Triplet Babies For The Billionaire Who Wants An Heir

Inheritanceand Loan Sharks

CHANTELLE’S STUDIO APARTMENT

Chocolate and vanilla's loving and sweet scent filled the atmosphere as Chantelle opened the hot oven, took out the last batch of cupcakes, and placed it on the cooling rack. Her fingers moved swiftly, precise and well practiced even though her eyes were sore from lack of sleep. It was nearly 2:30 am, and she still had to bake cookies with the cupcake order and have it delivered by 7 am before heading to the bakery. Chantelle doubted if she would be getting any sleep tonight. Or if the universe was at least thoughtful or kind, she should at least have an hour of sleep. This was her fourth all-nighter this week.

Chantelle wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and reached for her phone. The online orders were trickling in slowly, and her shoulders sagged. She needed every dollar she could get her hands on even though she felt like she was hustling with barely a reward. Her body ached from hours on her feet, from not just baking but tending the bar at Club Venom last night, dodging wandering hands and forced smiles from too-friendly men.

She wiped the single tear that trailed down her left cheek, leaving flour on the back of her hand. She glanced around her tiny studio apartment; it was cramped, cluttered, and jam-packed and smelled like sweet, sugar, and desperation. Even though the kitchen was twice the size of her bedroom, baking equipment and supplies: mixers, cake pans, trays, cake boxes, bags of sugar, a bag of flour, flavor extract, an old oven, and a secondhand fridge that rattled louder than her thought took up more space. Her baking business, Sweetest Delight, wasn't exactly thriving, but it was her dream, born during late-night cravings and long hungry shifts at the bakeries she had worked in the past.

Chantelle dropped her phone, leaned against the counter, and sighed deeply. After dropping out of college when her father emptied her savings account and vanished, leaving her with a pile of debts, Chantelle had still managed to claw her way back up through culinary school with no scholarship but loans and stubborn will and desperation to survive. Now she was juggling running Sweetest Delight, a part-time job at Joanna’s Bakery, and three nights a week bartending at Club Venom, where the tips were good, the music was loud, and filled with lustful men. Men at the club looked at her like dessert; some offered cash. Others offered favors, but Chantelle hated that job the most. This wasn't how she envisioned her life to be. This wasn't the dream, but it was all she had.

Chantelle felt like she was hanging by a thread.

A loud knock shattered the silence, and Chantelle’s heartbeat dropped. “Chantelle!” the baritone voice called out from the door.

Chantelle froze. “Oh God, not now.” she ran her hands through her hair.

Another knock, harder this time. She didn't need to check the peephole to know who it was. Her heartbeat dropped as she approached the door. She opened the door a little, keeping the tiny chain behind it. A man with blonde hair dressed in shiny black leather, a lit cigar in his hand, and a chunky gold chain hanging around his neck grinned at her like a wolf: Edwardo, one of the thugs sent by the loan sharks her father owed. There were two other guys with him.

“Open up cupcake, or I break down the door.” He leaned against the doorframe when she opened it, still sporting the grin that sent chills down her spine.

“You said you'd come next week,” Chantelle said.

Edwardo dropped the cigar and stomped on it. He stepped in, uninvited, like he owned the place. “Well, I can stop by anytime.”

“You said next week Friday.” Chantelle’s voice was tight, forcing herself to stay still.

“You don't tell me what to do, cupcake.” he looked around, pretending to admire the apartment.

“I need more time.”

“Well, too bad time is up. Your father borrowed twenty grand. He had gone MIA. We don't do charity, and you inherited his mess.”

“But I have already paid most of it. I need—”

“You defaulted on the last payment, and now the boss is impatient.” His eyes raked down her figure.

She wore a cropped top and a short that exposed her thick thighs. Her curves were bold and firm. Her features were beautiful: thick lashes, full lips, and sharp cheekbones. Chantelle had a curvy figure she had been both blessed and cursed with.

Edwardo started towards her. “Or you can pay in the flesh. You have the body that could make a man forget his problems. Your face? Your body? You'd make fifteen grand your first night.”

“I am not for sale,” she whispered, watching him step closer. She stood her ground even though her hands shook terribly.

Edwardo grabbed her chin. “You are one to talk!”

“I paid what I could even though it was his debt, not mine. He stole from me, too. I'm just trying to survive!” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“We have buyers—good ones. You can pay ASAP, or we can take it in person." He took out his phone and showed her a flyer with a sexy woman silhouetted in revealing nets and high heels. “It's the newest strip club in town. They need women.”

Chantelle stared in disgust. “I will find a way to pay,” she whispered.

This time, Edwardo let her go. “The boss is anxious, but I will be merciful today. Next time, I am not coming to talk. You had better pay, or I will sell you off to the ring,” he warned sternly.

“I will make the payment.”

“Good girl. Let’s go boys!” Edwardo walked out, slamming the door in the process.

Chantelle rushed to secure the lock. She collapsed on the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her chest felt heavy as she let out the tears. It wasn't the first time they've made that offer. Her father has been a pain in her neck for years now. Gambling was his habit. He had gambled everything away.

She remembered the first time they showed up. She was 19, still fresh out of college. She had cried for hours. Over the years, many loan sharks had been at her doorstep, threatening to do all sorts to her.

Dante had showed up to end her life if she didn't pay. Marco had shown up violently with about ten men and requested she strip for him on an agreement that twenty percent would be taken off the money her father owed, but when she refused, he increased the interest rate and took some of her stuff away. Alonso almost married her off to an old drug lord, which left her with no choice but to sell off most of the things she had to pay him. Chantelle had to work twice as hard to escape scrawny loan sharks whose eyes kept piercing her poor soul.

Now, she just stared at the floor and let numbness take over. She couldn't call the police when most of these loan sharks had cops in their pockets. Her father was long gone, probably living in a new town under a new name, drinking and gambling while she faced and cleaned up his mess. And through it all, Chantelle gets by every day. Despite the hardship, due to house rent and a negative bank account, Chantelle tries to move on and live as each day comes.

After crying for long minutes, Chantelle stood and walked to the kitchen to splash water on her face. She looked tired and exhausted but still had to bake the remaining orders.

“You’ll figure it out, Chantelle. You always figure it out. Don't give up.” She chanted in her mind repeatedly.

*********

THE MOORE’S MANSION

Bryson Moore despises Dinner. Not the food but the calculated warfare disguised as a conversation. The MOORE’s Dinner happens just once every month, and it is more like a family tradition that has been around for many years. Regardless of how busy anyone’s schedule might appear, the third Saturday of every month must be free to attend family dinner. And according to Mrs Moore, “Always come to family dinner with the right attitude.” One might think The Moore Family is an extended one to uphold such a long tradition, but no, it is a family that consists of a father, a mother, and two children.

The Moore family is one of the richest in the country. They own multi-billionaire businesses ranging from Five-star hotels, restaurants, and resorts nationwide. They have nothing to worry about when it comes to money. The solemn music in the background gave Bryson the highlight of his childhood. The song is his father's favorite, and it was played when he went to work with him as a child.

Bryson Moore, thirty-five years old, well built with a chiseled chest and muscular arms that entirely reveal themselves even in suits. They prove that he spends so much time working out at a gym. Yeah! Bryson's favorite place in the world is the gym, and that’s why he invested so much in the gyms at the hotels. One would think Bryson Moore is a fitness trainer.

The main celebration of tonight’s dinner, FORBES has rated Bryson as America's second most prosperous under forty CEO.

Mr Landon sat at the head, his silver hair as sharp as his tongue, and to his right was his daughter, Khloe, and to his left was his wife. “Congratulations, son, I am super proud of you. Always.” Mr Landon Moore chuckled as he looked at his son, who was far from present at the dinner. He dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Bryson…” He called out, snapping him out of reverie.

“Oh…you were saying?” He stuttered.

A deep laughter erupted from Mr Landon. “Oh, son, I just hope it’s a woman’s problem. Love means a lot, you know.” He said while exchanging glances with his wife and daughter.

Khloe Moore slowly began to tap her spoon on her glass as she hummed a love song in response to her father’s assumption. “Congratulations, bro, always the runner-up.”

“Lucas owns a space station.” Bryson dropped his cutlery in his hands, looking at his father, who had the brightest smile, his sister, who was humming, and his mom, who seemed like she would pass out if the assumption weren’t valid. Like always, it would not be enjoyable. He racked his hands through his hair and released a wave of air.

“I am concerned about you surviving past seventy without an heir.” His mother said, cutting him a sharp gaze.

There it was, the warfare. “We’ve had this conversation in the past. Can you guys allow us to have dinner without mentioning that?” He replied with deliberate calm.

“It’s now our daily routine.”

“Please, Mom. We don’t have to go over it over and over again.” Bryson heaved a sigh.

Women. His family knew why he hated having such conversations. Even the thought of it makes him sick and want to puke. Bryson’s hatred for women runs so deep. The only females he considered women were his mother and troublesome younger sister. The rest of the female gender can go to hell for all he cares. All women are devils incarnate who don’t deserve a good place in the world.

“You’re the reason for the celebration. So kindly accept being the topic of discussion for tonight’s dinner.” Khloe sticks out her tongue at him.

“How long do you need to stay like this?” Mr Landon asked.

“It’s been how many years now, son?” Mrs Evelyn interjected.

“Five years!” Khloe added.

“Enough to have let go of whatever happened in the past.” Mr Landon said.

“Some wounds may never heal.” Tony Jones mumbled, but enough for everyone at the table to hear.

It was his first words since he sat down for dinner. You could pass him for being invisible at the MOORE’S dinner, but he is the famous Anthony Jones, the owner of an oil conglomerate, husband to Khloe Moore, and best friend to Bryson Moore. All this while, he just sat at the table, eating a little from his meal and attending to business messages on his phone. Like always, he sits there and listens to the family banter each other with love. He seemed to be the only one who understood Bryson.

“Finally! Someone speaks the same language as I do.” Bryson heaved. “Maybe I would consider having a woman if my sperm weren’t frozen.” He grinned.

Mr Landon arched his brows in confusion. “Are you saying I shouldn’t expect you to get married?”

“Or even at least have kids to carry on the family’s name?” Mrs Evelyn asked with a wide eye.

“I am done eating.” Bryson stands up to leave. “Is this supposed to be a dinner or interrogation session? Can you just—“

Mr. Landon cuts in, “Listen carefully, young man, I am offering you two options: I set you up with one of my business associates' offspring, you know I have a lot lined up, and have you married in a month or you find a woman to carry your child in four weeks. If you can’t do the latter, one call, and the former gets done!”

“Come on, Dad, it can’t be that serious. I can’t just go to the street and find a woman to carry my child.”

“Then get married!” Mr Landon snapped at him.

“I don’t want to get married,” Bryson said. “If you will understand that I am a very busy man and work is so demanding and—“

Mr Landon says, “Thank Goodness we have Anthony Jones in the house.” He clapped. “He is a super busy man who replies to business messages at dinner, but guess what? He is married.” He emphasizes the last word. “You have no excuse, not anymore. My decision will remain unchanged. Marry or produce an heir. Bryson, failing to meet the ultimatum, your inheritance goes to Khloe.”

Khloe almost choked on her wine; she shared glances with her father and brother. “I will gladly take on the offer. Thanks, Dad.”

Bryson's knuckles whitened around his water glass; he wanted to hit something bad. He wished he didn’t attend tonight’s dinner and had just slept in the luxury of his cozy apartment.

He sighed. “Dad, I can’t believe you would go that far. I have worked hard for the family business. And I am not marrying some socialite for business sake.” He paused. “Fine. I will find a surrogate mom. Just give me some time.”

“Four weeks.”

“Dad, that’s a very short—“

Khloe cuts in. “Well, I can help. You know I am quite good at doing research.” Khloe smiled sheepishly.

“Khloe…” Bryson seethed his teeth.

“Easy there, tiger; you should thank me for wanting to help you. Four weeks is all you have, and I doubt you have any female contact saved on your phone, not to talk of having a conversation with one.” Khloe replied.

Bryson released his tightened fists. “Do whatever you want!” He yelled, walking away from the whole toxic atmosphere.

“Four weeks is all you have! Or else I’m putting a call through to my lawyer!” Mr Landon called out.

“Surrogacy?” Bryson muttered to himself as he got into his car. “You must be crazy, Bryson. Why would you agree to such? How can you have just any woman carry your child? But it seems better than having a stranger in my home. Women! They disgust me!” He kept talking to himself while driving at a high speed.

It was already a failed day for Bryson. He should have known the day was cursed when his teacup fell from his hands without reason early in the morning, and the shattered glass cup cut through his skin.

“Damn the teacup!” He hit the wheels.