Claimed By My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle
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I spent our third anniversary alone in our penthouse, adjusting a white rose and waiting for a man who didn't want to come home. When my fiancé, Chris Osborne, finally arrived, he didn't notice the 1982 Lafite or the dinner I’d prepared. He looked at me with disgust, calling my desire for a wedding date "pressure" before storming out to a private club.
I followed him, hiding behind a marble pillar at The Vault as I recorded his voice on my phone. He was laughing with his friends about a $20 million bet. He called me a "boring ice queen" and a "marble statue," explaining that he only needed to keep me around until the merger closed so he could steal my shares and "cut me loose." To make it worse, my own father was in on it, prioritizing his stock price over his daughter's life.
Broken and barefoot in a torrential Manhattan downpour, I sought refuge at the Four Seasons. I collapsed into the arms of a tall, dangerous-looking stranger and begged him to take me upstairs. I wanted to be erased, to forget the transaction my life had become. After a night of salt and desperation, I left my engagement ring on his nightstand as payment for services rendered and fled.
The next morning, I realized I had jumped from the frying pan into the furnace. My "stranger" wasn't a nobody. He was Gallagher Osborne—the ruthless patriarch of the family and my fiancé’s uncle. He tracked me to a private clinic, trapping me in a room while holding my medical file and the ring I’d discarded. He told me I was his now, and that he’d dismantle Chris piece by piece if I didn't comply.
I was a piece of currency to my father, a bet to my fiancé, and a prize to his uncle. I had no allies, no escape, and no mercy left. I realized that being the "perfect daughter" had only made me a target. If they wanted to play games with the "Ice Queen," I decided to give them a frostbite they would never forget.
I trashed my art gallery, backdated a diagnosis for a psychotic break, and sent a cryptic suicide note to Chris. As Gallagher watched from the shadows and Chris panicked over his investment, I began the process of scorching the earth. The merger was still happening, but I wasn't the bride anymore—I was the wrecking ball.
Claimed By My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle Chapter 1
Elisa picked up her phone from the polished mahogany table. The screen was black. No missed calls. No texts. Just her own reflection staring back-a woman composed of hairspray, silk, and desperate patience. She opened the "Find My Friends" app. The little blue dot representing Chris was moving fast. It wasn't heading toward his office. It was heading south. Toward Chelsea.
She took a breath that rattled slightly in her lungs, then set the phone down, face up. For the tenth time, she adjusted the white rose in the center of the table. Her finger brushed against a petal, catching a drop of water that hadn't yet evaporated. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.
She glanced at the bottle of 1982 Lafite Rothschild breathing on the sidebar. It had been open for exactly forty-five minutes. The timing was precise. The crystal glasses gleamed under the dim chandelier light, reflecting the cold, empty perfection of the penthouse dining room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of the Upper East Side shimmered, a sprawling grid of wealth and indifference that mirrored the stillness in her own chest.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. Nine o'clock.
Chris was two hours late.
Elisa smoothed the skirt of her dress, her palms damp against the fabric.
Smile, she told herself. Just smile. It's the anniversary.
The sound of the front door lock turning was like a gunshot in the silence.
Elisa stood up immediately. Her chair scraped softly against the rug. She walked toward the foyer, her heels clicking on the marble, rhythmically masking the erratic thumping of her heart.
Chris Osborne walked in, bringing with him a gust of cold November air and the faint, sweet scent of bourbon. He didn't look at her. He was busy wrestling with his scarf, his movements jerky and irritated.
"You're home," Elisa said, her voice soft, practiced. She reached out to help him with his coat.
Chris turned his shoulder, dodging her hands. "I've got it." He hung the cashmere coat on the rack himself, the fabric rustling aggressively. "Traffic was a nightmare. Absolute gridlock on Fifth."
He still hadn't looked at her eyes. His gaze bounced from the coat rack to the floor, then to the hallway mirror. anywhere but at her.
"I was worried," Elisa said, stepping back to give him space. "I thought maybe a meeting ran late."
"Something like that." Chris walked past her, loosening his tie. He headed straight for the dining room without waiting for her.
Elisa followed him. She watched his back, the tension in his shoulders. He sat down at the head of the table, not noticing the flowers, the candles, or the wine. He just looked tired. Or bored.
"Hungry?" she asked, moving to the sidebar to pour the wine. The dark red liquid swirled into the glass, rich and heavy.
"Starving," he muttered, picking up his napkin and dropping it onto his lap.
Elisa placed the glass in front of him. She sat to his right, close enough to touch him, but she kept her hands in her lap. "Happy anniversary, Chris."
Chris froze. His hand, halfway to the wine glass, stopped in mid-air. He blinked, a slow, painful movement, as if his brain was grinding gears to catch up. He looked at the wine, then at the elaborate dinner setting.
"Right," he said, his voice flat. He picked up the glass and took a large swallow, treating the vintage vintage like cheap water. "Happy anniversary, babe."
He had forgotten.
Elisa felt a cold stone settle in her stomach. It wasn't surprise. It was just a heavy, familiar weight. She forced the smile to stay on her lips, though it felt like the skin might crack.
"Three years," she said quietly. "It feels like a lifetime."
"Yeah. Sure does." Chris cut into the steak she had prepared, the knife screeching slightly against the china.
Elisa watched him chew. She reached into the pocket of her dress and her fingers closed around the velvet box. The edges were sharp against her skin. This was it. The test. The moment that would decide the fate of the merger, her inheritance, everything.
She slid the box onto the tablecloth and pushed it gently toward him. It was a small, navy blue box from Tiffany's.
Chris stopped chewing. He stared at the box as if it were a live grenade. His throat worked as he swallowed the meat, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"What is this?" His voice was tight.
"I was thinking," Elisa said, keeping her tone light, breezy. "With the merger coming up between our families... maybe it's time we set a date. Officially."
Chris dropped his fork. It clattered onto the plate, sending a spray of red sauce onto the pristine white tablecloth. It looked like blood spatter.
He stood up so abruptly his chair tipped backward, teetering on two legs before slamming back down. "Jesus, Elisa!"
Elisa didn't flinch physically, but her insides coiled. "Chris?"
"Why do you always have to do this?" His face was flushed now, the alcohol and anger mixing under his skin. "Pressure, pressure, pressure. That's all I get from you. From your dad. From everyone."
"I'm not pressuring you," Elisa said, her voice trembling slightly. "It's just a conversation. We've been engaged for a year."
"I'm not ready!" Chris shouted. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up. "I can't deal with a wedding right now. The market is volatile, the board is breathing down my neck... I need space, Elisa. I need room to breathe."
He looked at her then, really looked at her, and Elisa saw it. The disgust. It wasn't just stress. He looked at her like she was a shackle around his ankle.
"Space?" Elisa repeated, the word tasting like ash.
"Yes. Space." Chris grabbed his phone from the table. He didn't even look at the wine he'd spilled. "I'm going out."
"Out? We haven't even eaten."
"I lost my appetite." He turned and marched toward the door.
Elisa stood up, her legs feeling weak. She followed him to the foyer. "Chris, please. Where are you going?"
He grabbed his coat, not bothering to put it on, just bunching it in his fist. He opened the door, the hallway draft hitting her face.
"Don't wait up," he said. He didn't look back.
The door slammed shut. The sound echoed through the penthouse, vibrating in the floorboards under Elisa's feet.
She stood there for a long time, staring at the wood grain of the door. The silence of the apartment rushed back in, suffocating her. She walked back to the dining room. The red stain on the tablecloth was spreading, soaking into the fibers.
She looked at the velvet box. It was still closed. He hadn't even opened it.
Elisa sat down in her chair. She didn't cry. Tears were a luxury she couldn't afford right now. She felt a cold, clinical clarity wash over her. It wasn't just fear of commitment. Chris was running. He was running toward something, or someone.
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Claimed By My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
New Release Novels
8.2
Ten years as childhood friends and three as husband and wife ended in her husband's betrayal, and her brothers' indifference. Diagnosed with mid-stage stomach cancer, Roselyn saw the truth of her life.
She walked away from everything, rising from an overlooked office worker to a leading figure in the tech world.
She outplayed her husband into signing divorce papers. When they met again, he begged, "I was wrong... take me back. I'd give you my stomach if I could."
Her once arrogant brothers pleaded too, but she felt nothing. After all, love that arrived too late meant nothing to her now-she simply didn't care anymore.
As they stood desperate, a man stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms. "Why waste time on them? Look at me instead."
7.8
Alayna was working a grueling catering shift in worn-out heels to support her broke college boyfriend, Caiden, who claimed to be studying at the library.
But through the crack of a VIP suite door, she saw him wearing a bespoke suit and a Patek Philippe watch, sipping expensive liquor.
"It's a little poverty role-play. Keeps things interesting."
He was laughing with his rich friends, mocking her as his clueless "charity case."
To make matters worse, she was forced into a humiliating mascot costume just in time to watch him passionately kiss his wealthy ex-girlfriend.
That same night, Alayna's mother collapsed with gastric cancer, requiring a half-million-dollar surgery.
When a desperate Alayna begged Caiden for help, he refused.
"Why don't you just apply for Medicaid? That's the path for people like you."
For two years, she had starved herself to buy his textbooks, his tickets, and his shoes.
He had stolen her sweat and her sacrifices, all for a cruel game.
The sheer audacity of his betrayal made her blood run cold.
When a billionaire stranger stepped in to pay her mother's medical bills in exchange for a one-year fake marriage, Alayna didn't hesitate to sign the contract.
She slipped the flawless diamond ring onto her finger, opened a spreadsheet, and sent Caiden an invoice for every single cent.
This time, she was going to dismantle his entire life.
7.2
In the roaring flames of the abandoned warehouse, my skin blistered and peeled.
Through the crackling fire, my sister Elara's malicious voice echoed. She told me my husband, Damien, was dead, and it was all my fault.
For years, I had treated Damien like a monster. I fought him, threw tantrums, and desperately tried to escape our marriage, all because I blindly followed Elara's advice.
"Remember, the harder you fight, the more disgusted he'll get."
She texted me things like that, telling me to smash vases over his head and run away, claiming she was protecting me.
In reality, she was poisoning my mind, stealing my valedictorian spot at university, and plotting to crawl into my billionaire husband's bed.
My foolish rebellion cost me everything, ultimately leading to Damien's tragic death and my own fiery end.
As the massive explosion tore my consciousness to shreds, I finally understood who truly loved me and who the real monster was.
I died suffocating on my own agonizing regret, wishing I could tear Elara apart.
Then, a rush of freezing air punched into my lungs.
I opened my eyes to the crisp scent of cedar and mint. I was back seven years ago, on the very night our marriage was supposed to go to hell.
This time, looking at Damien's flawless, unscarred face, I didn't push him away.
I wrapped my arms around his neck and made a silent vow: I would make every single person who ever hurt him bleed.
7.7
My husband, Bennett, and I were New York's golden couple. But our perfect marriage was a lie, childless because of a rare genetic condition he claimed would kill any woman who carried his baby. When his dying father demanded an heir, Bennett proposed a solution: a surrogate.
The woman he chose, Aria, was a younger, more vibrant version of me. Suddenly, Bennett was always busy, supporting her through "difficult IVF cycles." He missed my birthday. He forgot our anniversary.
I tried to believe him, until I overheard him at a party. He confessed to his friends that his love for me was a "deep connection," but with Aria, it was "fire" and "exhilarating."
He was planning a secret wedding with her in Lake Como, at the same villa he'd promised me for our anniversary.
He was giving her a wedding, a family, a life—all the things he denied me, using a lie about a deadly genetic condition as his excuse. The betrayal was so complete it felt like a physical shock.
When he came home that night, lying about a business trip, I smiled and played the part of the loving wife.
He didn't know I'd heard everything.
He didn't know that while he was planning his new life, I was already planning my escape.
And he certainly didn't know I had just made a call to a service that specialized in one thing: making people disappear.
7.3
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
8.1
Elinor's frail daughter, Cece, died in a sterile hospital room while waiting for her father to take her to Disney World.
But her billionaire husband, Derick, never showed up. At the exact moment Cece's heart monitor flatlined, the hospital TV broadcasted Derick affectionately holding the hand of his mistress and he has booked a clearance of the entire Disneyland to celebrate mistress's daughter's birthday!.
When Elinor confronted Derick with their daughter's ashes, he sneered and accused her of hiding the child just to get his attention. Elinor's heart was torn to shreds. How could a father be so blind and ruthless? Did Kamryn use his power to steal the very kidney that belonged to Cece? Why did her innocent baby have to die for their sick affair?
The suffocating grief inside Elinor finally crystallized into a sharp blade. She wiped the blood from her lips, canceled the simple divorce, and began her ruthless revenge.
