Unveiling the Genius Behind the Divorcee

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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*Avery*.

“Luca! ¡Come eat!”, yelled Anya from her porch. But eight-year-old Luca and I were too focused on our game to pay attention. The sun bathed us in its warm, golden glow as we continued our intense match of tag, racing around the backyard. Laughter and excitement filled the air, and the world felt like an endless playground for two young adventurers. "Luca! I'll try asking nicely again!" Anya yelled once more. Even when she was scolding him, she sounded loving.

We rushed outside, our hearts pounding with the exhilaration of the game. My mother, Andria, was already there, assisting with removing the dish from the oven. My mom was stunning with her tan skin and black hair, her presence exuding warmth and love. She made the perfect bestie for Anya, a tall redhead with a gorgeous complexion and refined features. They appeared to be a great match, sharing not only friendship but also the unique bond of raising children in a world where secrets and mysteries lurked.

"What's for lunch?" I asked, my stomach grumbling in response to the delicious aroma that enveloped the backyard.

"Just food," my mom joked in reply, her playful smile lighting up her face.

We sat at the table and enjoyed the casserole that Anya and my mother had made. They drank wine while Luca and I had grapefruit juice, sipping it with exaggerated seriousness as if it were the finest wine. Our mothers chatted like close allies, their laughter and anecdotes filling the air. Luca and I occasionally overheard the names of our fathers in their conversations, a reminder of the responsibilities that lay ahead for us.

After eating, we went back to the pond in the backyard and played until the sun went down. When we became too exhausted to continue, we lay on the grass and gazed at the sky, while our mothers sat on the porch, their voices blending with the evening breeze.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" asked Luca, his gaze fixed on the first stars that began to twinkle in the evening sky.

"I don't know. I don't think about that," I said.

It was true, I never thought about the future until that day. No one at home ever inquired about it, and there was no family concern for anything too far in the future. Our world was one of tradition and destiny, where some roles were predetermined from birth. But not mine.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I asked, turning the question back to Luca.

His gaze remained fixed on the stars. "I don't have a choice. I have to lead the Moonblood pack as our Alpha."

The weight of his words hung in the air, and I turned to look at him. Luca appeared surprisingly at ease with the situation, his young eyes holding a wisdom beyond his years.

"What do you mean? Why don't you have a choice?" I asked, curious about the world of responsibility and expectation he was born into.

Cepher, Luca's father, led our pack, the Moonblood Pack, as the Alpha. Our pack got its name from a battle fought by our ancestors centuries ago to claim this territory. Blood was shed so that we could have our own place in this vast world. This battle was so fierce that it became legendary among werewolves, giving our pack its notable name.

Luca was destined to be our Alpha, just like his father, Cepher, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather before him.

"My father is the current Alpha, and I will succeed him when he retires. When that time comes, I will take on the responsibility of leading our community and caring for our pack," he explained, his words resonating with the gravity of his future role.

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