Marrying My Cheating Ex's Billionaire Uncle

The heavy oak door slammed open, the sound cracking through the quiet of the living room.

Alma Ryan stumbled in. The strap of her evening gown was broken, her long brown hair stuck in damp strands to her flushed cheeks. Her eyes were hazy, but a fire burned within them.

She gripped the doorframe, gasping for air. An unnatural heat pulsed through her body, and her vision struggled to focus on the lavish, cold space.

On the sofa, her stepmother, Collette Ryan, held a glass of red wine. She frowned at the noise, her eyes lifting.

Collette's gaze scanned Alma from head to toe, a sneer of undisguised disgust twisting her lips, followed by a flicker of surprise. "You actually came back?"

Alma shoved herself forward, her voice a raw rasp. "What did you do to me?"

Collette set her glass down. She rose slowly, smoothing the silk of her expensive dress as if looking at something filthy. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Alma. But you, running home in the middle of the night looking like that... are you trying to ruin the Ryan family name?"

A wave of dizziness hit Alma. She steadied herself against a console table, a crystal figurine wobbling precariously.

"The champagne," Alma bit out, her teeth clenched. "You handed it to me."

Collette let out a small, sharp laugh. "I handed it to you? Alma, there were hundreds of people at that party. I don't recall such a minor detail."

She moved closer, her heavy perfume washing over Alma, making the nausea worse.

Collette lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You were supposed to be in the penthouse suite at The Grand Excelsior, keeping Mr. Joe Quinn company. What happened? Didn't he satisfy you?"

The name Joe Quinn was a hammer blow. A greasy, lecherous businessman famous for his wandering hands. Alma's stomach churned violently.

She shoved Collette away. The force, amplified by the drug and her rage, was surprising. Collette stumbled back, hitting the arm of the sofa, genuine shock flashing across her face for the first time.

"You're insane!" Collette shrieked.

Alma's eyes darted around the room, searching for a weapon. Her hand closed around a heavy metal candlestick on the coffee table. It was so heavy her arm trembled.

"I'll kill you," Alma said, each word precise and venomous.

Fear flickered in Collette's eyes before being replaced by a deeper contempt. "With what? Your reputation? You're about to be a disgraced slut."

She composed herself, a confident smile returning to her face. "Your father won't believe you. No one in this house will help you."

The word "father" was a stab of pain. It was always her weakness.

Just then, Collette's phone rang, the sharp sound cutting through the tension.

She glanced at the caller ID, her smile widening. She answered it, deliberately putting the call on speaker.

"Mrs. Ryan," a man's gruff voice said. "We have a small problem."

Collette's smile froze. "What problem?"

"The girl... she never made it to Mr. Quinn's room. Our guys lost her."

Alma heard every word. A sick, triumphant pleasure surged through her as she watched the color drain from Collette's face.

The fragments of the past hours crashed back into her mind. The bitter aftertaste of the champagne as it slid down her throat.

The way her vision had started to blur, and how she had dug her nails into her palm—hard enough to draw blood—just to stay conscious.

Quinn's hand landed on her shoulder. She jerked away, but he grabbed her wrist, his grip like a vise. She twisted and pulled with all her strength, feeling his nails dig into her skin. She didn't stop.

She knocked over a wine glass, and while the waiters scrambled to clean the mess, she slipped out through a side door, tearing her strap on the latch.

She remembered the service corridor, the clatter of a cleaning cart she'd overturned, the sharp pain in her knee as she fell against a metal threshold.

She didn't stop. She scrambled up and ran until she found a rear exit, gasping in the cold night air.

She flagged down a taxi with shaking hands and gave her own address.

The driver gave her strange looks, but she kept her face buried in her palms and said only one word: Drive.

The images were waterlogged and frayed, but one fact stood out clear and unbreakable: She had gotten out. On her own.

Collette's expression shifted from red to white to a pasty green. She stared at Alma, her eyes promising murder.

"Useless!" she snarled into the phone before abruptly ending the call.

Silence fell again, but the balance of power had subtly shifted.

Collette's eyes glittered with malice. She knew her plan had a fatal flaw.

Alma, holding onto the wall for support, began to walk toward the stairs. Each step was agony, but she kept her spine perfectly straight.

She needed a shower. She needed to wash away the cloying scent of perfume and the filth of the evening.

Behind her, Collette's hateful gaze followed her every move.