The billionaire's murderous lover

Chapter Three

Vincent

Hotel room? It probably meant that he had not been with Tiffany but with one of his several mistresses. Or perhaps he and his newest wife decided they wanted to spend the night out?

“Have you spoken to Tiffany?” I asked.

“Tiffany?”

“Yes, Tiffany is his wife,” I said.

“You are the only contact on his emergency call list. We do not know of Tiffany,” the person said to me.

How had Tiffany known that father was dead? Or that he had died of a heart attack?

“Would you like us to wait before wheeling his body to the morgue?” the person asked.

“Yes, wait.”

I hung up and walked back to the parking garage where my driver leaned against my car.

“St Patrick's hospital,” was all I said to Trent. He nodded and opened the door for me to let me in and in minutes we had joined New York commuters on the road.

Forty-five minutes later, I was walking into the hospital, only to see Tiffany marching towards the entrance too. I beat her to it mostly because I was not burdened by senselessly high heels.

She ran after me in the lobby, “I know you saw me, why won't you wait?”

“You are a stranger to me,” I said coldly and it was true.

“I am your stepmother,” she said to me and I stopped walking and turned to face her.

Tiffany was half Mexican and half Irish and she had gotten the best out of the two bloodlines in terms of beauty.

Her beauty had intoxicated me once. I remembered running my hands on her smooth golden skin and feeling amazed at how soft she was to touch. Even now as she stood before me, I could not help but wonder if I would ever get a chance to bury myself in her bosom.

My eyes were still fixed on her, on her wavy chestnut hair. I remembered running my hand through her thick hair wondering about how anyone's hair could have so much lustre. I had never seen hair as beautiful as hers before. My friends would go crazy for blonde or red hair but Tiffany had made me realise that chestnut was the most beautiful colour a hair could ever be.

“Make way!” I turned to see a gurney passing through, on it was a middle-aged woman with what looked like a gunshot wound to the centre of her head. Without thinking, I pulled Sophia into my arms and away from the gurney.

Blood rushed to my core as her breast brushed against my chest. I pulled her away from my body quickly, disappointed in my body for forgetting that she was my stepmother.

My body could not seem to reconcile the fact that the only woman I had passionately enjoyed s*x with had turned out to be my stepmother.

I still remember that day clearly. I had gone to the bar for drinks after listening to my father abuse me for over an hour. I had needed to clear my head and that was when I had seen her or rather she had seen me. She had walked over to me and seduced me. I had been smitten by her beauty and boldness and so I did not resist. We had left the bar and she had led me to the backseat of her car where we had had the most passionate s*x to ever be had in human history.

We had taken our passion to my house and had barely slept that night. When I had woke up the next morning, my body had been pleasantly sore but Tiffany was gone. At the time, I did not know her name and I was convinced that I was probably never going to see her again.

That was until my father had invited me to dinner that evening and introduced me to his fourth wife, Tiffany Taylor.

I walked away from her and made my way to the nurse's desk, “I'm here for Briggs Hearst?”

“Mr Vincent! We have been waiting for you, this way, please,” I was led to a private room in the hospital. I wondered if they had just assumed that my father was rich that they had made him comfortable even in his death.

“He died before he got to the hospital,” said the nurse who led us to my father's room.

“Are you the one who called?” I faintly recognised her voice from earlier.

“Yes, yes. My apologies for not introducing myself earlier. I am Maddie,” she said with a rehearsed smile. It was clear from her demeanour that she had done this so many times before.

“I am Tiffany, his wife,” Tiffany extended her hand to the nurse who failed to hide her surprise at Tiffany's words.

She had the exact reaction I had when my father had introduced Tiffany to me six months ago as his wife.

I had been shocked for two separate reasons—I had slept with her the night before—She was young and from her youthful face I guessed she could not be a day over twenty-five.

“My condolences, Mrs Hearst,” the nurse said, her surprise waning. This was New York after all and it was not surprising for Billionaires to have wives younger than their own children.

“It is actually, Mrs Taylor. I never took his last name,” said Tiffany with a smile that made me roll my eyes.

“I apologise again,” said the nurse, I could sense her discomfort.

“What was the cause of his death?” I asked the nurse.

“We are guessing he died of a heart attack? But we can only determine that through an autopsy,” said the nurse.

“We don't want that, we would like to…” Tiffany began to say hurriedly.

“I want an autopsy. I want to know why he died,” my tone was firm and if it was any other person, they would know better than to argue with me but Tiffany was Tiffany.

“You hated your father, does it matter how he died?” she demanded at once.