The Billionaire's Secret Triplets: Mom's Revenge

She gripped Algernon's hand tighter. She was walking back into the lion's den, back to the city where her life had been destroyed. But this time, she wasn't the naive twenty-year-old girl who had been sold by her father. She was a mother. And she would burn this entire city to the ground if anyone tried to touch her children. The thought was a fire in her chest, a stark contrast to the icy dread that always accompanied the dream. And the dream always began with thunder. Thunder cracked like a whip against the glass, shaking the very foundation of the hotel suite. Or maybe it was just inside her head. Annelise Parker couldn't tell the difference anymore. In the dream, the darkness was absolute. The power had cut out hours ago, leaving the presidential suite of the JFK Hilton submerged in a thick, suffocating black ink. She was feeling her way along the wall, her fingers brushing against the cold silk of the wallpaper, trying to find the door, trying to find a way out. Then came the sound. The heavy thud of the door being forced open. A draft of cold air swept in, carrying the metallic tang of rain and something else—something sharp and coppery. Blood. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth before the sound could leave her throat. The palm was calloused, scorching hot against her skin, smelling of expensive leather and rain. Weight. Crushing weight. He pinned her to the plush carpet. She couldn't see his face, only the outline of broad shoulders blocking out the faint gray light from the window. He wasn't moving like a man in his right mind. He was heavy, uncoordinated, groaning low in his throat like a wounded animal. Help, she tried to say against his palm, but it came out as a muffled whimper. Pain exploded. She fought. God, she fought. Her fingernails dug into the meat of his shoulder, scraping down, tearing skin. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to kill him. He whispered something then. A rough, jagged sound against the shell of her ear. It sounded like a plea, or maybe a curse. Then the world shattered into white jagged edges of agony. Annelise gasped, her body jerking violently in the narrow seat. Her eyes flew open, but for a second, she was still in that hotel room, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Ma'am? Are you alright? The soft voice of the flight attendant broke through the haze. Annelise blinked, the cabin of the plane coming into focus. The hum of the engines replaced the thunder. The scent of recycled air replaced the smell of rain and blood. She was safe. She was on a plane. It was six years later. Water, Annelise managed to croak. Her throat felt like she had swallowed glass. The attendant nodded sympathetically and handed her a plastic cup of ice water. Annelise gripped it with trembling hands, the cold condensation grounding her. She pressed the cup against her forehead, closing her eyes for a brief second to banish the phantom sensation of that heavy, hot hand on her mouth. She took a sip, the water freezing her insides, forcing the nausea down. Beside her, the row of seats was occupied by the only good things that had come from that night of hell. Her triplets were asleep. Algernon, the oldest by four minutes, slept with a frown etched between his brows. Even in unconsciousness, he looked like he was solving a complex equation. His small fingers were curled tight around the edge of a battered tablet that he refused to let Annelise put in the overhead bin. Blace was sprawled out, one leg kicked over the armrest into the aisle, his mouth slightly open. He radiated energy even when he was recharging. There was a band-aid on his knee from where he'd tried to scale a fence two days ago. And Clemie. Sweet, sensitive Clemie was curled into a tight ball against the window, her nose buried in the fur of a teddy bear that was missing an eye. Annelise reached out, her hand hovering over Algernon's dark hair before she gently smoothed it back. Her chest ached with a fierce, terrifying love. They were hers. Only hers. The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into John F. Kennedy International Airport. Please return your seats to the upright position." New York. Annelise felt a fresh wave of anxiety churn in her stomach. She reached into her oversized tote bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope. The edges were worn from how many times she had taken it out, stared at it, and shoved it back in. Inside was the legal document that would set her free. Divorce Decree. The name at the top of the opposing party line was Archibald Sanders. She traced the name with her thumb. She had met him once. A cold, formal meeting arranged by the lawyers, where he had looked through her like she was furniture, dismissing her before she could say a single word. Their marriage had been a contract, a business arrangement between her desperate father and the Sanders estate. She had been told Archibald was a recluse, a man consumed by his empire, hidden away from the world in his glass tower. A ghost she was married to on paper. She had been Mrs. Sanders for six months, living in a guest house on the vast estate, enduring the occasional tense dinner where he treated her like an inconvenient obligation. He had never touched her. He had barely looked at her. Then came the eviction. Six years ago, a week after the assault at the hotel—a week she barely remembered through a haze of pain and recovery—she had received a letter from the family lawyers. She was being stripped of her assets and kicked out for "violation of the morality clause" and "marital infidelity." They thought she had cheated. Annelise let out a bitter, silent laugh. She hadn't cheated. She had been attacked, violated by a stranger in a blackout. And because of that stranger, she had lost everything. But she had gained the triplets. Now, she needed passports for them. She needed to enroll them in school without looking over her shoulder. She needed to legally sever the tie to the Sanders name so she could disappear for good. I'm just here to sign the papers, she whispered to the glass of the window, watching the gray skyline of New York rise up to meet them. "Get the signature, get the divorce, and leave." The plane's tires screeched against the tarmac, the sudden deceleration pushing her forward against the seatbelt. We're here? Blace's voice was loud, cutting through the cabin noise. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, immediately alert. "I'm hungry. Can we get pizza? Real New York pizza?" Shh, Annelise soothed, unbuckling her belt. "Let's get through customs first, Blace." Algernon woke up silently. He didn't stretch or yawn. He simply opened his eyes, snapped his tablet cover shut, and scanned the cabin. His gaze lingered on the flight attendant, then the exit signs. He was five years old, but he had the situational awareness of a veteran soldier. Did you sleep okay, baby? Annelise asked him. Algernon nodded once. "The air pressure change was inefficient for REM cycles." Annelise smiled tiredly. "Okay, Professor." She turned to Clemie, gently shaking her shoulder. "Clemie, honey. Wake up. We're in New York." Clemie stirred, hugging the bear tighter. She took a deep breath, her small nose twitching. Then she scrunched up her face, looking distressed. What's wrong? Annelise asked, brushing hair out of her daughter's face. Smells like perfume, Clemie mumbled. "And... metal." It's just the city, sweetie. No, Clemie whispered, her eyes wide and fearful as she looked toward the front of the plane. "Smells like the bad lady." Annelise frowned. Clemie's sense of smell was uncanny, bordering on supernatural. If she said something smelled bad, it usually meant trouble. There are no bad ladies here, Annelise said firmly, though her own heart skipped a beat. She gathered their bags, slinging the heavy tote over her shoulder. "Come on. Hold hands. Do not let go." They shuffled into the aisle, joining the slow exodus of passengers. Annelise stepped onto the jet bridge, the humid New York air hitting her face. It felt heavy, oppressive. It felt like a cage closing.