Sweet Revenge: Kissing My Ex's Uncle

The hallway was a long, silent tunnel. Eleanora ran, the heavy duvet clutched around her, her bare feet slapping against the cold, polished floor. A housekeeping cart was parked by an open door. The maid, a woman with tired eyes, looked up, her mouth falling open in shock at the sight of the half-naked, weeping girl sprinting past. The look of pity and surprise on the woman's face was another brand of shame seared into Eleanora's memory. She jabbed the button for the elevator, praying it would be empty. It was. The ride down to the parking garage was the longest minute of her life. She watched her reflection in the mirrored walls-a wild-eyed, disheveled creature with tear tracks on her face, wrapped in a hotel bedspread. This was not her. This was someone else. The elevator doors opened to the cold, echoing concrete of the underground garage. The air smelled of exhaust and damp. She stumbled forward, her bare feet freezing against the gritty floor, her eyes darting wildly for an exit, for anything. A valet in a crisp uniform was parking a silver sports car a few spaces away. He turned, his eyes widening at the apparition before him. Eleanora didn't stop. She lurched toward the ramp that led up to the street, the duvet dragging behind her like a ruined train. The valet called out, but his voice was just noise, swallowed by the roar of blood in her ears. She emerged onto the sidewalk. The pre-dawn city air hit her face, sharp and cold. Headlights blurred past. She raised a trembling arm, her hand a pale claw against the dark. A yellow cab swerved to the curb with a screech of brakes. The driver, a middle-aged man with a kind, weathered face, leaned over and pushed the back door open, his initial irritation melting into stunned concern at the sight of her. "Miss? You okay? You need a hospital?" "Please," she gasped, her voice cracking. "Just drive. I'll give you the address. I have money at home. I promise." He hesitated for only a second before nodding, his eyes full of a weary city compassion. She collapsed into the back seat, pulling the duvet tight, and the cab pulled away, leaving the glittering tower of The Apex behind. Upstairs, in the penthouse, Horace stood at the window, his eyes scanning the stream of cars exiting the garage. He was looking for her, a predator tracking his escaped prey. His fingers tightened on the window frame until his knuckles were white. The silence of the suite was deafening. It still smelled like her. A faint, floral scent mixed with the chlorine from the pool. It was driving him insane. His phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up with a name: Dallin Chase. He answered, his voice clipped. "What?" "Morning, sunshine," Dallin's cheerful voice chirped. "Just calling to debrief. Last night's party was a mess. Kason got into a shouting match with some banker, and-" "I don't care," Horace cut him off. "Get up here. Now. I have a job for you." He paused, his gaze landing on the rumpled, stained sheets of his bed. "And find out who drugged Eleanora Solis last night. Find out why she was in my pool. I want a name." The change in his tone was immediate. The lazy, careless drawl Dallin was used to vanished, replaced by the cold command of the man who had built an empire from the shadows. "On my way," Dallin said, all business now. Horace ended the call and walked back to the bed. He ran a hand over the silk, his throat tightening. He could still see her, pale and unconscious, tears drying on her cheeks. He could still hear her screaming his nephew's name. A violent, possessive rage, something primal and dark, surged through him. She was his. The fact that her mind, her heart, still belonged to that worthless piece of trash was a personal insult he would not tolerate. Thirty minutes later, Dallin Chase breezed into the suite, using his own key card. He took in the scene-the wet carpet, the discarded pillow, the general air of chaos-and raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Well, well," he drawled, a grin spreading across his face. "Looks like someone finally broke character. The whole 'disinterested, above-it-all' routine clearly didn't survive the night." Horace shot him a look that could freeze fire. "Shut up and do your job." Dallin held up his hands in mock surrender, but his eyes were sharp, analytical. "Seriously, man. What happened here? Was this... the girl? The one you've been watching?" Horace didn't deny it. He turned to the liquor cabinet, his back to his friend. "She's mine now," he said, the words low and final. "Jesus, Horace," Dallin stammered, his voice a disbelieving whisper. "This wasn't on the schedule. Don't tell me... after all this time, the smokescreen actually caught fire? You... you finally let someone in? For real?" Horace let out a short, sharp breath that might have been a laugh. He didn't turn around. He didn't have to. The silence was his confirmation. Dallin was floored. He, the architect of the Horace Reeves playboy myth, was the only one who knew the truth. He was the one who leaked the "exclusive" photos to the press, who paid off starlets to be seen on Horace's arm, who crafted the entire narrative of a reckless, womanizing heir. All of it a smokescreen. A brilliant, calculated strategy to make Horace seem like a non-threatening degenerate to the old guard on the Reeves Enterprises board of directors, a man too busy chasing skirts to chase power. It was a mask, and Horace wore it with cold, clinical precision. But this... this was a crack in the armor. "But... the stories," Dallin said, his mind reeling. "The actresses... the parties..." "All of it was bullshit, and you know it," Horace said, finally turning around. He was meticulously straightening the cuffs of his shirt, a habit he had when he was containing immense pressure. "A smokescreen. The old guard on the board wants a puppet they can control, not someone who actually knows how to dismantle their little fiefdoms. They see a degenerate, they lower their guard. My father... he'd rather see me married off in some strategic alliance than running the company my way. This keeps the vultures at bay." He poured a glass of whiskey and drank it in one go. "She thinks I'm a monster," he said, his voice flat, but Dallin could hear the raw frustration underneath. "She called me an old pervert. She was terrified of me." Dallin looked at his friend, at the deep, complex hunger in his eyes, and understood. This wasn't a one-night stand. This was the endgame. Horace set the glass down with a sharp click. His eyes were cold steel. "Get me everything you can on Kason and that cousin of hers, Brielle. Dig up every dirty secret, every skeleton. I want them ruined. I want them to pay for what they did to her."