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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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Peter Wang felt sad and dejected as he walked out of the Human Resources office.

He found it so difficult to accept the result. From where he came, he was feared by all the gangs. They even called him "Mighty Soldier King". Here in the city, he couldn't even find a decent job because he lacked a college degree. Suddenly, his phone rang. Peter noticed and picked it up immediately.

"Peter," said the voice from the other line. It was his girlfriend. "It's over. I'm breaking up with you." "You've been gone for so long. I need a boyfriend, not a phone pal."

"Darling, please—" Peter tried to get her back. "I know I've been gone, but I'm back now. I'll always be with you now."

"Oh yeah? Well, what can you give me?" "A dishwasher working abroad earns much more money than you." "What exactly can you give me, huh?" she challenged, "Do you even have savings after working all these years? Have you found a single stable job since you got back? Will you be able to give me the things I want?"

"I can, I promise! I'll buy you the biggest house you will ever want! Darling, I'm really sorry I've been gone. I'm sorry that we're struggling. I'm having a hard time finding a job in the city, but it will be better soon, I promise. Things will get better, and when they do—"

"And how would you do that?", the girl interrupted. "How are things going to get better, Peter? Will you ever get to buy me a BMW car? Will you ever get to buy me a Louis Vuitton handbag? Ferragamo shoes? Chanel suits? Ha! You can't even afford to buy me a-hundred-square-meter house, for Christ's sake."

Peter was silent.

She sighed. "You don't need to say anything, Peter. I'm tired. I can't deal with this anymore. Goodbye, Peter," she said as she hung up.

Peter held his hand-phone tightly, dumbfounded. Despite her muffled voice from the static of his old Nokia, her message was clear as day.

"AHHHH! Help! Somebody, help! Thief, thief! That thief stole my bag!" Peter heard someone scream from the other end of the street.

A lady in uniform was screaming in panic and desperation, running as fast as her high-heeled shoes would take her.

A man with dark sunglasses holding a Louis Vuitton handbag was fleeing from the scene towards a motorcycle.

"Go away! Right now!" He shouted to the onlookers as he jumped onto his vehicle.

As soon as he did, he crunched his brow, turned the handles and accelerated.

In shock, every person on the sidewalk squeezed themselves up to the wall as the motorcycle zoomed past them. Nobody dared block its way.

It's risky to be involved in robberies nowadays. Nobody wants to get hurt.

The lady in a suit watched the motorcycle drive away, helplessly.

The sight infuriated Peter.

As the motorcycle approached, he planted his feet firmly on the ground, pulled his left leg back, and with all his might, flung it into the raging vehicle in a strong forceful kick as soon as it passed in front of him.

The kick took the man by surprise. He couldn't believe what happened! His motorcycle tumbled sharply and it went spinning on the pavement. The impact threw him to the further end of the road and forced him to drop the stolen bag to the ground.

"Ahhhhh!"

The pedestrians held their hands to their mouths as they screamed.

Peter, indifferent to the commotion, walked to the side of the man, calmly picked up the bag, and handed it to the lady. "Here's your bag, ma'am."

"Th-thank you." The lady managed to say when she realized that he was talking to her. She was still stunned from the events that just happened.

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