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“Are they mine?” the man I still love-now reduced to the status of a scumbag ex-demands, his gaze accusing me of a lie I never told. “Yes.” the truth I’ve hoarded for years scrapes out of me. “They’re your triplets.” The fury and disbelief in his eyes fling me back in time-to the day he broke my heart, to the office where I once ran a department at Makar Archontov’s company. They called him the Archon of modern commerce. “Why?” His voice is quiet, sharp enough to slice through memory. “Why did you keep them from me?” “Keep them?” My anger flares. “You told me to end the pregnancy after you cheated. What right do you have to ask anything after telling me to get rid of these angels?”
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