Claimed By My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

The sun completely disappeared behind the Manhattan skyline, plunging the penthouse into absolute darkness. With the bank accounts frozen, the building management had mercilessly cut the power to the unit. The central heating died with it. The temperature in the massive, empty apartment plummeted. Abigayle sat curled on the leather sofa, her knees pulled to her chest, shivering violently. She had wrapped Donovan's heavy suit jacket tightly around herself, hating the smell of him but desperate for the warmth it provided. The neon lights from the city below cast long, distorted shadows across the bare hardwood floors, making the room look like a graveyard. Thaddeus shuffled into the living room, a small flashlight in his hand. He placed a half-burned aromatherapy candle on the glass coffee table and lit it with a trembling match. The flickering orange flame cast deep shadows under Abigayle's eyes, highlighting the exhaustion carved into her face. Thaddeus handed her a plate with a cold, hard turkey sandwich and a bottle of water. "You need to eat, Miss," he urged softly. Abigayle stared at the dry bread. Her stomach cramped painfully, rejecting the idea of food, but she forced herself to pick it up. She took a bite, chewing the cardboard-like texture, and swallowed it down with a large gulp of freezing water. She set the plate down and picked up her phone. The battery icon flashed red at twelve percent. She opened her contacts, scrolling through the names of the socialite friends she had dined with just two days ago. She tapped the first name. The phone rang three times before a familiar, bubbly voice answered. "Hey, Abby! Oh my god, I saw the news. Are you okay?" "Sarah, I need a favor," Abigayle said, her voice tight. "My dad is in the ICU. The accounts are frozen. I need a short-term loan. Just until the lawyers sort this out." The line went dead silent. "Oh, Abby... I'm actually boarding a flight to Milan right now. The reception is terrible. I'll call you next week, okay? Good luck!" Click. Abigayle lowered the phone. She took a breath and dialed the next number. Rejected. She dialed another. Sent straight to voicemail. By the tenth call, the reality of her new existence slapped her across the face. Without the Pena Group halo, she was a liability. A plague they all wanted to avoid. Her phone vibrated violently in her hand. The caller ID read: NY Presbyterian Billing. Abigayle swiped to answer, her heart dropping into her stomach. "Miss Pena," a clinical, bored voice said. "We are calling to inform you that your father's emergency bypass surgery requires a deposit. We need one hundred thousand dollars transferred by eight A.M. tomorrow, or we cannot proceed with the operation." "Please," Abigayle begged, her voice cracking. "Give me a few days. The assets are just temporarily frozen." "Hospital policy, ma'am. Eight A.M." The line disconnected. Abigayle dropped the phone onto the couch. One hundred thousand dollars. It used to be the price of a handbag. Now, it was the price of her father's life. Thaddeus reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a worn, plastic debit card and placed it on the table next to the candle. "It's my life savings, Miss," Thaddeus said, his voice thick with tears. "Twenty thousand dollars. It's not enough, but it's a start." Abigayle stared at the card. Tears finally breached her defenses, sliding down her cold cheeks. She reached out, picked up the card, and pressed it firmly back into Thaddeus's hand. "No," she whispered fiercely. "That is your retirement. I won't touch it." She wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood up. She walked over to the small pile of personal belongings the repo men had allowed her to keep. She unzipped her designer clutch and dumped the contents onto the table. Lipstick, keys, and a small velvet pouch. She opened the pouch and pulled out a heavy, diamond-encrusted Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet. Her father had custom-ordered it for her eighteenth birthday. The diamonds sparkled in the candlelight, mocking her pain. Her chest physically ached at the thought of losing it, but she had no choice. She clutched the cold metal in her palm. She spent the rest of the night staring at the candle until it burned out. When the first gray light of dawn crept through the windows, Abigayle stood up. She folded Donovan's suit jacket and placed it neatly on the armrest. She walked into the bathroom, splashed freezing water on her face, and tied her hair back into a severe, tight ponytail. She put her torn black trench coat back on. She slipped the diamond bracelet deep into her pocket. At exactly seven A.M., heavy, aggressive pounding echoed from the front door. "Court marshals! Open up!" The final eviction had arrived.