The CEO’s Hidden Triplets

Serena Sterling's POV

My father threw me a birthday party for my twenty-second birthday.

In the ten years before this, he never had.

So when I stood at the entrance of The Grand Regency Hotel's ballroom, watching crystal chandelier light cascade over three hundred guests, what I felt wasn't gratitude—it was suspicion.

The ballroom reeked of champagne and flowers—roses, white lilies, irises—their scents layered into a suffocating sweetness.

My father, Marcus Sterling, stood at the center of the crowd in a crisp suit, laughing loudly with a silver-haired Wall Street veteran. I recognized that laugh—it was his boardroom laugh, not a father's laugh.

Since when did he earn the right to play that role?

I scanned the ballroom. Several unfamiliar faces dotted the guest list: real estate moguls, private equity partners, a West Side Manhattan developer—all names that had been circling Marcus's business empire for months.

This wasn't a birthday party. This was a networking event, and I was part of the décor.

Then I saw Jade Monroe.

She wore a champagne-colored gown with razor-sharp shoulder lines and a waist cinched impossibly thin—I recognized that dress. It was from my mother Grace Whitmore's brand archive, an unreleased limited edition piece made from custom silk satin ordered from Lyon. Only one existed in the world.

The emerald earrings at her neck made my throat tighten even more.

Those were my grandmother's heirlooms, passed down to my mother. After Mother died, the earrings vanished from her jewelry box. I searched, I asked, but was told they'd been lost.

Now they dangled from Jade's earlobes, swaying gently as she leaned in to whisper to guests, refracting cold green light.

Ten years. She'd taken Mother's room, her closet, her place in this house, and now even her earrings.

I remembered the third day after Mother's death. Jade walked through the Sterling family's front door with her suitcase, holding young Vivian's hand.

I stood at the top of the stairs looking down. Jade glanced up, met my eyes for one second, then continued instructing the staff to move her luggage into the master bedroom.

I was twelve that year. I didn't cry. I just stood there, listening to the suitcase wheels roll across the marble floor, feeling something in my chest shatter permanently.

Every year after, Vivian's birthday parties grew more elaborate. My birthday became a date quietly skipped over.

Tonight's compensation sent chills down my spine.

"Serena, it's your birthday. Let me toast you—happy birthday."

Vivian Sterling approached with a bright smile, extending a champagne flute toward me. Her voice rang clear, drawing glances from surrounding guests.

She resembled Jade—delicate features, a smile with natural softness. Right now, those eyes held perfectly calibrated sincerity.

"Not tonight," I said calmly.

Vivian's smile faltered. The next second, she turned slightly toward Jade beside her, eyes glistening with moisture, voice lowered but still clearly audible to those nearby, "Mom, did I do something wrong? Serena won't drink with me..."

At those words, the western side of the ballroom went quiet for half a beat.

Jade sighed, patting Vivian's hand gently. "Serena's always been cold. Don't take it personally."

The words sounded considerate, but precisely pinned me as "ungrateful and unreasonable."

Guests' eyes landed on me—scrutinizing, pitying, observing with unclear intent.

Tonight was Marcus's business networking venue. A public standoff would only put Serenity Atelier in a vulnerable position.

Serenity Atelier was the brand my mother left behind. I couldn't let it become tonight's casualty.

I took a fresh glass from a passing server's tray and raised it toward Vivian, "This one."

I took a light sip. The champagne was ice-cold, bubbles bursting finely on my tongue.

The moment my glass returned to the tray, the server and Vivian exchanged a glance—extremely brief, less than a second.

I didn't catch what that look concealed.

About five minutes later, a burning sensation surged from deep in my abdomen.

Not from alcohol. Alcohol intoxication spreads downward from the scalp—this burned upward from my core, carrying an abnormal heat that didn't belong to alcohol. My skin grew sensitive; my fingertips brushing the dress's sheer fabric felt like touching sandpaper.

The edges of my vision began to blur slightly.

I was Drugged.

I was about to excuse myself when Vivian moved first, stepping close to support my arm. Her voice dropped low, expression impeccably concerned, "Serena, you look pale. Let me help you rest."

To surrounding guests, she was a sister worried about her sibling.

No one saw what pressed at the corner of her mouth as she guided me away from the main ballroom.

The corridor lighting was dimmer than the ballroom, carpet absorbing footsteps. Vivian's hand steadied my arm with perfect pressure, like she was truly supporting someone unwell.

On the corridor's east side, a man stood by a guest room door.

Victor Kane. A real estate partner of Sterling Holdings, known in Manhattan circles for "never playing by the rules in negotiations." Tall, in a dark suit, hands in his pockets, his gaze swept over me like he was appraising merchandise.

Vivian released my arm and stepped back half a pace.

"Serena, rest well." Her tone was calm, like discussing routine business. "This is an arrangement Dad and Mr. Kane agreed on."

Something in my chest plummeted completely.

Victor stepped forward, voice sleazy, "Marcus said you're here to keep me company tonight. Keep me satisfied, and I'll hand that project to your family."

My last shred of hope in my father died in that sentence.

In its place came bone-deep clarity.

My knee shot up, striking Victor's groin.

He staggered with a guttural curse, his phone flying from his pocket. I grabbed it reflexively and smashed it toward Vivian's hand gripping my left wrist. She yelped and released me.

I bolted barefoot down the corridor.

Behind me, Victor's voice growled in fury, "You little bitch—when I find you, you'll learn what consequences mean!"

The drug continued taking effect.

Corridor lights began intermittently blooming into halos. My vision resembled a water-soaked photograph, edges bleeding inward. I tried pulling out my phone to contact my best friend Nina Matthews, but my fingers wouldn't cooperate. The screen lit up then died—I couldn't make out the passcode.

The corridor stretched before me, each step heavier than the last.

At the corridor's end, a suite door's hinge spring hadn't fully latched.

I had no other choice.

I pushed that door open and locked it behind me.

Sliding down with my back against the door, my spine descended along the wood until I collapsed onto thick carpet.

Outside, Victor's furious voice echoed, "Little bitch, when I find you, you won't be able to get out of bed tonight!"