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Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance
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.The CEO'S Maleficence by Dave yuuzy
CHAPTER ONE
Mr.Bryan Stirling of Stirling Information Technologies doesn’t look up from his computer when I enter his huge corner office. Even though I know for a fact his secretary buzzed him to tell him she was sending me in.
Just from his profile I can see he’s as good-looking as the online pics I saw last night when I was researching the company. Blond hair, aquiline nose. Long face and squared jaw, like a model. Not that I was paying that much attention last night. Kinda hard when Charles kept trying to climb into my lap and bang his favorite rubber spoon on my nose. All the while yelling, “Mia! Mia! Ma! Ma!” to get my attention.
Try telling a two-and-a-half-year old that Mia needs her me-time on the laptop or you’re both going to get evicted by the nasty landlord. Yeah. I shudder even thinking about Mr. Thornton. He doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t staring at my boobs, no matter if Charles with me or not. At least Mr. Thors-a-lot waited till he caught me alone to tell me to get the rent to him by Friday or come around to some ‘alternate forms of payment.’ Said while blatantly rubbing at the crotch of his pants.
I stretch my neck and shake out my hands. Focus Penny. All that shit just means this interview is more important than ever. Which leads to the mantra I’ve been whispering over and over to myself all morning: Don’t fuck this up. Don’t fuck this up.
“Mr. Stirling?” I finally venture. Maybe he didn’t hear the secretary when she buzzed him or notice when I came in. The wall separating his office from the reception is that cool futuristic glass that can frost and unfrost at the touch of a button. It frosted over as I opened the door. I thought Mr. Stirling had control of it, but maybe I’d been wrong and that had been the secretary as well. Am I an idiot just standing here like a stalker and he doesn’t even realize there’s anyone in the room with him? “I’m here for the Personal Assistant interview?” A grunt is all that greets me in return. I stand awkwardly and look down at my shoes. I immediately frown. Shit. I polished them last night but the left one has a giant scuff down the side. They’re just crappy knock-off pumps, but I thought they’d at least last the interview process. I’ve been desperately job-hunting all month ever since the lawyer’s fees and rent and student loan repayments have started stacking up too high.
Especially when another custody hearing is looming. My stomach cramps just at the thought, even though it’s the last thing I need to be focusing on right now. But God, the money. It’s why I’m here. The money has to come from somewhere. Waitressing gigs aren’t cutting it, no matter how many hours I work.
And after a month of job hunting, interviewing with no call-backs, turning over every damn rock possible, this is my last shot—and for a job I’m only remotely qualified for. Personal Assistant. I can do that, right? Assist a person. I’m great at thinking on my feet, helping out where needed. And I know computers and robotics. Well, I’ve taken classes about them anyway…
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