Triplet Babies for the CEO

Prologue

Tasha

There’s a smell I don’t recognize as I push our creaky front door open.

A perfume, heady and musky, definitely not mine. The smell halts the thought that had just been tumbling through my mind.

Maybe Patrick and I can actually have a nice night together, eat leftovers, watch a movie… something normal, something nice.

It’s early for me to be home, but the restaurant was slow for a Thursday night, so I got to leave before closing, a rare treat for me.

When I step inside, however, the air feels wrong, like I’ve walked into someone else’s home.

Then I see them.

They’re kissing?

I see the girl first, her dark hair spilling across the cushions, her eyes flashing blue, bright and sharp, even in the dim light. Then I notice Patrick’s bare back, his muscles flexing as he shifts, dipping down over her.

She’s all smooth curves and pale skin. A black lace top and a red skirt are tangled at her feet.

I don’t realize I’m screaming until the sound rips from my throat, and she scrambles up in an instant, grabbing at her clothes to cover herself. She clutches them to her chest as she stumbles past me, nearly tripping over her unbuckled heels.

She’s halfway out the door, flashing me one last startled, guilty look before she bolts around the corner, slamming the door behind her.

I look in horror at Patrick, who just sits up, smirking, like he’s the one who caught me doing something wrong. “Tasha, calm down. You’re acting crazy.” His voice is lazy, almost bored, and I hate it.

I hate him.

“You’re insane,” I spit, wishing I could turn my words into real venom. “You’re a complete narcissist, just like Jasmine said.”

He narrows his eyes, a sneer crossing his gorgeous, devilish lips. I can’t stand to look at him anymore, I’m so thoroughly disgusted by him. “Three years, Patrick, three years down the fucking drain!” I shout, turning and heading straight to the bedroom.

He follows, uttering a volley of moronic words as I yank open drawers, grabbing anything that’s mine. Jeans, T-shirts, socks, bras, I’m stuffing them all into my old duffel bag, not caring how wrinkled they get.

“Babe, come on, it’s not what it looks like. You’re overreacting. You’re always overreacting. Leaving now would be a huge mistake, you know that. You know you can’t survive without me.”

I whirl around, my hands shaking as I shove my toothbrush and skincare supplies into the suitcase. “A mistake? You’re fucking unbelievable, Patrick. If this is the way you’re going to treat me, why would I stay?”

He steps closer, hands out like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Because you love me. And I love you, that’s why.”

I almost laugh, but it comes out as more of a choking sound. “Love? You call this love? I literally walked in on you fucking another woman, and you’re trying to tell me I’m overreacting?” My voice is a tirade of anger and hurt feelings.

I feel myself on the verge of slapping him across his lying-ass face, and the thought makes me hurry to remove myself from the situation entirely.

I can feel my heart cracking open. The tears are threatening to pour down my cheeks, but I won’t let him see me cry, not yet. He’s still talking as I grab my phone charger off the nightstand, stuff it into my bag, and zip it shut. Still, he tries to say all the right words, but I’m done listening to his bullshit.

I sling the bag over my shoulder, swipe at my cheeks, and push past him.

“Tasha, please, baby, don’t…” he starts, fake tears welling in his eyes, but I’m already out the door, my anger the only thing keeping me moving.

Jasmine’s voice echoes in my head, loud and clear, the way they always do. when she’s right, “I never thought Patrick was good for you.” I think back to how angry I was when she first told me that but now—now I see it.

I stumble down the stairs, dragging my suitcase behind me as the bag thuds against my leg. Opening the apartment’s entrance, my vision blurs as a deluge of tears finally breaks loose, but I can still see the taillights glowing in the parking lot as I press the button on my key fob.

I hurry to the same beat-up car that’s carried me through every moment of my life, good and bad.

I pull out my phone from my pocket, my shaking hands nearly dropping it. I hit Jasmine’s name, her picture smiling up at me, and hold my breath as it rings.

“Tasha? What’s up, girl?” she answers, bright and cheerful, the way she always is.

The second I try to speak, the tears come again, harder than the first time. “Jaz,” I choke, saliva stringing through my words, “he was cheating on me. Patrick was with...that bitch Stephanie from the restaurant.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and then Jasmine’s voice changes, low and dangerous. “He did what ?”

I can’t stop crying, every word tumbling out of me like I’m trying to purge the whole relationship in a wave of emotion. I cover my mouth in a coughing fit, trying to stop the water pouring out of my eyes from drowning me. “You were right, I just…I didn’t want to see it. I’m so stupid. I should have known!”

“Tasha, listen honey, you are not stupid. You hear me? You’re coming over right now, okay? We’re going to figure this out. You’re not staying there tonight!”

I nod, at her words, already opening my car door and shoving my bag into the passenger seat. “I’m on my way.”

My car struggles to start, the engine sputtering like it’s giving up, just like I want to do right now. It takes three tries before it roars to life, and I shakily pull out of the lot, heading toward Jasmine’s apartment.

The car’s headlights blur before me. Everything is smeared with tears and heartache, but I keep driving.

There’s nowhere else to go. Jasmine’s the only person I have now.

I’m completely numb by the time I reach Jasmine’s building, having gone through at least three cycles of pulling myself together and falling apart in just the short drive here. The dark shape of Jasmine’s Art Deco apartment building rising up before me in the dark gives me strange vibes. I notice a flickering streetlight casting weird shadows over the parking lot.

I park and just sit there, my hands still gripping the wheel. I can’t move.

The ache in my chest feels like it’s splitting me in two, and for a moment, all I can think about is how I should have seen this coming—I should have listened to Jasmine. I just wanted so badly for it to work. I wanted to believe that Patrick was different than everyone said he was, that he could be the one thing that didn’t fall apart on me.

Tears forming in my eyes again, I finally let go of the wheel, grab my suitcase, and climb out of the car.

The night air is cool, brushing against my tear-streaked cheeks, I drag my suitcase across the gravel, its wheels rattling and catching on every little pebble.

My crying jag has wound down again and I’ve fallen silent. All that’s left is a slow, steady leaking of tears down my face that I can’t seem to stop.

Jasmine’s waiting by her door on the third floor, her mousey-brown hair pulled back, face lit up by the overhead light. The second she sees me, she’s running to me, arms open, and I collapse into her, the dam breaking all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, collapsing into a shaking mess. “I should’ve listened to you!”

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything,” she murmurs, holding me tight. “He’s the one who should be sorry, not you. He’s a fucking asshole, Tasha. He never deserved you.”

I want to believe what she’s saying, but I can’t stop wallowing in my hurt feelings, even as she leads me inside her apartment, shutting the door behind us.

Jasmine’s apartment smells like lavender and sage. It’s a tiny studio, barely big enough for one person, but it’s warm and cozy, cluttered with mismatched cushions, macramé wall hangings, and plants spilling out of ceramic pots.

Colorful dreamcatchers dangle in front of the windows, swaying slightly as we walk in, and there’s a small table tucked in the corner with a pile of tarot cards and crystals scattered across it. Her queen-sized bed is pushed against the wall, a colorful quilt draped over it, and in the middle of the room, her pull-out couch is already opened up, blankets and pillows piled on top like she’s been expecting me all along.

She guides me to the bed, her hand still firm on my arm, like she’s scared I’ll fall apart if she lets go.

“Sit,” she says, her voice gentle, and I do, sinking onto the pull-out. She returns in a minute, pressing a warm cup of chamomile tea into my hands. I stare at the steam curling up, taking in the soft scent as I try to calm down, but my mind keeps circling back to what I walked in on.

“Tell me what happened from the beginning.”

“He didn’t even…he didn’t even look surprised to see me. And she was just lying there under him,” I whisper, my voice barely holding steady, “on the couch, half naked, like she belonged there.”

“Ugh, whore,” Jasmine says, her face darkening, her lips thinning. “Tasha, you cannot let this affect your self-esteem. You’re beautiful, and you’re more than enough. Patrick’s a dickhead who never deserved a sweet, caring girl like you.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do.” I manage a small, shaky smile, but it doesn’t last.

“For the next few weeks, stay here,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “At least until you can get your feet under you. And hey, I’m still going to Vegas soon. Come with me. We’ll find jobs before we go, and then, who knows? It’s a fresh start, a chance to get out of this windy, sad suburb of Chicago.”

“I don’t know, Jaz…that’s a big move.” I hesitate, my mind too tangled to think straight.

“Well, think about it. And tomorrow, I’ll come with you to get your stuff from the apartment.” Jasmine doesn’t push. She just nods and squeezes my hand.

“Thank you,” I murmur, leaning into her as she wraps me in a hug. I exhale, a little of the weight lifting off my chest.

Jasmine orders Chinese food, and I’m pretty sure she convinced the delivery guy to throw in extra egg rolls, because there’s just so much food when we pull it all out.

We eat straight from the cartons, the sweet-and-sour sauce dripping onto our fingers, watching reruns of I Love Lucy and then flipping to some true-crime documentary about a serial killer in the ‘90s.

We spend the rest of the night sprawled on the couch, surrounded by takeout boxes and half-empty glasses of wine. I barely register what’s happening on the screen, but it’s something to keep my mind from spiraling, and for that, I’m grateful.

I’m still wide awake, staring at my phone, doom-scrolling through my social media, when I realize Jasmine fell asleep halfway through an episode, curled up on her bed, snoring softly.

Everyone else’s lives look perfect and polished online, like the kind of life I thought I had with Patrick. I come across a picture of an old friend from high school, smiling in her wedding dress, hand in hand with her new husband, captioned with some cheesy line about love being worth the wait, and I scroll past it quickly.

Still, the ache in my chest doesn’t go away. I turn my phone over, pressing it against my forehead, as silent tears fall from my eyes.

I feel like someone’s dumped out a puzzle and I have no idea how to put the pieces back together. My whole life has been torn up and scattered thanks to the careless actions of a man who I thought was in love with me.

I lie there, trying not to drown in the feeling of everything slipping away, the room dark except for the soft glow of the TV.

The social media app blinks out as I close it, my phone screen going dark. I stare at the ceiling, which is covered in shadows cast from the television, replaying Jasmine’s words in my head. A fresh start. She makes it sound so easy, like it’s just a matter of just picking up and leaving.

Maybe that’s exactly what I need…to stop trying to fit my life back together and just start over somewhere new.

I pull my phone out again, closing social media and opening a few job apps, scrolling through listings, one after another. I keep skimming the same old things: waitress, retail associate, barista.

I’m so tired of doing these same jobs.

Then I see it: a basic receptionist job in the city, at a place called Thorne and Thorne. The job description is vague, but I don’t care, I’m not picky.

Answering phones, handling paperwork, greeting clients, scheduling meetings; all of that sounds better than spending another shift smiling at strangers and hoping they’ll tip me more than a couple of bucks.

I save the listing in my favorites and keep scrolling, but nothing else catches my eye. It’s just that one, shining out from the screen, a tiny glimmer of hope for something different and new.

It’s not Vegas, but it’s a step in a new direction.

Still, I can’t help but think of Jasmine’s voice, light and hopeful, talking about getting out of this sad suburb, about something new. I stare at the job posting a little longer before finally tapping on the button to apply, my hands shaking a bit.

But what if I can’t even do this? What if nothing changes?

The résumé I pull up on my phone is embarrassingly thin, and I know it. I cringe as I review it.

I spend the next hour adding everything I can think of, trying to stretch out each bullet point to its fullest potential. Every bit of customer service experience: every coffee I’ve poured, every dish I’ve cleared, every smile I’ve forced, it all gets beefed up and polished until it sounds like I’ve been running a five-star establishment instead of hustling for tips.

But the nerves creep in again, and I start thinking back to when I was eighteen years old and fresh out of high school. I remember telling my parents I wanted to go to college, that I’d saved up some money, that I wanted to study marketing or communications or something to get me out of the trailer we were all crammed inside .

My dad had laughed, not in a mean way, but like he thought it was a joke.

“With a face like that, what makes you think you need to learn anything?” he chided, reaching over to pinch my cheek, like I was still five years old. My mom just nodded along, not saying anything to encourage me.

I swallow hard, blink back tears, and hit “submit” on the application before I can chicken out.

My parents talked me out of my dreams back then, but no one can talk me out of following them now.

I’m going to prove that I can do more than just smile and be pretty.