THE ACCORM by Sparrow

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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Vivian stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Mercer Capital executive office. Her fingers gripped two printed private jet confirmations for Martha's Vineyard so tightly that the edges of the paper cut into her skin.

Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

The heavy mahogany double doors swung open. Landon Mercer strode into the room. He wore a custom-tailored Tom Ford suit, his presence instantly sucking the oxygen out of the massive space.

Vivian took a step forward. She held out the flight confirmations.

Landon did not even look at her. He walked straight past her extended hand and headed for the crystal decanters on the wet bar.

Ice clinked against heavy glass. He poured a generous measure of bourbon. The sharp sound echoed in the suffocating silence of the room.

Vivian drew in a shallow, shaky breath.

"Landon," she said, her voice trembling. "About the itinerary for this weekend..."

Landon turned around. He took a sip of his drink. His cold, dark eyes scanned her from head to toe, assessing her like a piece of depreciating office furniture.

"I am going to the island with Whitney this weekend," he stated. His tone was flat, leaving no room for discussion.

Vivian's stomach dropped. A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to lock her knees to stay standing. She bit down on her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood, fighting the burn of tears in her eyes.

She walked over to the massive mahogany desk. She placed the tablet down.

"Then we need to end this," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I want to break up."

Landon's finger paused on the rim of his crystal glass. A low, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest.

He set the glass down and closed the distance between them. His tall frame blocked out the sunlight from the windows, casting a dark shadow over her face.

He reached out. His fingers clamped around her jaw like a steel vise, forcing her head up. She had no choice but to look into his freezing eyes.

"Let me remind you of something, Vivian," he said softly. "You are a nobody from St. Agnes Orphanage."

Vivian grabbed his wrist. She tried to pull his hand away, but his grip was immovable. The physical dominance made her chest tighten with absolute helplessness.

"You will never cross the threshold into Boston society," Landon continued, his thumb digging into her cheek. "You are a convenient girlfriend. Nothing more."

A single tear broke free. It rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the polished toe of his handmade Italian leather shoe.

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