks at me like I'm something she's scraped off her shoe. And maybe, to her, I am.

I straighten up but say nothing. What's the point?

She thrusts a laminated paper into my hand. "Here's your notary certificate. Good luck out there - or don't. I don't care. Just get out."

She spins on her heel and walks away like she hadn't just booted me into the street with the weight of the world on my back.

I stand there frozen. My fingers close around the certificate. This is it. No more foster homes. No more pretending anyone's coming back for me. No more safety net. I'm officially a legal adult - and officially homeless.

I blink fast, fighting tears. Not here. Not now. I won't give her the satisfaction.

Back in the small room they used to call mine, I shove everything I own into a secondhand backpack: two shirts, a pair of jeans, deodorant, and a toothbrush. That's the sum total of my life. No goodbye, no well-wishes. Just me and the street.

The city is louder than I remember. Maybe it's always been this loud. Maybe I was just too numb to hear it before.

I drift without purpose, one foot in front of the other until I realize I'm in a park. Children laugh somewhere behind me. The sound makes something ache deep inside my ribs.

I collapse onto a bench. I haven't eaten since yesterday. I haven't had a plan since I woke up. I stare down at my sneakers. One's coming apart at the toe. I whisper to myself, What now, Estelle?

"Hey, beautiful."

I look up, startled. A girl, around my age, stands in front of me. She's striking - tall, glowing brown skin, emerald green eyes, and a crooked smile that says she's seen more than she lets on.

"You look like you need to make some money."

There it is. The hook.

She sits beside me like we're old friends. No name. No intro. Just straight to business. I should be suspicious. I should walk away. But I'm desperate. And desperation doesn't leave much room for dignity.

"I do," I admit quietly.

She leans in, handing me a glossy flier. Paradise.

"A club?" I ask.

Her smile sharpens. "It's the best brothel in the NYC red light district. Clients pay well. But they don't come gentle."

I stare at the flier. My hands tremble, but I don't drop it.

"You don't have to say yes," she says as she stands. "But if you show up, ask for Andrea."

Time slips by.

A kid's ball hits my leg. I hand it back with a small smile.

Then I feel it - a bulge in my back pocket. I pull it out. A note. $250 cash.

> "In case you decide to come (and I know you will). You'll need new clothes. Make yourself unforgettable."

Andrea.

I walk to the nearest thrift store and change in the dressing room. The girl in the mirror is cleaner now - tighter black romper, wiped-down shoes - but the same haunted eyes.

I throw my old clothes in the trash.

It's getting dark.

The building is unmissable. PARADISE glows in violent pink neon. The longer I look, the more it feels like it's mocking me.

I freeze.

My hand trembles as I reach for the door.

"Lost, kid?" a deep voice asks.

The bouncer's huge. Arms crossed, deadpan stare.

"I'm not a kid. I'm here to work."

He scoffs. "This place ain't for girls like you."

"I'm eighteen." I force my voice not to shake. "Let me speak to the manager."

He starts to protest, but a sleek black car rolls up. A tall man steps out. Mid-30s, olive skin, sharp features, a neatly trimmed beard - the kind of man who doesn't wait in line for anything.

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