Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

She wasn't just a wife anymore. She was an obstacle. And tonight, she was done being in the way.

It had started with the rain.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

The priest's voice was a low drone, barely audible over the relentless drumming of the rain against the black umbrellas. It was a cold rain, the kind that seeped through layers of wool and settled into the marrow of your bones.

Cailin Morton stood at the edge of the open grave, her heels sinking into the mud that threatened to swallow her whole. Her black dress, soaked through within minutes of arriving at the Trinity Church Cemetery, clung to her skin like a second, freezing layer.

She didn't shiver. She couldn't. Her body had gone past the point of cold into a strange, numb paralysis.

She stared at the mahogany casket being lowered into the wet earth. It looked too small. Her mother had been a force of nature, a woman who filled every room she entered with laughter and warmth. Now, she was just a box in the ground.

A clap of thunder rattled the sky, shaking the ground beneath Cailin's feet. It felt like the earth was cracking open, mirroring the fissure that had been widening in her chest for days.

She turned her head slightly to the left. The space beside her was empty.

Raindrops hit the empty patch of grass where her husband should have been standing. Hilliard Holloway. The man who had promised, in front of this very same priest three years ago, to cherish her in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad.

This was the bad. This was the worst. And he wasn't here.

"He's probably stuck in traffic, dear," a cousin whispered from behind her, pressing a dry tissue into Cailin's wet hand. The tissue dissolved instantly against her damp skin, becoming a useless ball of pulp. "You know how the city gets when it storms."

Cailin didn't answer. She knew exactly how the city got. She also knew that Hilliard had a driver who knew every shortcut from Wall Street to the cemetery.

She pulled her phone from her clutch. The screen lit up, harsh and bright against the gloom of the afternoon. No missed calls. No texts. Just a single news alert notification from The Daily Mail.

Her thumb hovered over it. She shouldn't look. She knew she shouldn't look.

She tapped it.

The screen filled with a live stream video. The banner at the bottom read: Metropolitan Charity Gala: The Night of Gold.

The camera panned across a ballroom that dripped with crystal chandeliers and golden drapery. The audio was a mix of classical strings and the murmur of the elite. And there, right in the center of the frame, was Hilliard.

He was wearing his tuxedo, the custom-fit Tom Ford that she had picked out for him last month. He looked impeccable. Dry. Warm.

And he wasn't alone.

Charla English was clinging to his