The Billionaires regret Ex returns

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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MELLOW.

"We're eleven weeks pregnant!" the bitch squeals, exalted by cheers from everyone.

Zeath showing up at the Lupin family's fucking dinner with his ex-girlfriend is insulting. And I can't believe my eyes as I gaze at them standing at the table's head.

He doesn't explain himself. Nobody does. But they know what the heck's going on and are hell-bent to leave me in the dark.

A thought knocks on my head, urging me to remove myself from this situation. Yet, I don't listen.

Instead, I blurt out, "Zeath, babe, what's going on?"

Zeath ignores me. Now I'm just sat where I am, eyes stuck on him as he pulls out a seat for his ex before sitting beside her.

She softly bumps her shoulder on his then watches as he dishes food for her.

I want to believe it's a prank. And I'm waiting for someone to say, 'Got ya!'

Like, can someone please tell me what is going on? I can't be the only one who's curious, right?

Except, I am. No one seems to mind. They're all absorbed in the moment, acting like it's normal.

And the more their silence stretches, the more it feels like I could choke on my food.

Mama Tia, Zeath's grandma, has been watching me for some time now. She was always the best comfort: soft-spoken, never hesitated to mention her love for me.

But her next words drive a spike through my heart.

"Whoever feels uncomfortable should leave."

No one else feels uncomfortable, at least not the way I see it, which means those words are for me.

If only she knew I'm not leaving until I'm done with my dinner.

Zeath's brother raises a champagne glass. "A toast to my brother, Yolie, and their blessed unborn."

Everyone raises their glasses with a cheer. I do too, but I'm rather quiet. I only now observe the toaster, East, from beneath my lashes while sipping my wine.

He meets my gaze and smirks, then relaxes in his seat.

"Sorry, I forgot you, Melon," he says. He's mocking me. "Shall we toast to your twenty-six years of abstinence, then?"

I scoff.

Fuck East and his rotten toast. I could squash his glass on his head and force the pieces into his mouth. Pray that it cuts the bloody fucker's tongue.

"I'm sorry, East, but... to hell with you," I snap, right before Zeath gets up noisily and heads toward the restroom. And despite the eyes on me, I follow him.

Male toilet or not, I stand behind him as he relieves himself. He doesn't even act like I'm there, going as far as trying to leave when he's done.

Only I'm faster.

I push myself to his front before resting against the door to block his way out.

"This is about the child, isn't it?" I rap, taking a breath and a moment of silence before adding, "Or sex."

Zeath chose not to reply. He slowly walks to stand near the sink, resting his hands on it while looking himself in the mirror.

His side face is what I get-a fucking smoking beauty, but mostly the center of enthrallment that flaunts a crown in the wake of its glory.

I want to hold him like I always did: jump on his massive form and stick my arms and legs around him like a koala while reveling in the feel of his bulging crotch against me.

He's way past six feet, while I'm just some inch over half of him. The courage to measure my height hasn't really found me yet.

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