The CEO's Fake Wife And Secret Triplets

The pen felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Seraphina's fingers shook so badly the tip hovered an inch above the dotted line, unable to commit.

Donovan watched her struggle. For a moment, the icy veneer cracked. "My father's cancer is aggressive," he said, his voice losing some of its sharp edges. "The board is trying to force a vote to remove him as chairman before he dies. They think a bachelor heir is a liability. They want stability."

He looked at the kids, then back at her. "I need this to look real. I need him to die happy."

It made sense. It was logical. But it didn't make the shame burn any less in Seraphina's chest.

"Why me?" she asked, dropping her hand away from the paper. "There are a thousand women in this city who would play this part for free. Why a stranger with three kids?"

"Because my father likes them," Donovan said flatly. "And you... you look like you won't cause trouble. You're desperate."

The word 'desperate' slapped her across the face. The tiny spark of warmth she had felt from his explanation vanished. She stood up, pulling the kids close. "I'm sorry. We can't do this. We'll find another way."

She turned to leave.

The memory of the unopened email from Dr. Aris flashed in her mind. Urgent Update. She could feel the weight of those words, the unspoken cost they represented. Fiona had been so tired lately, her small face paler than usual. The image of her daughter, struggling for breath after a simple walk to the park, burned behind Seraphina's eyes. Two hundred thousand for the initial round of a new therapy, the doctor had estimated last month. A number so impossible it felt like a joke. And that was just the beginning.

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. The cold metal felt like the bars of a cage closing around her.

Fiona ran to her, grabbing her leg. "Mommy, what's wrong? Are we going home?"

Seraphina looked down at her daughter-her fragile, beautiful daughter who was running out of time. The choice wasn't a choice at all. It was a surrender.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing her cheap mascara. She turned around. She walked back to the coffee table, every step feeling like she was walking through wet concrete. She picked up the pen.

"I'll sign," she said, her voice raw and hollow. "But I have a condition."

Donovan watched her, his expression unreadable. "Name it."

"Fifty thousand dollars. Upfront. Tonight." She swallowed the bile in her throat. "For Fiona's medical bills."

Donovan didn't blink. He looked at Alex. "Transfer it. Now."

Alex stepped out. Within three minutes, Seraphina's phone buzzed with an alert from her bank. The deposit was there. Fifty thousand dollars. Fiona's lifeline, bought with her mother's dignity.

Seraphina pressed the pen to the paper. Seraphina Fletcher. The ink was black and permanent.

Seraphina felt nothing but a hollow ache. She capped the pen and set it down. "There's one more thing," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The raffle prize. The sports car. I don't need it."

Donovan frowned. "It's worth a hundred and twenty thousand dollars."

"Convert it to cash," Seraphina said. "Keep half. Donate the other half to the pediatric cardiology ward at Mount Sinai."

Donovan stared at her. He had expected her to demand more, to grab everything she could. But she was giving it away.

He nodded slowly. "Done."

Seraphina grabbed the kids' hands. "Can we go now?"

Donovan stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket. "I'll drive you."

The Rolls-Royce Phantom was big enough to be a living room. The leather smelled like money, cold and crisp, a stark contrast to the faint scent of detergent and instant noodles that clung to Seraphina and the kids.

Fiona was asleep within five minutes, her head heavy in Seraphina's lap. Rowan stared out the window, mesmerized by the city lights, while Pax sat quietly, his tablet powered down, watching Donovan in the rearview mirror.

"Brooklyn," Seraphina murmured, giving the address.

Donovan inputted it into the nav system. His jaw tightened as the route calculated, leading them out of the glittering canyons of Manhattan and into the grittier streets across the river.

They drove in silence. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine. When the car finally stopped, they were in front of a crumbling brick walk-up. Graffiti tagged the door next to the bodega. A stray cat bolted under a parked car.

Donovan parked the car and got out. He opened the back door, looking at the sleeping Fiona. "I'll carry her."

Seraphina wanted to refuse, but the exhaustion was bone-deep. She nodded, shifting out of the way.

Donovan reached in and gently lifted the little girl. She weighed nothing. She curled into his chest instinctively, her small hand fisting the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. He froze for a second, the feeling of her in his arms sending a jolt of electricity straight down his spine. He smelled her hair-that cheap strawberry shampoo-and something inside his chest twisted painfully.

They climbed the stairs. The steps creaked under their feet. The hallway smelled like boiled cabbage and mildew. Seraphina fumbled with her keys, unlocking the door to their tiny apartment.

It was cramped. A fold-out couch, a small table covered in crayons, and a bookshelf made of cinderblocks and planks. But it was spotless.

Donovan laid Fiona down on the only real bed, pulling the thin, patched quilt over her. He stood up, his head nearly brushing the low ceiling. He looked around. On the fridge were drawings-stick figures of a mom and three kids. No dad. Ever.

Seraphina came up beside him, holding a chipped mug of water. "Thank you, Mr. Vance. For the ride."

She reached across the bed to tuck the blanket tighter around Fiona. As she stretched, the sleeve of her cardigan rode up again.

The dim, yellow light of the bedside lamp caught the skin on her inner wrist.

The star-shaped scar.

It wasn't a trick of the stage lights. It was real. Five points, slightly raised, a pale pink against her skin.

Donovan's vision tunneled. The air left his lungs.

Five years ago. The hotel room. The darkness. The woman underneath him, her breath hitching, her hands gripping his arms, trying to push him away. The flash of lightning illuminating that exact same star as she arched off the bed.

He snapped his head up, staring at Seraphina. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown.

Seraphina saw the look on his face-shock, horror, recognition-and took a step back, her heart seizing. "What? What is it?"

Donovan forced his jaw to unclench. He couldn't lose it here. Not yet. He needed to think. He needed to be sure.

"Nothing," he said, his voice rough, like gravel scraping glass. "Just... thinking about the move tomorrow."

He looked at the bed. At Fiona. At Pax, who was watching him from the doorway with knowing eyes. At Rowan. Three kids. Born roughly nine months after that night.

He took a step back, nearly tripping over a toy truck. "I have to go. Emergency at the office."

He didn't wait for her to respond. He turned and walked out of the apartment, his stride long and erratic. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting out into the cold Brooklyn night.

He slammed the car door shut and pulled out his phone, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it.

Alex answered on the first ring. "Sir?"

"Alex," Donovan growled, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and something terrifyingly close to joy. "I need you to run a check. Right now. The Fletcher triplets. I need their date of birth. Get me a year and a month. I don't care how you do it. And get me everything on Seraphina Fletcher. Everything."