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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.

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The sun, previously beating down on the battlefield with its heat, was now blotted out by many dark clouds. Even its majestic energy was overshadowed by a sea of pungent mist.

Filling the air was the smell of rancid blood and iron, sickening enough to make your stomach churn.

It was the smell of rancid blood and iron. But it was that smell that helped him focus in the fog.

There he stood. The figure of a man could be seen, alone, looking onwards. His name was Jacender Ashfield. Proud son of the Ashfield line and guardian of the gate.

The mist slowly dissipated, revealing dozens of strewn bodies laid all around him. It was apparent that Jacender remained the last man standing.

"Khak!! Khak!!" he coughed fiercely into his hand.

He had become exhausted from the raging battle against the demon hordes. So much so that he fell to his knees, blood on his glove.

"D-Damn it!!" He grunted, propping himself up with the hilt of his sword.

Just as he started to rise, a domineering voice came from overhead.

"Stay down…or die."

Peering up toward the voice, all Jace could see blood red skin. And it's wearers were a seemingly endless army of demons.

'Ravishers. And even more than before…' he thought, tight-lipped.

They were all ready to devour him with their jagged teeth, however they maintained their distance.

It was clear why.

Above them, perched on the hill above, dressed in white, a figure--presumably the boss, stood, looking down at Jace.

The ravishers would not attack unless given the permission.

Outfitted in a white overcoat as if to directly contradict Jace's black one, the figure also donned a white mask with carvings of an apple under one eye, and a book underneath the other. Two swords were also equipped on his waist.

Jace stared the man in the eyes with a fierce determination.

"Yeah…?" He panted mockingly as he pushed himself up.

"Ngghhh!!" his heart thumped, reverberating through his ears as he faced his enemies.

He gritted his teeth, gripping his sword and faced it at the man.

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