The Billionaire's Obsession

The Egyptian cotton sheets were a mess across the king-size bed. In the air, that typical trail of s*x, sweat, and an expensive perfume that seemed to soak into the walls of the twentieth floor.

Beside me, she whose name required an extra effort to remember, maybe Chloe or Claire was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling in that rhythm of someone who had just experienced the peak.

She was flawless. The kind of perfection that money and a Richards’ surname attract without any real effort.

Bringing a woman like her to my Upper East Side apartment was a purely mechanical task. A lingering look in the right lounge, a smirk, and the Mercedes key on the marble counter. They always come. They always want to be part of an Aidan Vance’s world.

And she’s good, I have to admit. She had precise movements, surrender, and an audacity that would make any guy beg for more. I made sure she got there; it’s a matter of honor, or maybe ego.

I like being the best at everything I do, and that includes ensuring whoever occupies my bed leaves convinced they’ve lived the best night of their lives.

"That was... surreal, Aidan."

She whispered, her voice husky, before getting up and walking toward the marble bathroom.

"I know, you were incredible."

I replied, using my best tone of voice and the smile I had already memorized. I heard the sound of water falling into the tub. As soon as the door closed, my smile collapsed instantly.

The golden lie.

I was exhausted, but not in the right way. My body relaxed onto the mattress, but my mind kept racing, screaming the truth I tried to drown in luxury: I faked it again.

Once more, I performed the perfect climax, the moans at the right time, and the way I held her hips. All so she would feel like the most desired woman in the world.

But inside? A cold void. Nothing. I’m twenty-eight years old and I possess everything money can buy. The Vance surname opens doors most people don't even know exist. I have the physique, the cars, and the market's respect. But complete satisfaction is the only luxury my bank balance can't afford.

The reason has a name, a date, and a scene that no five-hundred-dollar-an-hour therapy session has managed to erase. It all goes back to that afternoon, thirteen years ago. I was a fifteen-year-old teenager, trying to prove a courage I didn't have. It wasn't in a beautiful place, but in the cold shadows of an abandoned building a concrete skeleton where what I did and what I allowed to happen became my life sentence.

Guilt is a parasite that feeds on any trace of pleasure. I’ve tried everything. Beautiful women, models, intellectuals. I even tried men once, in a moment of desperation to feel anything. It was a quick fling at a private club.

The result? Worse. An apathy bordering on listlessness not because of the act, but because I knew that even that didn't fill the hole I dug myself.

The price of that afternoon in the abandoned building is this: being the perfect lover to hide the hollow man I've become.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a warm mist smelling of sandalwood. She stood at the doorframe, her damp skin glistening under the light, naked and completely at ease. Her look was that of someone who wanted another round.

"The water is great, Aidan."

She said, tilting her head in a way she thought was irresistible.

"But the tub is too big for just one person. Coming?"

I felt the weight of mental fatigue, but the "character" took control. I would never deny her that. I don't deny pleasure to anyone in my bed; it’s my way of serving my time. Being the master of someone else's satisfaction is the only mask I have left.

I tossed the sheet aside and stood up, letting her see the body I sculpted as if it were armor.

"You’re insatiable."

I said, forcing a glimmer of desire into my eyes as I walked toward her.

I would go. I would play my part with perfection. I would make her scream my name again. And, in the end, I would still be the only one there feeling absolutely nothing.

The Manhattan morning light entered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, cutting through the room with surgical precision. I sat behind my black oak desk, spinning a heavy metal pen between my fingers. On my phone, a message notification still glowed:

“Call me whenever you want, Aidan. Doesn't matter what time. Last night was unforgettable.”

Unforgettable for her. For me, it was just another show of lights and shadows where I was the protagonist, the director, and the sound technician. I gave her the best performance of her life, and my only prize was the absolute silence of my own senses.

A cutting coldness began to creep up my spine that detachment from reality that made me feel like a robot wearing a tailored suit. The door opened with two discreet knocks.

“Mr. Vance? The meeting with the Nexus Tech shareholders starts at ten. The expansion reports for the European market are already on the conference table.”

My secretary informed me, unfazed by my silence.

“Thank you, Sarah. I’m on my way.”

The day was a blur of numbers, growth charts, and million-dollar decisions. Between meetings, I discussed the acquisition of an AI startup in Seattle and signed logistics contracts that would make Vance Corp’s revenue jump 15% next quarter. I was good at this.

In the business world, the void in my chest was an advantage; it made me cold, calculating, and unstoppable.

At night, the corporate armor gave way to casual attire. I needed noise to drown out my thoughts, and my best friend, Peter Harrington, was a master at creating distractions.

Peter is a prestigious lawyer, the kind of guy who wins impossible cases in the morning and collects models' phone numbers at night. We were in the lounge of a five-star hotel, drinking a whiskey that cost more than my secretary’s annual salary.

“You need a vacation, Aidan. Greece? Or maybe the Maldives?”

Peter suggested, leaning back in the leather armchair.

“I’ve got a contact with an incredible yacht. Just us, the ocean, and a group of women who don’t know the meaning of the word 'no'.”

“Maybe, Peter. I’ll check my schedule,”

I replied, my tone vague.

“'Check schedule'? Come on, man! You’re living like a monk.”

He laughed, slapping me on the shoulder.

“Listen, I know a new place. None of this boredom here. It’s an A-list strip club. No cameras, no judgments. Let's go.”

I didn't want to go, but the silence of my empty apartment felt like a greater threat. The club was a labyrinth of pulsing purple neon and electronic music.

Peter was already in his natural element, laughing with a blonde who looked like she’d been sculpted from marble. One of the dancers approached me, her movements fluid and her perfume far too sweet. Peter gave me an encouraging look.

“Try it, Aidan! Relax that control for a second.” I let her dance. I felt the heat of her skin, the rhythmic movement, the obvious effort to seduce me. But as she moved, I could only think of the ceiling of that abandoned building. The dust that kicked up from the floor when I ran.

The sound of the crying I tried to ignore thirteen years ago. It’s always how it starts. At the slightest sign of arousal, it comes back. Even when I’m alone.

“I’m taking her somewhere more private.”

Peter shouted in my ear, already standing up with the girl.

“Talk tomorrow?”

“Go ahead.”

I left the club, feeling the cold night air hit my face, clearing some of that suffocating atmosphere. I walked toward the private parking lot, but as I turned the corner of a dimly lit side street, my feet froze.

There, leaning against a flickering lamppost, was a guy. He wore simple clothes, but he had that unmistakable posture of someone who was there for work.

The hood hid part of his face, but the silhouette... the way he tilted his head... My heart, which had spent the entire day on autopilot, gave a violent jolt against my ribs. I moved closer, driven by an impulse I hadn’t felt in over a decade.

He looked like a rent boy, one of those waiting for luck in the shadows of the early hours. I needed to see his face. I needed to know if my addiction to guilt had finally led me to the right place.

The cold night air seemed to have frozen in my lungs as I closed the distance. Each step was a dull thud in my chest.

I knew that slant of the shoulders. I knew that way of leaning against the world, as if always expecting the next blow.

"Hey..."

His voice came out slurred, thick.

"Looking for a good time, handsome?"

He was high. His body swayed slightly, restless hands getting lost in the pockets of his worn-out hoodie. It looked like he was fighting his own skin a clear sign of withdrawal or of someone who needed a fix to survive the next minute.

When he reached for his hood and pulled it back, the world around me simply stopped spinning. Straight black hair, now messy, framing a face that, despite a sickly paleness, still carried the lines that had haunted me for thirteen years.

And the eyes... those green eyes. It was them. But they didn't shine like they used to; they were deep pits of exhaustion and decay.

It was Kyle.

I st