The Runaway Heiress And Her Secret Triplets

The electronic lock on the penthouse door chimed a crisp, high-pitched beep.

Ansley Crawford pushed the heavy oak door open. The scent of expensive vanilla diffuser hit her face. She stepped into the foyer, her fingers loosening their grip on her Birkin bag.

Then, her gaze dropped to the plush white rug.

A pair of red stiletto heels lay discarded on the floor. They were limited-edition Louboutins. Her stepsister, Brylee, had flaunted that exact pair just last Tuesday.

Ansley's stomach dropped. The muscles in her abdomen contracted so violently she felt sick.

She set the Birkin down on the console table. She slipped off her trench coat and hung it on the rack. Her movements were slow, mechanical.

She walked down the long hallway toward the master bedroom. The thick carpet absorbed her footsteps.

As she drew closer, a faint, rhythmic sound became audible, muffled by the heavy wood. She stopped right outside, her breath catching in her throat. She leaned forward and pressed her ear against the cool surface of the door. Through the solid barrier, the sound resolved into a wet, slapping noise. Then came a high-pitched moan.

Ansley's fingertips turned ice-cold. She stopped breathing. Her right hand reached out and clamped around the cold brass doorknob. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She shoved the door open. It slammed against the wall with a thunderous crack.

Harsh overhead lights flooded the room. On the center of the massive king bed, two naked bodies were tangled in the sheets.

Gavin's head snapped toward the door. His eyes bulged out of their sockets.

Brylee let out a piercing scream. She scrambled backward, ripping the silk duvet up to cover her bare chest.

Ansley stood in the doorway. She crossed her arms over her chest. A cold, razor-sharp smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth.

"Ansley!" Gavin tumbled off the edge of the bed. His knees hit the hardwood floor. He stammered, his face flushed 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. She held the lens steady on their pathetic, naked forms.

Gavin's face contorted with rage. "Put that away!"

He lunged at her, his bare feet slapping the floor. He reached out to snatch the phone from her hand.

Ansley's eyes narrowed. The air around her shifted.

She stepped slightly to the left, dodging his clumsy grab. Her left hand shot out, grabbing his extended wrist. She pivoted on her heel, dropping her center of gravity. Using a flawless Krav Maga technique, she hauled him over her shoulder.

Gavin's heavy body slammed into the floorboards. The impact forced all the air from his lungs. He let out a loud, agonizing groan.

On the bed, Brylee shrieked. She leaped up, her bare feet hitting the mattress as she lunged forward to grab Ansley's hair.

Ansley didn't even look. She reached back, caught Brylee's wrist mid-air, and twisted it sharply backward.

Brylee screamed in pain. Ansley shoved her hard. Brylee collapsed back onto the mattress, clutching her arm.

Ansley looked down at the man groaning at her feet. Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

"The engagement is over."

She grabbed her left hand. She yanked the massive diamond ring off her ring finger. The metal scraped against her skin.

She threw it straight at Gavin's face.

The sharp edge of the diamond caught him right below the eye. A thin line of blood instantly welled up on his cheek.

Ansley didn't spare the blood a second glance. She turned on her heel and marched out of the bedroom.

She walked down the hallway, grabbed her Birkin from the foyer, and walked out. She slammed the heavy oak door shut behind her.

She stepped into the private elevator and hit the button for the parking garage.

The yellow cab sped down the dark streets of Manhattan.

Ansley sat in the backseat. She stared out the window at the blurred streetlights. Her chest rose and fell in slow, calculated breaths. Her thumb unconsciously rubbed the empty spot on her ring finger.

Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to the massive iron gates of the Crawford estate in Long Island.

Ansley pushed the car door open. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone steps of the grand porch.

She grabbed the handles of the heavy mahogany double doors and shoved them open.

The crystal chandelier in the living room cast a blinding light. Her father, Garfield, sat on the center sofa. Beside him sat her stepmother, Kandy.

Kandy's face instantly stretched into a fake, overly sweet smile. She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "Ansley, darling, you're finally-"

Ansley ignored her. She walked straight past Kandy and sat down on the single armchair opposite Garfield.

Garfield scowled. He tapped his index finger aggressively against the armrest. "Where have you been? You ignore my calls all night. You have absolutely no manners."

He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. "You are going to take Brylee's place. You will marry Mortimer next month."

Mortimer was a seventy-year-old billionaire.

Kandy pulled a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her dry eyes. "Brylee is just too young, Ansley. We can't ruin her life."

Ansley let out a dry, humorless laugh.

So, does that mean you can ruin her life?

She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. She opened the video she had just recorded.

She tossed the phone onto the expensive marble coffee table. It landed with a loud clack. The video started playing.

The disgusting sounds of skin slapping skin and Brylee's high-pitched moans echoed through the massive living room.

Garfield's face turned a violent shade of purple. The veins in his neck bulged against his collar.

Kandy gasped. Her face drained of all color. She lunged forward to grab the phone.

Ansley shot her leg out. The pointed toe of her stiletto pinned the edge of the phone to the marble. Kandy froze.

Ansley leaned forward. Her eyes were dead.

"I will marry the old man," Ansley said.

Garfield stared at her, his chest heaving.

"But," Ansley continued, "I want my mother's perfume formula. Right now. And I want five percent of Crawford Industries transferred to my name."

Garfield slammed his fist onto the coffee table. "You are extorting your own father! Do you honestly think I can't have that video scrubbed from the internet in an hour? I own half the media in this city. Don't test me, Ansley."

Ansley didn't flinch. She pressed the tip of her shoe harder against the phone. "The video is already on a dead man's switch, set to release to a dozen independent journalists and international outlets if I don't check in within the next ten minutes. Your move. One click from them, and this goes to every gossip outlet in New York. The Crawford name will be garbage by morning. The merger will fail."

Garfield's jaw trembled. He stared at the screen, then at Ansley's cold eyes. He calculated the risks, his mind racing through the potential fallout. The Crawford stock would tank. The scandal would be irreversible. He gritted his teeth so hard they squeaked.

He reached over and pressed the intercom button. "Send the lawyer up from the study."

Kandy stomped her foot. She grabbed Garfield's sleeve. "Garfield, you can't! That's too much!"

Ansley shot Kandy a glare so lethal it felt like a physical blow. Kandy snapped her mouth shut and shrank back.

A minute later, the family lawyer hurried into the room, sweating through his suit. He handed Ansley an iPad loaded with the electronic transfer documents.

Ansley scrolled through the pages. She read every single hidden clause. When she was satisfied, she signed her name with the stylus.

A green confirmation popped up on the screen. The shares were hers.

The lawyer reached into his briefcase and handed her a small, encrypted USB drive. The formula.

Ansley slipped the USB into the hidden pocket of her bag. She stood up and smoothed the hem of her coat.

She didn't say goodbye. She turned her back on them and walked out the front doors into the freezing night air.

The cold wind whipped Ansley's hair across her face as she stood on the curb outside the estate.

She pulled her phone out and ordered a premium black car. She needed a drink.

Half an hour later, the car pulled up to Obsidian, the most exclusive underground club in Manhattan.

Ansley pushed through the heavy soundproof doors. The heavy bass of the music instantly vibrated in her chest cavity.

She navigated through the sweaty, grinding bodies on the dance floor and found an empty stool at the dimly lit bar.

The bartender handed her a glass of neat whiskey. She tipped her head back and swallowed the burning liquid in one go. The fire slid down her throat, numbing the betrayal in her stomach.

A few seats down, a street thug named Rocco locked his eyes on her.

Rocco picked up a neon-colored cocktail and slid to the empty seat next to Ansley. He flashed a greasy smile.

"Beautiful lady, may I join you?" he asked, swirling his wine glass in his hand.

The alcohol began to take effect, and Ansley became drowsy but still relatively conscious.

She ignored the man with ill intentions, her head tilting limply to one side. She rested her elbows on the bar, her forehead against her palms, as if she were drunk.

Rocco's eyes lit up. He grinned, revealing yellow teeth. He reached out, aiming to wrap his arm around her waist.

Ansley's right hand dropped to the base of her heavy whiskey glass. Her fingers locked around the thick glass. She prepared to smash it directly into his skull.

Before she could move, a deafening crash echoed through the club. The main entrance doors were kicked open so hard they shattered the adjacent glass panels.

The heavy, suffocating atmosphere of the club instantly shifted. An overwhelming number of imposing men in tailored black suits flooded the floor. They didn't draw weapons, but their sheer size and coordinated, militaristic precision sent a shockwave of intimidation through the room. They moved silently, systematically blocking every exit and forming an impenetrable wall.

They didn't need to shove anyone. The sheer, suffocating aura they projected was enough. The DJ threw his hands up and backed away from the turntables. The music cut off instantly.

People gasped, shrinking back in awe and fear. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, pressing themselves against the walls in pure terror, giving the intruders a wide berth.

At the end of the cleared path, Kendall James stepped into the light.

He wore a custom black suit. His long legs ate up the distance. His eyes were like ice, scanning the room with the precision of a predator.

His gaze cut through the shadows and locked onto the bar. He saw the woman slumping in the chair.

Kendall's pupils dilated. His heart slammed against his ribs.

It was her. The profile he had searched for every single day for eleven years.

The air around Kendall dropped ten degrees. He marched toward the bar.

Rocco didn't even have time to turn his head.

Kendall's massive hand clamped down on Rocco's wrist. A sickening crack echoed in the quiet club as the bone snapped.

Kendall didn't even look at him. He threw Rocco backward like a ragdoll. The thug crashed into the bar counter and crumpled to the floor.

Kendall stopped right in front of Ansley. His tall, broad frame blocked out all the light. He stared down at her, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles ticked.