Beautiful Mistakes

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 new day, the same boy was there, in front of his little desk, the same but different child among his classmates.

White skin, slightly brown-haired and that pair of beautiful brown eyes is how we can describe him. Meantime, his classmates had skin as white as snow, blond-haired, sometimes curly-haired, other times straight-haired with blue or even green eyes.

The little boy was considered unique in that classroom and not exactly due to his physical, but for speaking two languages at that short age. With his family, he spoke in Spanish and by his surroundings; he made himself understand in English.

Everything in his life seemed to be perfect; his mother loved him, her aunt was willing to give her life for him, his grandmother (who wasn't exactly his grandmother by blood), was the typical grandma who pampered him even when he was wrong; and finally, he had his second aunt (who was not his aunt by blood either) who he played with after school. Whoever who met that beautiful angel would say his life was perfect and of course, he was happy with the life he had. However, there was a little issue he couldn't deal with.

“Joseph!” His teacher called him out at seeing him playing with his classmates, making them get distracted.

“Yes, Ms. Smith?” He responded well-educated. That beautiful pair of brown eyes went wide.

“Did you finish your craft?” The teacher asked while smoothing her voice tone. The least she would've wanted was to scare him.

“Yes, Ms. Smith,” affirmed Joseph, politely making his teacher smile. Whoever met Joseph would fall for his cuteness.

“Well done, honey. But remember; not because you have finished the activity your classmates have too.”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Smith.” He looked down.

“Come here, honey. “ She asked, feeling guilty. It was impossible not to feel guilty when he acted like that. Such an angel!

The little boy came to her. His teacher smiled, extending to him a pack of colored sheets. “Choose one, whichever you want.”

The boy looked at her and then, he took a blue one. His favorite among all the colors he was seeing. Ms. Smith smiled reaching out a pen which fell on the little boy's hand.

“Go to your desk and write a letter to your father. Go!” She encouraged.

And once again, his little issue was there. Was it so difficult to write a letter to his father? Yes. It was. After all, he didn’t have that perfect life that everyone could’ve imagined he owned.

He walked back to his desk thinking about the task he was asked to do.

He sat down thinking about all he wanted to say. He really wanted to write so much but didn't know how to start.

With a shaky hand, he took the pen over the sheet. Second by second, the pen started slipping on the page, creating words that could come into anyone’s heart.

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