Page 3 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
It wasn't kindness that motivated him—it was strategy. He wanted the children out of earshot before he demanded explanations I wasn't ready to give.
He helped me carry the bags upstairs to my old bedroom. The space had been converted into storage—boxes stacked against the walls, furniture covered with dust sheets. But the bed remained, and there was enough floor space for the portable cribs I'd brought.
The triplets explored cautiously while I set up their sleeping arrangements. The long drive had exhausted them, and they went down for their naps without protest, their small bodies finally surrendering to sleep.
I closed the bedroom door quietly and found my parents waiting in the hallway. The silence between us felt heavy with unasked questions and barely contained fury.
My father's eyes were cold when he looked at me. "Downstairs. Now. Your mother needs to rest, but you and I are going to talk."
My mother placed a trembling hand on his arm. "Bill, please. She's been driving all day, and?—"
"Three years, Barbara." His voice was quiet but deadly. "Three years she's been keeping this from us. Three years we've had grandchildren we didn't know existed."
The word "grandchildren" felt like a knife in my heart. My mother's face went pale, and she gripped the banister for support. It wasn't something I hadn’t thought of before, but I hadn’t quite figured out a way to explain it. Not after years of explaining away every reason I never came home for holidays or Mother's Day, the reasons I had to "work all weekend" every time they wanted to visit, which was rare thanks to Dad's busy schedule.
Mom squeezed my hand before letting me go, and I followed Dad downstairs, grateful for the sound of his phone ringing on his desk across the hallway. He glared at me and snipped, "I'll be back. Go to the kitchen."
Cold dread washed over me as I watched him shut himself into his office, and I clutched the baby monitor as I finished my walk of shame to the kitchen where a slew of dirty dishes peppered the kitchen table, as if I'd interrupted their snack or tea time. I sank into a chair and stared out the window, letting the paralyzing anxiety conjure every demon I'd run from since the night I slept with Duncan Walsh—my father's best friend.
He had no clue that Pandora's box had been sealed up and hidden away and that as soon as my father opened it, his life would change forever.
I just prayed he forgave me.
2
DUNCAN
Iskipped the gym and arrived at the office before sunrise, the city still wrapped in the gray silence that preceded the morning rush. The elevator carried me to the fifteenth floor in mechanical silence, the numbers climbing steadily while I stared at my reflection in the polished steel doors. Dark circles shadowed my eyes, evidence of another sleepless night spent pacing my apartment and questioning decisions I'd been avoiding for months.
The doors opened to reveal Nick Martinez waiting for the elevator, coffee in hand and his usual knowing expression firmly in place. As the chairman of my board, Nick had perfected the art of reading between the lines of my carefully neutral responses to his questions about retirement.
"You're here early," he said, stepping into the elevator as I stepped out.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Still thinking about the buyout?"
I pressed the button to hold the doors open, not ready to end this conversation yet. Nick had been pushing the retirement angle for weeks, convinced that stepping away from WalshStrategic was the right move for both me and the company. The board had presented a generous offer—more than generous, considering the current market conditions.
"I'm thinking about a lot of things."
"The offer's solid, Duncan. Better than we expected, and you know the market won't stay this favorable forever."
"It's not about the money."
Nick studied my face with the intensity he usually reserved for contract negotiations. "Then what is it about?"
I let the elevator doors close and walked toward my office, Nick falling into step beside me. The hallway stretched ahead of us, lined with awards and photographs documenting fifteen years of successful deals and strategic victories. Achievements that had once felt meaningful now seemed distant, as if they belonged to someone else.
"I've been doing this for fifteen years," I said. "Building this company, chasing deals, proving myself over and over again. And for what? So I can do it for another fifteen years?"
"Success has a price. You've paid it, and now you get to enjoy the rewards."
"What rewards? An empty apartment and a calendar full of meetings with people who want something from me?"
Nick stopped walking and turned to face me. "This isn't about the company, is it? This is about Meranda."
The name hit me harder than I'd expected, even though I should have been prepared for it. Meranda Hawkins had been my business partner for three years, the person I'd trusted to help build Walsh Strategic into what it became. The partnership had worked seamlessly until it became something more—or at least, until I'd thought it had become something more.
