My Wedding Day

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.

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The beep of the heart monitor was the only thing louder than the silence in the room. It was a rhythmic, mocking countdown.

Aria tried to lift her finger. Just one. Just the index finger of her right hand.

Nothing happened.

Her brain screamed the command, sending frantic electrical impulses down her spine, but the connection was dead. Her body was a heavy, useless sack of meat and bone that no longer belonged to her. She was trapped behind her own eyes.

The door to the private suite in the Swiss clinic swung open. The sound was smooth, expensive, like everything else in this place that was designed to make death feel like a luxury vacation.

Jordan walked in.

He looked impeccable. Of course he did. He was wearing that navy custom suit from Milan, the one Aria had bought him for his thirty-second birthday. He adjusted his cufflinks as he approached the bed, his movements fluid and unbothered.

Chloe followed him.

The air in Aria's lungs, what little she could control, seemed to freeze. Chloe was wearing Aria's dress. The vintage Givenchy Aria had saved for the anniversary gala. It hung a little loose on Chloe's hips, but she wore it with a terrifying confidence.

They stood over Aria.

Jordan didn't look sad. He didn't look like a grieving fiancé watching his soon-to-be wife succumb to a mysterious, rapid-onset neurological decline. He looked bored.

"It's done," he said softly.

He wasn't talking to Aria. He was talking to the air, or maybe to Chloe. He held up a blue folder.

"The trust transfer cleared the offshore routing about ten minutes ago. We're liquid, Aria. Completely liquid."

Pain blossomed in Aria's chest. It wasn't the heartbreak. It was physical. A searing, chemical burning that started in the center of her heart and began to crawl up her throat. The neurotoxin was making its final ascent.

Chloe giggled. It was a light, airy sound that made Aria want to vomit.

"She looks so peaceful," Chloe said, leaning over Aria. Her perfume-Aria's perfume-clogged Aria's nose. "Do you think she knows? About the wine?"

"It doesn't matter," Jordan said. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from Aria's forehead. His touch was cold. "She drank it. She signed the papers. She was the perfect little asset right until the end."

The wine. The engagement toast. Seven days ago.

Aria's heart monitor began to speed up. The beep-beep-beep accelerated into a frantic warning.

"God, that noise is annoying," Jordan muttered.

He reached over and silenced the alarm.

The silence that followed was heavy. He turned to Chloe, grabbed her waist, and pulled her into him. He kissed her. Right there. Right over Aria's dying body. It was a wet, hungry kiss, full of the passion he hadn't shown Aria in two years.

Aria tried to scream. She tried to curse them to hell.

All that came out was a wet, rattling wheeze.

Jordan pulled away from Chloe and pulled a silver lighter from his pocket. He picked up the document on the bedside table-Aria's Living Will. The one that said she wanted no life support.

He flicked the lighter. The flame danced in his eyes. He touched it to the corner of the paper.

"Goodbye, Aria," he whispered.

He dropped the burning paper onto the sheets near Aria's feet.

The heat didn't register. The darkness did. It started at the edges of Aria's vision, an encroaching vignette of black ink. The cold was absolute. It wrapped around her bones, squeezing the last bit of warmth from her marrow.

She made a promise to the darkness. If there was anything after this, she would destroy them.

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