Undercover lovwe

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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A loud groan echoed through the small apartment as Sophia stirred from her siesta. Hunger gnawed at her insides, leaving her weak and irritable. She hadn't eaten all day. Stretching her arms, she dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the parlor, where she found Isabella lounging on the couch, eyes fixed on her phone.

"Aah, babe, you're here," Sophia yawned loudly. "I'm starving. Do we have anything to eat?"

Isabella barely looked up. "Nothing, my dear. No clients today, so I couldn't buy anything."

Sophia clicked her tongue. "That's bad. Alright, I'll figure something out."

She dashed into the room, rummaging through her things.

Sophia and Isabella were two young, beautiful women trying to survive in the city. They had been best friends for years, sharing everything-except one thing. Isabella was a hairstylist, while Sophia, out of frustration and joblessness, had resorted to pickpocketing. Isabella disapproved and had tried countless times to talk her out of it.

"I swear, if you ever get caught, I won't bail you out. I don't have that kind of money," Isabella would warn.

But Sophia always had the same response. "Yet when I bring money, you eat, don't you?"

That evening, Sophia hit the streets. Her first stop was a hair salon where she spotted a young man leaning against his car. Smiling sweetly, she approached.

"Good day, fine man," she greeted, her voice laced with charm.

The man looked up, slightly amused. "Good day, young lady. How can I help you?"

"Nothing much," she said, twirling a strand of hair. "I just saw you from afar and thought you were really cute. I like you."

Before the conversation could continue, a beautiful woman emerged from the salon. The man immediately straightened up and hurried to grab her bags.

Sophia scoffed internally. So, he's just a driver. Without another word, she slipped away.

Minutes later, the car pulled off with the driver-Paul-and his boss, Miss Jasmine, inside. A short distance away, Paul reached for his phone, only to realize it was missing.

"Paul, are you trying to kill me?" Jasmine snapped as he swerved slightly.

"Sorry, ma, I just-" He paused, checking his pockets again. "I can't find my phone."

"Where did you keep it?"

"It was with me the whole time," he said, panic creeping into his voice.

Jasmine sighed in frustration. "I'll call it."

She dialed the number. It was switched off.

"Shit!" Paul cursed under his breath.

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