Start All Over Again

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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The rain over Washington D.C. was a solid, freezing sheet of gray, blurring the illuminated dome of Capitol Hill through the windshield of Alya's cheap rental car.

She gripped the steering wheel. Her knuckles were bone-white.

A sudden, violent spasm ripped through her chest. It felt like a steel vice crushing her ribs, stealing all the oxygen from her lungs.

Alya gasped, her vision tunneling into dark, fuzzy edges. The PTSD was triggering the physical decay of her heart, right here on 14th Street.

She needed the pills. Now.

Her right hand left the wheel, trembling violently as she reached blindly into her open purse on the passenger seat. Her fingertips brushed the smooth plastic of the unmarked prescription bottle.

She fumbled. The bottle slipped from her slick, cold fingers and dropped onto the floor mat.

"Damn it," Alya hissed through her teeth.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasting copper, and ducked her head for a fraction of a second to grab the bottle.

In that split second, the wail of a D.C. police siren pierced the rain.

Alya snapped her head up. The police cruiser had abruptly blocked the intersection. Directly in front of her, a massive, black armored Cadillac Escalade slammed on its brakes.

Her pupils dilated. She stomped her right foot down on the brake pedal with all her remaining strength.

The rental car's cheap tires shrieked against the wet asphalt. It wasn't enough.

The front of her sedan slammed into the reinforced steel bumper of the Escalade. The sickening crunch of twisting metal echoed through the street.

The airbag deployed with the force of a heavyweight punch. It smashed into Alya's face, throwing her head back against the headrest.

A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Warm, thick blood immediately began to slide down her eyebrow, mixing with the cold sweat on her face.

Her chest heaved. The heart palpitation was turning into a lethal flutter.

Ignoring the blood dripping into her eye, Alya grabbed the pill bottle from the floorboard. She popped the cap, shook a single white pill into her palm, and swallowed it dry. It scratched her throat on the way down.

Through the cracked windshield, she saw the driver's side door of the Escalade open.

A man in a dark suit stepped out into the pouring rain. He held a black umbrella. His right hand hovered near the bulge of a holstered weapon under his jacket.

It was Marcus Vance.

Alya's stomach dropped. The bile rose in her throat.

Marcus walked over to her crumpled door, his face a mask of cold, professional indifference. He tapped on her window.

Alya took a ragged breath. She unbuckled her seatbelt and shoved her shoulder against the warped door. It groaned, popping open just enough to let the freezing rain whip into the cabin.

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