Claimed By My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

The sharp, electronic beep of the hotel room lock disengaging pierced the heavy silence. Abigayle's eyes snapped open. The blinding light from the hallway flooded the dim suite, stabbing directly into her retinas. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach rolling in a violent wave of nausea. Her limbs felt like they were filled with wet cement. She tried to push herself up, but a dull ache radiated through her lower body, and the cold air hit her bare skin. The thick hotel duvet slipped down, revealing a constellation of dark, angry marks blooming across her collarbones and chest. Heavy footsteps pounded against the plush carpet. Before her brain could process the sensory overload, the rapid, blinding flashes of camera lenses exploded in the room. The harsh white light fired like strobe lightning. Abigayle gasped, her lungs burning as she instinctively threw her arm over her face to block the assault. Her trembling fingers blindly searched the foot of the bed, grabbing a massive, wrinkled men's dress shirt. She yanked the fabric against her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she thought they might crack. "Disgusting." The voice was cold, dripping with absolute contempt. Abigayle lowered her arm, her vision swimming before finally focusing on the man standing at the foot of the bed. Jeffery Sullivan. Her fiancé stood there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his fingers casually adjusting his expensive cuffs. There was no shock in his eyes. No heartbreak. Only a chilling, calculated satisfaction. Right behind him, her best friend, Kim Stein, rushed into the room. Kim slapped a hand over her mouth, letting out a loud, theatrical gasp that echoed off the walls. "Abigayle! How could you?" Kim shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the messy sheets and the red marks on Abigayle's neck. "How could you do this to Jeffery?" Abigayle's throat was sandpaper. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her mind was a complete, terrifying blank. She couldn't remember leaving the charity gala. She couldn't remember walking into this room. Jeffery let out a dry, humorless laugh. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a crisp, folded piece of paper. He stepped forward and threw it directly at her face. The sharp edge of the thick paper sliced a tiny, stinging line across Abigayle's cheek before landing on the white duvet. It was a lab report from New York-Presbyterian Hospital. The bold black ink screamed the results: Progesterone levels elevated. Pregnancy confirmed. Eight weeks. Abigayle stared at the letters until they blurred. Her blood turned to ice water in her veins. "That's impossible," she choked out, her voice cracking. "Jeffery, we haven't even..." "You not only spread your legs for some random bastard, but you're carrying his bastard, too," Kim interrupted, stepping closer to the bed. Kim's voice was laced with fake agony, but Abigayle saw it. She saw the malicious gleam dancing in Kim's eyes. She saw Kim's finger twirling a strand of blonde hair-a nervous habit she only did when she was lying. A sickening realization slammed into Abigayle's gut. The champagne. Kim had handed her a glass of champagne right after the silent auction last night. She hadn't taken another sip of anything else before the world went black. Abigayle bit down on her lower lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She forced her shaking legs to move, pulling the oversized shirt tighter around her body as she stood up from the mattress. "I want a retest," Abigayle demanded, locking her eyes onto Jeffery's. "Right now. A blood test." Jeffery took a half-step back, his nose wrinkling as if she were a rotting corpse. "You make me sick," he spat loudly, ensuring the two tabloid reporters he had personally escorted up the private elevator caught every word. "Keep your lenses focused, boys," he murmured over his shoulder, confirming he controlled the spectacle. The reporters eagerly pressed their camera shutters, the mechanical clicks sounding like a firing squad capturing the ruined socialite in her oversized shirt. "Stop it!" Abigayle lunged forward, reaching out to grab the nearest camera lens. Jeffery moved faster. He planted his hand firmly on her shoulder and shoved her backward with brutal force. Her bare feet tangled in the heavy duvet. She lost her balance and crashed hard onto the floor. Her elbow slammed into the sharp corner of the wooden nightstand. A sickening thud echoed in the room, followed by a sharp, shooting pain that paralyzed her arm. Kim immediately crouched down, extending a hand as if to help her up. But as Kim leaned in close, her designer perfume masking the smell of sex in the room, she whispered directly into Abigayle's ear. "You stupid bitch." The sheer audacity sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Abigayle's veins. She raised her uninjured arm, aiming a vicious slap right at Kim's flawless face. Jeffery's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Abigayle's wrist like a steel vice, stopping her hand mid-air. He squeezed her bones until she gasped, then violently threw her arm back down. He turned his back on her, facing the flashing cameras. "The Sullivan family will not tolerate this level of depravity," Jeffery announced, his voice booming for the recording devices. "The engagement is over." The reporters nodded, their faces flushed with the thrill of the scoop. They lowered their cameras and followed Jeffery toward the door. Kim stood up slowly, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles on her designer skirt. She looked down at Abigayle, who was still sprawled on the carpet, and offered a triumphant, sickeningly sweet smile. The heavy suite door slammed shut. The electronic lock clicked, sealing Abigayle inside the dead silence of the ruined room. Abigayle sat on the floor, her chest heaving. She curled her fingers into tight fists, her manicured nails digging so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she locked her jaw. She refused to let a single drop fall.