Jilted Heiress: Seducing My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle

"Good morning, niece-in-law," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke. "You were very enthusiastic last night." Ivy trembled. Hours earlier, the world had been a different kind of hell. The stem of the champagne flute felt like it was going to snap between Ivy Wallace's fingers. She stood in the dead center of the Pierre Hotel's grand ballroom. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast a light that was too bright, too exposing. It made the diamonds around the necks of the women nearby glitter aggressively, like teeth bared in a smile. Ivy took a sip. The liquid was warm now. It tasted like vinegar and regret. She could hear them. The whispers. They moved through the room like a draft of cold air, rustling the silk gowns and stiff tuxedos. Did you see her dress? Last season's Dior. I heard the Wallace accounts are in the red again. Poor thing. She doesn't even know where he is. Ivy knew exactly where he was. Clive Fitzpatrick stood near the terrace doors. He was looking at his phone, his brow furrowed in that way that usually meant he was annoyed with the stock market or the temperature of his scotch. He was handsome in a conventional, soft way, the kind of handsome that came from three generations of never having to lift anything heavier than a fountain pen. Ivy took a step forward. Her heels sank slightly into the plush carpet. She needed to be next to him. That was her job. She was the accessory, the mute, smiling doll that signaled stability to the investors. Then she saw the red dress. Catrina Bowers slid into the frame like a slash of fresh blood. The dress was cut low, dangerously low for a family charity gala. It was the kind of dress that made people talk, and Catrina lived for the talk. She linked her arm through Clive's. It was possessive. It was intimate. Ivy stopped. Her breath hitched in her throat, a physical stumble in her chest. Clive looked up then. His eyes met Ivy's across the room. There was no warmth in them. No apology. Just a flash of irritation, as if she were a stain on his cuff that he couldn't quite scrub out. He waved his hand, a dismissive flick of the wrist. Go away. Catrina saw the gesture. She turned her head, her blonde curls bouncing. She found Ivy in the crowd and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a victory lap. Then they turned together and walked out the terrace doors, disappearing into the night. Ivy stood there. The room seemed to tilt. It wasn't just the humiliation. It was the three glasses of champagne she had consumed on an empty stomach. She hadn't eaten since yesterday. Claudia, her adoptive mother, had mentioned that the dress was fitting a little snug around the waist. Ivy had taken the hint. A waiter approached with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The smell of truffle oil hit Ivy's nose and her stomach rolled violently. She pushed past him, her shoulder knocking into the tray. A murmur of annoyance followed her, but she didn't care. She needed air. She needed quiet. She stumbled toward the elevators. The polished brass doors reflected a distorted version of herself. Pale skin. Wide, panicked eyes. A woman on the verge of shattering. She pressed the button for the penthouse level. The Wallace family didn't have a suite up there. They were on the eighth floor. But the eighth floor was full of people-her mother, her sister Delsie, the staff. Ivy couldn't handle people. She remembered Clive saying something about the Fitzpatrick family keeping a suite permanently reserved at the top for private meetings. Clive wasn't there. He was with Catrina. The room would be empty. The elevator ride made her ears pop. When the doors slid open, the silence of the hallway was heavy, suffocating. The carpet here was thicker. The sconces on the walls were dimmer. Ivy walked down the corridor, trailing her hand along the textured wallpaper. She counted the doors. One. Two. The third door was slightly ajar. A sliver of darkness waited inside. She pushed it open. The room smelled different than the hallway. It smelled of cedar wood, expensive leather, and the sharp, cold scent of tobacco. It was a masculine smell, overpowering and distinct. Ivy didn't think. She kicked off her heels, leaving them where they fell on the entryway tile. She walked into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the city lights. It was a cave. A sanctuary. She collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was firm, unforgiving. She curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to hold the pieces of her dignity together. The alcohol pulled her down. The room spun slower, then stopped. Her eyelids felt like lead weights. She drifted. Sometime later, the bed shifted. It wasn't a subtle movement. The mattress dipped significantly, as if a heavy weight had settled onto the other side. Ivy groaned, her mind still wrapped in a fog of champagne. Clive? He must have come back. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he realized he couldn't leave his fiancée alone at their engagement celebration. A hand touched her waist. It was large. Heavy. The heat radiating from the palm burned through the thin silk of her dress. Ivy leaned into the touch. She was so starved for affection, for any sign that she wasn't just a business asset, that she didn't question it. She turned over, seeking the warmth. The hand slid up her ribcage. It was rougher than Clive's hands. Clive had soft, manicured hands. This hand had calluses. It felt dangerous. A body pressed against hers. Hard muscle. The scent of cedar and tobacco intensified, filling her lungs, drowning her. Ivy gasped as a mouth covered hers. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was a claiming. It was hungry and demanding. Wait, she thought. Her brain fired a warning signal, but it was weak, distant. The man shifted, his weight pinning her to the mattress. His knee drove between her legs, spreading them with an authority that made her breath catch. "Don't move," a voice growled against her neck. It was deep, vibrating through her bones. It wasn't Clive's voice. But the fear didn't come. Or maybe it did, and it just felt like adrenaline. Ivy was floating, untethered. For the first time all day-for the first time in years-someone wanted her. Not for her name, not for her shares, but for her skin, her breath, her body. She didn't push him away. She wrapped her legs around him. It was a free fall. A collision. The pain was sharp, tearing through the haze of alcohol, but it was followed by a wave of sensation so intense it made her cry out. He didn't stop. He didn't ask if she was okay. He took what he wanted, and Ivy let him, because in that moment, being used felt better than being invisible. The darkness swallowed them both. Light. It was the enemy. It pried Ivy's eyelids open before she was ready. A sharp, throbbing pain sat behind her eyes. Her mouth tasted like cotton. Her body felt… wrecked. Every muscle ached, a dull soreness that radiated from her core. She blinked, trying to focus on the ceiling. It wasn't her room. The crown molding was different. Memory returned in jagged shards. The party. The red dress. The elevator. The dark room. The man. Ivy froze. She stopped breathing. She turned her head slowly on the pillow, terrified of what she would find. The man next to her was asleep. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, revealing a chest that looked like it was carved out of marble-broad, tanned, and scarred. Ivy's gaze traveled up to his face. Strong jawline, covered in the shadow of morning stubble. High cheekbones. A nose that had been broken once, maybe twice. It wasn't Clive. Ivy's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew this face. Everyone in New York knew this face. It was on the cover of Forbes. It was in the nightmares of Wall Street traders. Bruno Fitzpatrick. Clive's uncle. The black sheep. The family's executioner. Panic, cold and liquid, flooded her veins. She had slept with her fiancé's uncle. The night of her engagement party. This wasn't a mistake. This was a death sentence. If Claudia found out… if the family found out… Ivy scrambled backward, the sheets tangling around her legs. She needed to leave. Now. Before he woke up. She reached for the edge of the mattress, her foot searching for the floor. A hand shot out. It wrapped around her wrist with the speed of a striking snake. The grip was iron-clad. Painful. Ivy gasped, freezing in place. Slowly, the man on the bed lowered his arm from his face. He opened his eyes. They were black. Pitch black. There was no sleep in them. No confusion. He looked like he had been awake for hours, watching her, waiting for her to move. Bruno Fitzpatrick pulled himself up. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he leaned back against the headboard. He looked at Ivy. He didn't look at her face. He looked at her naked shoulders, the marks on her neck, the terror in her eyes. A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips.