Claimed By My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

The elevator chimed, signaling the ground floor.

The metal doors slid open, revealing the massive, echoing expanse of the hotel lobby.

Outside the revolving glass doors, a sea of flashing lights and news vans choked the street.

Abigayle pulled the collar of the black trench coat up tight against her neck. She slid a pair of dark sunglasses over her eyes, hiding her pale face, and took a deep breath.

She stepped out of the elevator, her flat shoes clicking against the polished marble floor.

She was ten feet away from the exit when a shrill voice echoed across the lobby.

"Abby! Wait!"

Kim sprinted out of a VIP elevator bank, her heels clicking frantically. She was waving her arms, making sure every camera outside the glass caught the drama.

Kim lunged forward, her manicured fingers digging painfully into Abigayle's forearm.

"Please, Abby, let's just talk about this!" Kim cried out, her face twisted in fake agony as the camera flashes outside went into a frenzy.

Abigayle ripped her arm out of Kim's grip.

"Back off, Kim," Abigayle warned, her voice a low, dangerous hiss. "Do not test me right now."

Kim stepped closer, dropping the victim act the second she was out of earshot of the hotel staff.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against Abigayle's ear.

"I didn't just sleep with your fiancé," Kim whispered, a wicked smile stretching across her face. "Your assistant is much more loyal to me. She knows who can give her a better future. Who do you think made sure you were too tired to remember anything last night?"

The words hit Abigayle like a physical blow to the chest.

Her assistant. The girl she had mentored and trusted for three years.

Abigayle's pupils dilated. The last thread of her rational control snapped.

She didn't think. She just reacted.

Abigayle swung her right arm back and brought her hand across Kim's face with every ounce of strength she had left.

Smack.

The sharp, explosive sound echoed through the massive lobby, silencing the chatter of the hotel guests.

Kim's head snapped violently to the side. She stumbled backward, her hand flying to her rapidly reddening cheek.

A thin line of blood seeped from the corner of Kim's mouth where her teeth had cut her lip.

Outside the glass, the paparazzi went absolutely feral, their shutters firing like machine guns to capture the violence.

Abigayle stood over her, her chest heaving, her palm stinging with a fiery heat.

"Consider that a down payment," Abigayle said coldly.

She turned her back on Kim, pushed through the heavy revolving doors, and stepped out into the brutal New York storm.

The freezing autumn rain instantly soaked her hair, plastering it to her cheeks.

She kept her spine straight, ignoring the microphones shoved into her face and the shouted questions about her infidelity.

She pushed through the mob, walking briskly down the wet sidewalk.

Half a block away from the hotel, a sharp, agonizing pain suddenly pierced the sole of her right foot.

Abigayle gasped, her knee buckling.

She grabbed onto a cold, wet streetlamp to keep from collapsing onto the concrete.

She lifted her right foot and pulled off the black leather flat Martha's assistant had given her.

She turned the shoe upside down.

Three jagged shards of broken glass tumbled out, mixing with the puddles on the ground.

Blood was already soaking through her sheer tights, turning the rainwater around her foot a murky red.

They had lined the shoe with glass to make her fall in front of the cameras.

Abigayle clamped her jaw shut. She didn't cry out.

She threw the bloody shoe directly into a nearby metal trash can, then quickly inspected the left one. Seeing the telltale glint of crushed glass lining the toe box of that one as well, she tossed the left one in after it. She couldn't bear to have anything from them touching her skin for a second longer.

Barefoot, she stepped back onto the freezing, rough asphalt.

She limped forward, the sharp gravel biting into her skin with every step, the rain washing the blood away as fast as she bled.

Across the street, partially hidden in the gray downpour, a solid black, armored Maybach sat idling.

The windows were tinted so dark they looked like obsidian.

Inside the cavernous, soundproof back seat, Donovan Sullivan sat in the shadows.

His large, powerful hands slowly rolled a custom silver lighter over his knuckles.

His dark, predatory eyes tracked the woman limping through the rain, his gaze locked onto her bloody footprints.

In the passenger seat, his executive assistant, Kevin Rich, glanced at the rearview mirror.

"Sir, should I send a team to bring Miss Pena to the car?" Kevin asked quietly.

Donovan raised a single finger, stopping him.

"Not yet," Donovan murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet cabin.

He watched Abigayle's stubborn, shivering frame. He remembered the way she had trembled beneath him in the dark hotel room last night.

His throat worked as he swallowed, a dark, possessive heat coiling in his gut.

She was bleeding, she was broken, but she refused to bend.

From last night, Donovan vowed silently, his grip tightening around the silver lighter until his knuckles turned white, you carry my mark. No one else will ever touch you.

"Find out who put the glass in her shoe," Donovan ordered, his eyes never leaving Abigayle. "I want them to pay for it. Tenfold."

The Maybach shifted into gear, creeping forward like a massive predator, staying just far enough behind Abigayle to block the paparazzi cars trying to follow her.

At the intersection, Abigayle finally spotted a yellow cab with its light on.

She waved frantically, yanking the door open the second it stopped.

She threw herself into the vinyl backseat, her wet clothes clinging to her freezing skin.

"Upper East Side," she gasped out her penthouse address to the driver.

As the cab sped away, the Maybach stopped at the red light.

Donovan watched the taillights disappear into the rain, a cruel, inevitable smirk touching his lips.

"Follow her," he commanded.