Second Marriage Ex Husband Regrets So Much

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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Deliah Hines sat alone at the long marble dining table in their Manhattan penthouse. The silence in the room was heavy, pressing against her eardrums like deep water. She stared at the plate in front of her. The truffle risotto, Jere's absolute favorite, had gone cold hours ago. The creamy texture had congealed into a stiff, unappetizing lump, much like the feeling currently settling in the pit of her stomach.

She checked the time on her phone for the fiftieth time. 11:45 PM.

The candles she had lit three hours ago were now just pools of wax, the wicks drowning in their own melt. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that usually preceded a storm, or a funeral.

Deliah unlocked her phone again, the blue light harsh against her tired eyes. She opened Instagram, her thumb moving automatically, scrolling mindlessly to distract herself from the emptiness of the apartment. She didn't even know what she was looking for until she found it.

An anonymous account she had suspected before-one with no profile picture and a generic handle-had posted a new Story just four minutes ago.

Deliah's breath hitched. She tapped the circle.

The image filled her screen. It was low-light, intimate, taken at a table in a high-end restaurant. There was a single slice of cake with a candle, the flame blurring slightly in the capture. But it wasn't the cake that made Deliah's heart stop. It was the hand resting on the white tablecloth in the corner of the frame.

The caption was simple text overlaid in white: Finally back where we belong. Happy Birthday to me.

Deliah zoomed in on the hand. The skin was tanned, the fingers long and strong. On the wrist sat a Patek Philippe watch with a distinctive navy dial. She knew that watch. She had spent six months tracking it down for Jere as a wedding gift. And just below the thumb, there was a faint, jagged white scar-the result of a sailing accident when he was twenty.

It was undeniably Jere Bolton.

The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow. Today wasn't just a late night at the office. Today wasn't a board meeting that ran over. Today was Irina Collins' birthday.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, startling her. A text message from Jere appeared at the top of the screen.

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