My craving for Agatha Rose

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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Everleigh Roman woke up with a splitting headache from the sunlight.

She groaned, rolling over.

Her cheek rubbed against something impossibly smooth. Cool, slippery, expensive satin. Not the cotton blend she had on her bed in the tiny studio apartment she was currently being evicted from.

She reached out blindly for the glass of water that should have been on her nightstand. Her fingers brushed against mahogany, then paper. Thick, textured paper.

Evie cracked one eye open. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of beige and gold. She forced her vision to focus on the document under her hand.

Certificate of Marriage.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that knocked the breath out of her.

She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist.

She wasn't wearing her dress.

She was wearing a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric smelling of cedarwood and something darker, like rain on asphalt.

"No," Evie whispered. "No, no, no."

Flashes of memory assaulted her. The charity gala. Darrin's sneer as he told her she was worthless without him. The open bar. So much vodka. And then... a man. A tie. She remembered gripping a silk tie, pulling a face down to hers. She remembered demanding someone save her.

She looked around. This wasn't a room; it was a kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, furniture that probably cost more than her college tuition.

On the nightstand, next to a platinum cufflink that glinted maliciously in the sun, was a note.

Evie picked it up, her hand trembling so hard the paper rattled. The handwriting was sharp, aggressive.

Gone on business. Last night was... memorable. - G.

She had married a man whose name began with G.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to summon a face.

Nothing.

Just a blur of a sharp jawline, a sensation of large, warm hands on her waist, and eyes that looked like the deep end of the ocean.

Her phone vibrated against the wood, a violent buzz that made her jump.

She fished it out from under a pillow that smelled like him.

Eighteen missed calls. All from Illa.

She swiped the screen, bringing the phone to her ear. "Illa?"

"Evie! Oh my god, are you alive?" Illa's voice was a shriek that pierced her headache. "You disappeared! One minute you were crying about Darrin near the ice sculpture, and the next you were gone. Did you get kidnapped? Are you in a ditch?"

"I'm in... a hotel," Evie croaked. "Illa, I think I did something stupid."

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