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BEYOND THE FACADE

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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CHAPTER ONE

Olivia Reed sat at the edge of her cramped apartment bed, gently rubbing her aching feet. The moment she kicked off her heels, her phone buzzed.

Her stomach twisted.

She didn't need to check the caller ID. She already knew.

"Yes, sir?" she answered, voice barely above a whisper.

"Come to the penthouse. Now."

Click.

No room for hesitation. No questions. Just orders.

She swallowed her exhaustion, grabbed her coat, and stepped into the freezing dark.

The mansion loomed like a warning.

Tall iron gates. A driveway too long.

The kind of silence money buys.

Inside, the scent of Chanel No. 5 and spilled wine clung to the air.

A woman lounged on the velvet couch, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder. A glass of red dangled lazily between her fingers.

Her gaze dragged across Olivia like she was an unwanted draft.

"Took you long enough," she murmured. "Go get a refill."

Olivia stiffened. "We're out, ma'am."

The woman tilted her head, a slow smile curling her lips.

"Then go get more."

Olivia blinked. "It's one in the morning."

The smile vanished. The voice dropped.

"Are you refusing a simple errand?" She leaned forward, her tone like velvet over glass. "You know what's at stake, don't you?"

Olivia turned toward Hayes, searching for any sign of backup.

He didn't even look at her.

"You heard her, Rose. Get the wine."

"...It's Olivia."

This time, his gaze lifted. Cool. Calculated.

Then, he smiled.

"Then get the wine, Rose."

Finding the wine was hell.

The first shop's bell jingled softly as she pushed open the door, breath fogging in the cold.

She muttered the name of the wine.

"We're out," the man said without even glancing up.

The second store wasn't better. The cashier looked confused.

"Never heard of it."

The third one-finally-an older man behind the counter raised a brow.

"You're searching for that now? At this hour?"

She nodded. He sighed.

"Five blocks south. Take a left. You'll see it."

By the time she returned, bottle in hand, her fingers had gone numb. Her coat clung to her like frost.

She stepped inside.

Silence.

Hayes was asleep. So was the woman.

She stood there.

The bottle heavy in her hand. Her jaw tight. Her heart hammering.

All that-for this.

She turned and walked back out. No words. Just frost and fury.

The streets were too quiet.

She tugged her coat closer, eyes scanning the dark. That's when she saw them.

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