The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets

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