The Mates Forbidden Secrets

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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Leona POV

I am Eighteen today.

Finally.

I stared at myself in the mirror in the bathroom, as I grazed my soft fingers on my bare skin, just beneath the towel that was wrapped low covering my breast. I was finally a woman, or so, as I still felt incomplete.

My friend, Cassie, would say that when we turn eighteen that's when you'll want things. Feel things. Cassie was always naughty even before she turned eighteen it was one thing, I liked about her that I didn't have. Her exposure to naughty things. She was always talking wild, whispering about stuffs she did with her crush whenever she hanged out with them, how they would finger her till she cum more especially... Sex.

I always carved to experience it but I felt guys took me to be a minor and I made me burn inside. Jealous maybe.

I slowly let loose of my towel as it fell on the floor as I took a full look of my body at the mirror. Before my memory could collect, I found myself looking at the soft curve of my breast. I touched the side, slowly, and I couldn't tell how I felt. It was soft. Sensitive. When I brushed my thumb over my pink nipple, I saw it stiffen as I felt tingles down my pussy. I wondered what it'd feel like if someone else touched it. A boy. A man. Did it feel dirty? Good? Wrong? Or all of it at once?

Rubbing my belly, I let my two fingers down my clit. Feeling the wetness as I felt a little noise slipped from my mouth. I didn't mean to make it.

I was alone. I should've been safe. I could touch if I wanted to.

Then I heard BANG.

I jumped so hard I knocked over the toothbrush cup. It hit the floor with a clatter.

"Leona!" His voice. Thick, dragging across the walls. Slurred like he'd poured the bottle down his throat on the way home. "Open this goddamn door!"

Panic punched the air out of my lungs.

He was home. My adopted father.

Drunk. As usual.

I pressed my hands to the sink. My breath came fast and shaky. I didn't want to go out there. But if I didn't... he'd tear the door off like he had last time. The knob still had scratches from that night.

"You're eighteen now," I whispered to myself. "You don't have to be scared."

That was a lie.

But I quickly wore my pajamas as I rushed downstairs to open the door. But he was already in the living room. He had polluted the house with beer and stale cigarettes. The lamp was knocked over. Couch cushion was a mess.

He stood with one boot still half off, shirt unbuttoned and hanging open over his gut. His belt was unloosed, dangling from one hand. His eyes-God-his eyes didn't look like they knew who I was.

"Birthday girl," he slurred, grinning like a maniac. "My baby's all grown up."

At least he remembers my birthday.

But something wasn't right with the way he said it.

"You're drunk," I said quietly. "You should go lie down."

"Why would I lie down," he said, stepping closer, "when you matured, my little slut?"

I backed away. "I'll call someone."

"Who?" His laugh was wet, mean. "Ain't nobody coming'. Nobody's ever gonna come for you."

His hand shot out and grabbed my arm.

I flinched, tried to pull away. "Let me go."

"I took care of you," he hissed. "All these years. My house, my food. I could've done this long ago, but you were a child. You think it was all for free, huh? I was waiting for you to be ripe, so I could eat you when I want to?"

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