The Three Billionaires' Deadliest Obsession

Memory or Hallucination?

Vivian's pov~

"We missed you, sweetheart..." a voice growled close to my ear. It was a deep, velvety rumble that sent a violent shiver straight down my spine. Before I could even gasp, he stepped right behind me, a large, warm hand slipping around my waist to pull my back flush against his broad chest.

He stood towering over me, holding me firmly against him so I couldn't retreat, his other hand squeezing my breast through the fabric of my dress. The possessive weight of his touch burned through the layers of clothes, claiming me instantly.

I whimpered, my head rolling back against his shoulder as the sheer sensory overload took over.

Through my hazy vision, the second man moved in from my side. His eyes were dark, burning with a dangerous, long-awaited hunger.

Without a word, his strong fingers gripped my jaw, forcing my chin up to tilt my face toward him. He locked his eyes onto mine for one breathless second, and then he captured my lips in a deep, bruising kiss that stole the very air from my lungs.

They were taking everything from me, systematically breaking down every wall I had spent years building.

While I was trapped between them, breathless and caught in the kiss, the third man stepped directly in front of me. His gaze was dark and predatory as he leaned down. Slowly, deliberately, his hand slid down my stomach and slipped past the waistband of my underwear, his warm fingers making direct contact with my bare skin, he slid his fingers on my folds.

A sharp gasp died in my throat as the sheer vulnerability of the position made my heart race. As the side kiss broke, leaving me trembling in their collective hold, they all started speaking, their voices overlapping in the dark.

"Did you really think you could run from us forever?" the one holding me against his chest whispered, his grip tightening around my waist.

"Look at how you're shaking, you are already wet for us," the one standing in front of me murmured, his fingers circling my c**t with such precision, making my back arch. "You're still exactly where you belong."

"You're ours," the one at my side vowed, his lips lingering just inches from mine, his dark eyes consuming itself. "You've always been ours. And this time, we aren't letting you go."

Three towering shadows surrounded me, cutting off the exit, cutting off the world.

The alcohol I had downed at the bar was a raging fire in my veins, blurring the edges of my vision until the room spun. I was a ghost trying to escape the memory of my toxic marriage.

The darkness finally claimed me from the alcohol consumption, swallowing the overlapping voices, the heavy scent of their cologne, and the burning heat of their touch.

Was it my memory or a hallucination?

My eyelids felt like lead as I forced them open. The dim, ambient neon lights of the VIP room had been turned off, replaced by the harsh, quiet gray of early morning filtering through a small high window. I blinked, expecting to see the three figures looming over me, expecting the weight of their bodies pressing me down.

Nothing.

The room was deathly still. The heavy leather couch was empty. The scent of woodsmoke and expensive spice was gone, replaced only by the stale smell of spilled alcohol.

I tried to sit up, and a sudden, freezing wave of panic crashed over my chest. The cool air of the room hit my bare skin. I wasn't wearing my dress. I was completely naked, sprawled across the plush cushions, my body aching with a deep, liquid exhaustion I couldn't explain.

My mind scrambled, frantic and terrified, clawing through the fog in my head.

Did they...? What happened after the lights went out?

I can't remember. Beyond that suffocating, breathless encounter where they trapped me between them, my memory was a black hole. There was nothing else. No names, no whispered words, no recollection of how the clothes had been stripped from my body.

"No, no, no..." I breathed, my voice a cracked whisper in the empty room.

Frustration and terror injected a sudden burst of adrenaline into my veins. I swung my legs off the bed, my knees trembling so violently I nearly collapsed onto the floor. I scanned the dim room, my eyes landing on the crumpled heap of fabric tossed carelessly onto the armchair beside the bed. My dress.

A manic panic rushed through me. I scrambled for the clothes, my hands shaking so badly I could barely pull the fabric over my head. My chest heaved as I forced my arms through the sleeves, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Was it really them?

Or was it just a hallucination? A twisted, alcohol-induced nightmare born from my desperate need to be touched, to be seen, to escape my husband's cruelty?

"It can't be them," I muttered fiercely to myself, tugging the zipper up with a sharp jerk. "It’s impossible. How could it possibly be them after all these years? They hate me. They left. No... no, it was a dream. It had to be a dream."

I didn't bother looking for my missing underwear. I didn't care about my ruined makeup or my tangled hair. I just needed to run.

Bursting out of the heavy mahogany door, I sprinted down the empty, dimly lit corridors of the club. The venue was closed, the main dance floor hauntingly quiet as the morning staff swept the floors. They barely looked up as I flew past them, bursting through the exit into the cool, damp morning air.

I practically threw myself toward the far corner of the parking lot where my car was hidden in the shadows. My hands fumbled with the keys, dropping them once on the asphalt before I managed to unlock the door.

I dove inside, slammed the door shut, and locked it instantly. The engine roared to life as I threw the car into reverse, tires screeching against the pavement as I tore out of the lot, desperate to leave the club, the memory, and those three phantom faces behind me.

The tires gripped the asphalt as I sped through the wrought-iron gates of the Morgan Estate, the tires crunching loudly over the pristine gravel driveway. The massive, cold stone mansion loomed ahead like a luxurious fortress. To the outside world, it was a symbol of ultimate wealth. To me, it was nothing but a gilded cage.

I hurried inside, the heavy front doors sealing out the morning sun. The grand foyer was dead silent. No staff, no husband. Just echoing emptiness.

I didn't turn toward the master suite. Instead, I walked straight toward the far end of the east wing, entering the modest guest room I had officially claimed as my own just yesterday.

The memory hit me like a physical blow, making me gasp.

Yesterday.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had walked up to our shared bedroom only to find the door slightly ajar. The soft, breathless gasps coming from inside had made my blood turn to ice. When I pushed the door open, the image burned itself into my retinas: Garrison, my cold, untouchable husband, hovering over his secretary right on the center of our marriage bed.

Shaking off the memory, I stripped off my ruined dress and stepped into the bathroom.

I turned the water to scalding hot, scrubbing my skin until it was red, desperately trying to wash away the phantom heat of the three men from the VIP room, alongside the lingering filth of this house.

Once out, I pulled on a pair of oversized black sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, burying myself in the dark, heavy fabric. I grabbed a towel, dried my damp hair as I walked back into the bedroom, and after I finished, I tossed the towel aside and headed down the grand staircase. Still, the house was completely empty.

I walked into the kitchen, my body aching for something to anchor my frayed nerves.

My hands were still trembling slightly as I brewed a strong cup of black coffee. I stood by the marble counter, cupping the warm mug, letting the bitter liquid burn my tongue.

For nearly half a year, I had been the perfect, dedicated, devoted, and caring wife. I had cooked for him, waited for him, and defended his distant behavior to my family. Our marriage was arranged—a cold transaction between families. He had never touched me, not even once. I had spent months foolishly convincing myself that it was just his naturally cold, Stoic demeanor.

But yesterday, the brutal reality had shattered my naivety.

He wasn't incapable of passion; he just didn't want it with me.

The sickest part was realizing his abstinence with his own wife wasn't out of respect, it was a twisted form of guilt. He couldn't bring himself to touch me after spending his days f*****g his secretaries and whatever other women caught his eye.