Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Billionaire Uncle

Fiona stood her ground, her body rigid with defiance. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she knew it was useless.

Ewart gestured toward the leather sofa. "Sit, Ms. Donaldson. We can't solve this while you're poised for flight."

He walked to a discreet wet bar, poured two glasses of water, and placed one on the heavy wood coffee table. He sat down, his movements relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. He was in complete control, and he knew it.

After a tense moment, Fiona moved. She chose the armchair furthest from him, perching on the edge of the cushion. She didn't touch the water.

Ewart didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Marry me."

The two words hung in the air, so absurd, so utterly insane, that Fiona stared at him, convinced she had misheard. Then a dry, sharp laugh escaped her.

"Are you out of your mind, Mr. Blake?"

He ignored her derision. From a sleek leather briefcase beside the sofa, he produced a document bound in dark blue. He slid it across the table toward her.

The cover read: Marital Agreement.

"It would be a contract," he stated, his voice a flat, business-like monotone. "For a period of one year. In that time, you will have the full protection of the Blake name. The Donaldsons, the Balls... they won't be able to touch you."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. "I will provide you with any and all resources you require. Capital, connections, information. Whatever you need to build your own enterprise and exact your revenge."

His eyes held hers. "In return, you will perform the duties of Mrs. Blake. Attend family functions. Present a united front to the public. Be a wife in name."

Fiona's fingers felt numb as she reached for the document. She flipped it open. The clauses were precise, the terms shockingly generous. It was a deal designed to be irresistible. But all she felt was a cold, suffocating dread. It was a gilded cage.

"Why me?" she asked, the question raw. "We're strangers. You could have anyone."

Ewart's expression was unreadable. "Because you're intelligent. You're resourceful. And..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You fit a specific requirement set by my grandfather." He offered a sliver of the truth, expertly hiding the core of the real, binding family contract.

Fiona detected the evasion, a subtle shift in his tone, but she had no way to grasp the full picture. The offer was a lifeline, a weapon, everything she needed. But the price was herself.

Her pride, the one thing the Donaldsons hadn't managed to beat out of her, rebelled.

"No," she said, her voice firm. She closed the agreement and pushed it back across the table. She stood up. "I refuse. I'll get my own revenge. I am not for sale."

Ewart didn't look surprised. He seemed to have anticipated this. He simply picked up a business card from the table and held it out to her.

"My private number," he said calmly. "The offer stands. Call me when reality proves to be more difficult than you imagine."

Fiona didn't take the card. She turned and walked to the door, her back straight. This time, he didn't stop her. The lock clicked open, and she stepped out into the hallway, leaving him and his devil's bargain behind.

The cold New York air hit her like a slap, clearing some of the fog from her head. She hailed a cab, the motion automatic.

"Donaldson Manor," she told the driver, the address tasting like ash in her mouth.

She had to go back. One last time. To get what was hers. To make the final cut.

The manor was quiet when she arrived, an oppressive silence hanging in the air. She walked through the grand foyer, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor. She was heading for her room to pack the few things that mattered when she passed Bette's bedroom.

The sound of laughter drifted from behind the closed door. Chip's laugh.

"...just wait until Cyrus officially kicks Fiona out. You'll be the only Miss Donaldson then."

"And your engagement will be to me," Bette's voice was a triumphant purr. "Just like it always should have been."

A white-hot rage, pure and absolute, incinerated every last shred of restraint Fiona possessed.

She didn't knock.

She drew back her leg and kicked the door open. The wood splintered near the lock and the door flew inward, slamming against the wall.

Chip and Bette scrambled apart on the bed, their faces a comical mask of shock and fear. They were disheveled, Bette wearing nothing but a silk robe. A robe Fiona recognized. It was hers.

Fiona stood in the doorway, her shadow falling over them. Her expression was terrifyingly calm.

"Having fun?" Her voice was so cold it could have frozen fire. "In my robe, on my sister's bed, with my fiancé... planning my replacement?"