A Canvas of Love

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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Sophia Lynns gripped a letter in her two hands, gazing intently at it. As her mind raced, the words became hazy.

An art commission.

An actual one. Not the odd murals she'd created to make ends meet, or the hesitant offers from tiny galleries.

It was a big one. No, this was enormous. The first thing that shocked her was the name at the bottom of the letter: Lucas Hawke.

She was startled out of her reverie as her phone buzzed on the messy desk. She grabbed it up and spoke in a tremulous voice. "Hello?"

A professional, clipped voice said, "This is Laura Bennett, Mr. Hawke's secretary. Ms. Lynns, Mr. Hawke is excited to talk about a private commission after being pleased with your portfolio. He wants to meet you at his company tomorrow."

Sophia gulped forcefully, her thoughts racing. "Tomorrow? Already? Isn't that too soon?"

Laura remarked impatiently, "Mr. Hawke values efficiency. May I confirm the meeting?"

Sophia paused, surveying her cramped, disorganized workspace. Her bank account balance was ridiculous, her fridge was almost empty, and her rent was past due. This was what she needed.

"Yes," she answered, trying to steady her voice. "I'll be there."

"All right. I will email you the information. And Ms. Lynns?"

"Yes?" Sophia answered raising a brow.

"Be on time. Mr Hawke doesn't tolerate lateness." Laura added, her tone maintaining the professional standard.

Before Sophia could reply, the line died. Her chest constricted as she gazed at her phone.

Lucas Hawke. The multi billionaire businessman whose name was a byword for strength, controversy, and secrecy.

What kind of artwork could he possibly desire from an unknown artist like her when he probably has connections to the most famous artists around the world?

Sophia thought hard about it but made no headway. She eventually gave up on her thoughts.

Maybe Fortune had decided to smile at her just like it smiled at her father, the well-known artist Lynns, and allowed her a platform to show her talent and what she was capable of doing as an artist.

************************************************

The following morning, Sophia felt quite little as she stood in Hawke Enterprises' sparkling lobby.

Her studio's chipped paint and creaking floors were in sharp contrast to the building's gleaming marble floors and tall glass walls, which shouted wealth and sophistication.

She walked up to the receptionist, adjusting her blazer in the hopes that it would conceal her nerves. Despite the pounding in her chest, she spoke steadily, "I'm here to see Mr. Hawke."

The receptionist was typing rapidly on her keyboard, without looking up. "What's your name?"

"Sophia Lynns." The woman nodded and pointed to the elevators after a brief pause.

"The top floor. There, his secretary will greet you."

The low buzz of gentle classical music did little to calm her jangled nerves throughout the seemingly endless elevator ride.

She was met by a stunning woman wearing a fitted suit when the doors were opened. The woman said in a tone as sharp as her appearance, "Ms. Lynns?"

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