meeting you was my worst nightmare

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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Serena gripped the edge of her desk, staring blankly at the rejection mark on her thesis paper. The bold, red ink slashed across the pages like a death sentence. Rejected. Again.

Her chest tightened as she glanced at the name scrawled at the bottom-Professor Elian Carter. The man who had made her life a living hell for the past two semesters. The man who refused, without explanation, to approve her work, despite her countless revisions and desperate pleas.

Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. Why? She had followed every guideline, corrected every mistake, rewritten entire sections. And yet, here she was, back at square one.

The classroom was nearly empty now. Other students had long since left, their discussions filled with excitement over their nearing graduation. But Serena? She was stuck. Trapped in an endless cycle of submission and rejection, while time-and her hope-slowly drained away.

Her phone buzzed against the wooden desk, and she hesitated before picking it up.

Brianna: Rent's due tomorrow. Don't forget.

Serena exhaled shakily. As if she could forget. The unpaid rent, the mounting debts, her mother's medical bills-every second of her life was a ticking clock she had no way to stop. And now, with no approval from Elian Carter, her future was in limbo. No graduation. No job. No escape.

Her fingers hovered over her keyboard, an email already half-written. Another plea to Professor Carter, another desperate attempt to get him to change his mind. But she knew how this would go. He would read it-if he even bothered-and he would say the same thing.

"Your work lacks depth. Try again."

Serena shut her laptop with a sharp snap. The pressure in her chest expanded, an unbearable weight pressing down on her ribs.

Desperation was an ugly thing. It made people do things they never thought they were capable of. And Serena? She had reached her breaking point.

Her gaze flickered to the dimly lit screen of her phone, where a message thread remained open from a few days ago. A name she had been too ashamed to reply to.

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