My Husband Says His Lovers Baby Is Mine

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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Savannah Nichols opened the door and stepped into the dark room, reaching out to flip the switch. Instantly, the room lit up.

She lifted her eyes toward the old, worn-out bed and curled her lips into a cruel smile.

On the bed, Sigourney Nichols lay writhing in agony and pain.

She kept struggling to break free from the two shackles tightly clamping her wrists, but with her current frail strength, it was utterly impossible.

Her eyes, filled with resentment, glared at her younger sister as if she wanted to devour her alive.

She never imagined that the person she loved most, the one closest to her, would be the very one to bring her to this wretched state.

Savannah closed the door and slowly approached the bed. She reached out, pulled away the cloth gagging Sigourney's mouth, then calmly dragged a chair nearby and sat down.

"Cough... A..." Sigourney coughed violently, choked with rage.

Savannah placed a glass cup on the bedside table, then gripped Sigourney's chin firmly, lifting it up.

"Sister, why don't you know how to stay in your place?"

Despite her dire situation, despite her utter helplessness to resist, Sigourney steadied herself and responded coldly:

"You bitch! I don't have a sister like you!"

Her eyes welled up, turning red, but she forced herself not to shed tears.

Because only now, too late, did she finally realise-the sweet, affectionate little sister who always clung to her, the one she trusted completely-this was her true face. And in return for that trust, this was the outcome she received?

That all-too-familiar innocent smile once again appeared on Savannah's deceitful face.

"I've been taking such good care of you for a whole month, yet every day you keep cursing me like this?"

Good care? What a joke. Sigourney let out a derisive chuckle and turned her face away.

After deceiving her into getting a divorce, Savannah orchestrated Sigourney's supposed "death" and imprisoned her here.

Of course, by now, no one knew she was still alive. Over a month had passed-surely, her grave was covered in green grass by now.

Every day, she received Savannah's so-called "care"-meals even dogs wouldn't touch.

Various dishes, ranging from raw meat to rotting flesh, from vegetables left out for two or three nights until they became slimy and reeked of a putrid stench.

That was what Sigourney had been forced to eat for the past month.

And that wasn't all.

Her delicate body was now covered in bruises and wounds, black and blue patches marring her skin.

The bed she lay on was electrically charged-so with every meal, she had to endure an extra "dessert" of bone-deep convulsions.

Escape was impossible. Even suicide was out of the question. The only thing she could do was grit her teeth and endure.

This would end. It had to end.

But the ending awaiting Sigourney would be more wretched than any miserable fate she could have imagined.

And her "dear little sister" had never once let her go hungry. How... very "thoughtful" of her.

Savannah reached for the glass on the table, gently swirling it so that whatever was inside could dissolve more quickly.

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