The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets
I opened the door to my penthouse, only to see my stepsister's limited-edition Louboutins discarded on the foyer rug.
Walking into the master bedroom, I caught my fiancé and my stepsister tangled naked in my bed.
When I went back to the family estate to settle the score, my father didn't even care.
Instead, he and my stepmother demanded I take my stepsister's place to save the family's reputation.
"You will marry the seventy-year-old billionaire next month. We can't ruin your sister's life," my father ordered.
Looking at their hypocritical faces, the last shred of my family affection died completely.
They really thought I would just accept being their sacrificial pawn while they stole my mother's legacy.
So, I pinned them down with a blackmail video of the affair, extorted my father for my shares, and walked out into the freezing night.
To numb the betrayal, I went to an underground club, slept with a terrifyingly powerful stranger, and left a red lipstick note on his forehead.
"Your technique sucks. Keep the change."
Then, I vanished abroad without a trace.
Five years later, I returned to New York with my three children, ready to take back everything that was mine.
But I didn't expect that the "cheap gigolo" from that night was actually Kendall James, the most ruthless corporate titan in the city.
And he had just spotted my five-year-old son—his exact miniature replica—standing right beside me.
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Chapter 1
The electronic lock on the penthouse door chimed—sharp, crisp, a single clean beep that cut through the silence.
Ansley Crawford pushed the heavy oak door open. The scent of expensive vanilla diffuser wrapped around her face, cloying and thick. She stepped into the foyer, her fingers loosening their grip on the leather handle of her Birkin.
Then her gaze dropped to the plush white rug.
A pair of red stiletto heels lay discarded, one tipped on its side, the other half-buried in the shag. Limited-edition Louboutins. The exact pair Brylee had flaunted last Tuesday, waggling her foot in Ansley's face. "Gavin has such good taste, don't you think?"
Ansley's stomach dropped. Her abdominal muscles contracted so violently she tasted bile.
She set the Birkin down on the console table. Slipped off her trench coat. Hung it on the rack. Every movement was slow, mechanical, the movements of a woman who already knew what she was about to find but needed her body to catch up to her brain.
She walked down the long hallway toward the master bedroom. The thick carpet swallowed her footsteps whole.
As she drew closer, a faint, rhythmic sound bled through the heavy wood. She stopped right outside, her breath catching sharp in her throat. She leaned forward, pressing her ear against the cool, lacquered surface of the door.
The sound resolved into wet, slapping skin. Then a high-pitched moan that she recognized instantly.
Brylee.
Ansley's fingertips turned to ice. Her lungs stopped pulling air. Her right hand reached out and clamped around the cold brass doorknob. Her knuckles bleached stark white against her skin.
She shoved. The door slammed against the wall with a crack like a gunshot.
Harsh overhead lights flooded the room, exposing everything. On the center of the massive king bed—her bed, the one she'd picked out with Gavin at that overpriced boutique in SoHo—two naked bodies twisted in the sheets.
Gavin's head snapped toward the door. His eyes bulged out of their sockets, his face draining to a sick, pasty gray.
Brylee let out a piercing scream. She scrambled backward like a crab, ripping the silk duvet up to cover her bare chest. Her mascara was already smeared, raccoon-dark circles bleeding down her cheeks.
Ansley stood in the doorway. She crossed her arms over her chest. A cold, razor-sharp smirk cut across the corner of her mouth—the kind of smile that promised devastation.
"Ansley!" Gavin tumbled off the edge of the bed. His bare knees hit the hardwood with a meaty thud. He stammered, his face flooding a dark, desperate red. "This—this isn't what it looks like!"
Ansley didn't blink. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone, and tapped the record button. The red light blinked on. She held the lens steady, framing their pathetic, naked bodies in perfect, unforgiving focus.
Gavin's face contorted with rage. The fear twisted into something uglier. "Put that away!"
He lunged at her, bare feet slapping the floor, one hand reaching to snatch the phone from her grip.
Ansley's eyes narrowed. The air around her shifted, charged like the moment before a lightning strike.
She stepped slightly to the left, sidestepping his clumsy grab as if he were moving through molasses. Her left hand shot out, fingers locking around his extended wrist. She pivoted on her heel, dropping her center of gravity. With a flawless Krav Maga technique—the same one she'd drilled a thousand times in that dusty Tel Aviv training gym—she hauled him over her shoulder.
Gavin's heavy body slammed into the floorboards. The impact drove every molecule of air from his lungs. He let out a strangled, agonizing groan, his limbs flopping uselessly against the wood.
On the bed, Brylee shrieked. She leaped up, bare feet hitting the mattress, one hand reaching out to grab a fistful of Ansley's hair.
Ansley didn't even turn her head. She reached back, caught Brylee's wrist in mid-air, and twisted it sharply backward. The joint popped audibly.
Brylee screamed, real pain shredding through the theatrics. Ansley shoved her hard. Brylee collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching her arm, sobbing through clenched teeth.
Ansley looked down at the man groaning at her feet. Her voice was flat, stripped of every ounce of warmth.
"The engagement is over."
She grabbed her left hand. She yanked the massive diamond ring off her ring finger. The metal scraped against her skin, leaving a raw, red line.
She threw it straight at Gavin's face.
The sharp edge of the diamond caught him right below the eye. A thin line of blood instantly welled up, bright red against his pale cheek.
Ansley didn't spare the blood a second glance. She turned on her heel and marched out of the bedroom, her stride steady and unhurried, the stride of a woman who had already won.
She walked down the hallway, grabbed her Birkin from the foyer, and walked out. She slammed the heavy oak door shut behind her—a final, echoing punctuation mark.
She stepped into the private elevator and hit the button for the parking garage. The doors slid shut. Only then, in the humming silence of the descending car, did she let her jaw tremble for exactly three seconds before crushing it back under control.