Page 6 of Three Billionaire Grooms and Not the Right Bride

She came from a prestigious family, and our union was expected to set the world alight.

In the end, we weren’t getting any younger, and it was time we produced heirs. We weren’t looking for love. We were too busy getting richer for such frivolous things, so again, in the end a marriage of convenience suited us better anyway.

We’d met Tatiana twice before our wedding, but there was something entirely different about her today. She seemed to move differently. Not that we noticed how Tatiana moved, but if she’d moved the same way she did today before we met her, we’d have noticed. Not very many things pass us by.

But standing next to her, feeling her tremble, inhaling the scent of her, which was nothing but soap and some faint floral scent, triggered a flood of heat in our veins, something we had never experienced before. Ever.

“I think it’s safe to say the woman we married today is not Tatiana Neal, right?” Dayton says, filling our glasses with the bottle of Macallan.

After our ‘wedding’ and with our bride running away with a headache and her mother telling us we’ll see her in Italy for our honeymoon, we, of course, went back to our offices and prepared to work the afternoon away. Except at the back of our minds, we knew something was off about our ‘bride.’

“Zero doubt,” Cristian agrees, tapping the marriage license on the desk in our penthouse, the sun long since set and the sky a dusky purple now.

We tried to decipher exactly what she tried to sign, and damn if we could figure it out. It’s almost as if she started to sign as Tatiana, forgot she was impersonating her for a moment, then tried to do damage control. How fucking curious.

“We need to find her,” I say, and it goes without saying.

I know these men as well as I know myself. We’re basing our deduction and our need to find her solely on the effect the woman in the wedding dress had on us.

“Not lifting her veil. Not letting us do the customary kiss the bride,” Dayton chuckles. “Our little impostor.”

“And clearly the mother is in on it. How could she not know it wasn’t her daughter?” Cristian adds.

We could question Mrs. Neal, but where’s the fun in that?

One call later and we have all the footage we need from the hotel. From there, it doesn’t take long to figure out what happened.

Apparently, Tatiana, our real bride, heavily concealing herself with an oversized coat and hat, was whisked away from the bridal suite and put into a car, leaving only two people behind in the bridal suite.

Mrs. Neal and the wedding planner. Someone called Hadley Young.

Is she our mystery bride?

Yes, she is. Ten minutes later, we know every single thing there is to know about her. Hadley Young. Twenty-four years old. Her social media is so sorely neglected that the last time she posted anything—a quote about going after what you want—was two years ago. No dating history, no pictures of past boyfriends.

We know where she lives and who her parents were. Her relationship to Heather Robins, who apparently runs the wedding event company. We also know she’s heavily in debt; well, she inherited her father’s debt, which is from a failed restaurant venture on a yacht.

We don’t deal with small-time thugs, but a call from us to Jimmy Big Back and Mars Florentine's bosses, and they won’t dare even think her name anymore, let alone come within a breath of her. They also did the gracious thing by wiping off her debt completely. It’s the least they could do for not losing their lives.

She also writes book reviews in her spare time and is between jobs after being fired as a waitress for getting too many orders wrong.

That last part made us chuckle.

But fuck, seeing an image of her knocked the fucking air out of our lungs. We’re accustomed to having the world’s most beautiful women around us—it goes with the territory—but how was it that this lovely creature walked the earth and we didn’t know she existed until she married us in disguise?

Her dark, near chocolate-colored hair hangs in long waves around her shoulders. My hands ache to wrap those tresses around my wrist as I tilt her upward, taking possession of her mouth the same way all three of us take complete possession of her body. Every hole of hers filled with us, claiming her as ours.

Her luminous brown eyes seem to strip us of our sanity and that can't be a good thing.

Her effect on us is fucking insane, and we’re men who show zero emotion, every move we make shrouded in stoicism. Yet even our enemies back off. We don’t get to run Skycrest without wielding a kind of supreme power over everyone.

She belongs to us. According to that marriage license, she’s ours. Our bride.

Does she know what she’s gotten herself into by trying to dupe us? She’s definitely going to find out.

“She just booked herself a flight to the Maldives. A five-day vacation,” Dayton says, looking at his screen.

After clicking a few more buttons, he continues.