Claimed By My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

The yellow cab jerked to a stop alongside the curb of 47th Street.

The meter beeped loudly in the quiet interior of the car.

Abigayle pulled the last few crumpled bills from her coat pocket and handed them over the plastic divider to the driver.

She pushed the heavy door open and stepped out into the biting autumn wind.

The cold air immediately sliced through her thin blazer, raising goosebumps across her arms.

She reached back into the cab and gently helped Thaddeus out.

The old butler groaned softly, his hand pressing against his bruised ribs as he stood up on the wet pavement.

Abigayle pulled the collar of her torn black trench coat tighter around her neck. She clutched the single, small suitcase Thaddeus had managed to shove past the repo men-a desperate, last-minute rescue containing the few fragments of her old life he could save.

The bag felt impossibly heavy on her shoulder, not from its weight, but from the burden of what it represented: everything she had left to sell.

She supported Thaddeus by his elbow and guided him toward the largest storefront on the block.

The neon sign above the door read Diamond District Exchange in harsh, buzzing letters.

Abigayle pushed her weight against the heavy bulletproof glass door.

The bell chimed sharply as they stepped inside.

The interior was flooded with blinding, clinical white light that made Abigayle's exhausted eyes water.

She blinked rapidly, fighting off a wave of dizziness, and walked straight to the long glass counter.

An older appraiser with a jeweler's loupe attached to his glasses looked up from his paperwork.

His eyes scanned her messy hair, the shabby coat, and the cheap flats on her bare, blood-stained feet.

A distinct look of disgust and amusement crossed his face.

Abigayle ignored his stare.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out the Van Cleef and Arpels diamond bracelet, and placed it onto the black velvet tray on the counter.

The diamonds caught the harsh overhead lights, throwing brilliant sparks across the room.

The appraiser picked up the bracelet with a pair of tweezers.

He did not look impressed.

He turned the piece over, his loupe magnifying the intricate setting.

"The cut on these smaller stones is outdated," the appraiser said, his voice dripping with fake professional regret. "And the clasp mechanism is slightly loose."

Abigayle locked her jaw.

"That is a custom piece," Abigayle stated, her voice tight. "The stones are flawless. You know exactly what it is worth."

The appraiser dropped the bracelet back onto the velvet tray with a careless clatter.

"I know what it was worth in a boutique," he sneered. "But you are not in a boutique. You are in a pawnshop. I will give you twenty thousand dollars for it."

Abigayle felt the blood drain from her face.

Twenty thousand was less than a tenth of its actual market value.

It was a blatant, insulting robbery.

"No," Abigayle said, her chest tightening. "That is an insult."

The appraiser crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

"That is the price for desperate people," he said coldly. "Take it, or take a walk. You will be back."

Abigayle snatched the bracelet off the tray.

Her fingers closed tightly around the cold metal, the sharp edges of the diamonds biting into her palm.

She turned around, grabbed Thaddeus's arm, and walked right back out the heavy glass doors.

The wind hit them instantly.

They walked half a block until Thaddeus began to cough violently, his face turning a dangerous shade of pale.

Abigayle guided him to a cold metal bench near a bus stop.

Thaddeus sat down heavily, resting his head in his hands.

Abigayle stood in front of him, her stomach twisting with guilt and panic.

She looked down at her own body. She wore nothing of value except the memories clinging to her like ghosts.

An idea, desperate and painful, sparked in her mind.

She swung the small suitcase off her shoulder and placed it on the bench. With trembling fingers, she unzipped it. Inside, nestled amongst a few silk scarves, were three items: a limited-edition Burberry trench, a Chanel tweed jacket, and a rare Hermes clutch.

The cold wind immediately bit into her skin as she handled the precious fabrics, but she ignored it.

She pulled her phone from her pocket.

The battery icon flashed red at ten percent.

Her fingers were stiff from the cold as she quickly downloaded a high-end luxury resale application.

She snapped clear, detailed photos of the coats and the clutch, making sure to capture the authentication tags.

She created a listing.

She typed in the description: Urgent sale. New York local pickup or courier only.

She priced them at a fraction of their retail value, just enough to cover the immediate hospital deposit.

She hit publish.

Three miles away, in the sky above Midtown Manhattan.

Donovan Sullivan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his top-floor office at Sullivan Holdings.

He held an unlit cigar between his fingers, his dark eyes staring out at the gray, rain-soaked city.

The heavy wooden door of his office opened.

Kevin Rich walked in, holding a slim tablet.

Kevin stopped a few feet behind Donovan.

"Sir," Kevin said quietly. "We have the feed from the Diamond District."

Donovan turned around.

He took the tablet from Kevin's hands.

The screen showed a high-definition security camera feed from 47th Street.

Donovan watched Abigayle pull her most valuable possessions from a battered suitcase in the freezing wind.

He watched her shivering, her bare feet standing on the wet concrete, as she took pictures of her clothes with her phone.

A dark, dangerous shadow crossed Donovan's eyes.

The muscle in his jaw ticked.

"The bank is secretly auctioning the Pena family's Upper East Side penthouse tomorrow morning," Kevin reported, keeping his voice neutral.

Donovan did not look up from the screen.

"Buy it," Donovan commanded. "Offer one hundred million in cash. Close the deal in one hour. No one else touches that property."

Kevin blinked, shocked by the massive overpayment, but he nodded immediately.

"Yes, sir."

Donovan's private phone buzzed on his massive mahogany desk.

He walked over and picked it up.

His tech team had already cloned Abigayle's phone IP address and tracked her new app registration.

Donovan opened the application on his own device.

He saw the listings she had just posted.

He stared at the photos of the coats. He could almost feel the residual warmth of her body on the fabric.

His throat moved as he swallowed.

"Register an anonymous buyer account," Donovan ordered Kevin, his voice a low rumble. "Untraceable."

Kevin pulled out his own phone and began typing rapidly.

Back on the street, Abigayle blew hot air into her freezing hands.

She kept refreshing the application screen.

The view count remained in the single digits.

Thaddeus looked up, his eyes filled with sorrow.

"Please, Miss," Thaddeus begged, his teeth chattering. "You'll catch your death. Let's find shelter."

Abigayle shook her head stubbornly.

"I just need one buyer," she whispered, staring at the screen.

Suddenly, a sharp ping echoed from her phone speaker.

A direct message notification popped up at the top of the screen.

Abigayle's heart slammed against her ribs.

She tapped the notification, her thumb shaking so badly she almost dropped the device.

She expected a lowball offer or a scam message.

The message loaded.

It was a single, short sentence.

I will take all of it at your asking price, send the payment details immediately.