My Mother Faked My Wife’s Infertility To Ruin Our Marriage — Then I Met My Four-Year-Old Triplets

Part 1

Four years had passed since I banished my wife, Megan, into the freezing winter night.

My heart had been a locked fortress ever since that scandalous divorce.

I buried myself in the management of my vast estates and the ruthless politics of the House of Lords.

I took the glass, my jaw tight, ignoring the vultures circling the room tonight.

I only attended this masquerade because the prime minister insisted on my presence.

Brian sighed, adjusting his emerald silk waistcoat, reminding me that I could not mourn a dead marriage forever.

My mother, Brenda, was a woman whose ambition could rival a monarch’s.

It was her maneuvering, her whispers, and her relentless cruelty that had poisoned my marriage to Megan.

Megan had been the daughter of an impoverished Earl, a girl of quiet grace who had completely disarmed me.

Our only failure had been the inability to produce an heir.

Then came the dark winter, the sudden illness, and the vile accusations of infidelity orchestrated by my mother.

I had let my pride and my mother’s forged evidence blind me entirely.

I cast Megan out, granting her a meager allowance and stripping her of her title.

Good God, Brian whispered suddenly, his flippant tone vanishing into thin air.

The string quartet, which had been playing a lively waltz, faltered for a fraction of a second.

A strange, rippling hush fell over the sprawling ballroom.

My glass slipped from my fingers and shattered against the polished marble floor.

I could not hear anything over the deafening roar of my own heartbeat.

Standing at the apex of the stairs was Megan.

This woman was a queen holding court.

She was draped in a gown of midnight blue silk that clung to her curves.

Around her neck rested the legendary Rutherford diamonds.

Her posture was uncompromising, and her dark, intelligent eyes scanned the room with terrifying indifference.

Yet, it was not the diamonds or her breathtaking transformation that froze my blood.

It was what stood beside her.

Flanking her velvet skirts were three small children.

Two boys and a little girl, dressed in impeccable miniature evening wear.

I took a staggering step forward, shoving past a bewildered Brian.

The children looked down at the staring crowd with wide, observant eyes.

But it was their eyes that condemned me.

Even from across the vast expanse of the ballroom, I could see the unmistakable shade of pale, stormy silver.

The Belmont eyes, a genetic anomaly unique only to my bloodline.

Three children, four years old.

The mathematics struck me with the force of a speeding carriage.

When I had thrown her out, accusing her of barrenness and treason, she had been carrying my children.

Not just an heir, but three of them.

My head snapped toward the whispering crowd, my silver eyes flashing with lethal, unmasked violence.

I looked back at the staircase as Megan began her descent.

She moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, holding the little girl’s hand while the two boys walked slightly ahead.

Memories assaulted me with violent clarity, dragging me back to that cursed December night.

I remembered my mother standing by the mantelpiece with a sheaf of forged letters.

The regret that had simmered in my soul for four years now boiled over into an agonizing reality.

I marched across the ballroom floor, the crowd parting for me like the Red Sea.

Megan reached the bottom of the stairs just as I closed the distance between us.

The little girl hid partially behind Megan’s skirt, peering up at me.

The taller boy stepped in front of his mother, glaring up at me with fierce protection.

He told me I was blocking their path, his voice carrying an unmistakable authority.

I felt my knees buckle, realizing I was looking at my son, my flesh and blood.

Megan’s face was a mask of beautifully carved marble.

There was no fear in her eyes, no residual heartbreak, and certainly no love.

She demanded I address her as Lady Rutherford and forbade me from reaching for her.

I pleaded that they had my eyes and my face.

She smiled without warmth, saying I chose to believe a forged letter and a bribed doctor over the wife who loved me.

Pushing through the murmuring crowd was Lord Craig, a man notorious for his incomprehensible wealth.

He stepped seamlessly to Megan’s side, placing a large protective hand on the small of her back.

Craig corrected me calmly, calling her the mother of his wards and advising me to lower my tone.

Megan turned back to me, a cool victorious gleam in her eye, explaining she was the Rutherford heir.

Craig smoothly added that the children had been legally recognized by the crown and required nothing from me.

I roared that they were my children and that the law could not keep them from me.

Megan interrupted, her voice slicing through my shout like a razor.

She reminded me of the law regarding children born after a finalized dissolution of marriage.

My mother had known Megan was pregnant.

Brenda had rushed the paperwork and bribed the doctor to ensure I signed away all rights.

I pleaded with her to let me speak with her privately, promising to destroy my mother for what she did.

She turned gracefully on her heel and walked away with Craig and my three beautiful children.

I marched straight to my mother’s opulent sitting room.

I confronted Brenda with the truth, watching the color drain from her face as I laid out her crimes.

I grabbed the heavy iron poker from the fireplace, smashed the lock on my mother’s secret box, and realized the true horror of what I had done.