Claimed By My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

The sharp, electronic beep of the hotel room lock disengaging pierced the heavy silence.

Abigayle's eyes snapped open.

The blinding light from the hallway flooded the dim suite, stabbing directly into her retinas.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach rolling in a violent wave of nausea.

Her limbs felt like they were filled with wet cement.

She tried to push herself up, but a dull ache radiated through her lower body, and the cold air hit her bare skin.

The thick hotel duvet slipped down, revealing a constellation of dark, angry marks blooming across her collarbones and chest.

Heavy footsteps pounded against the plush carpet.

Before her brain could process the sensory overload, the rapid, blinding flashes of camera lenses exploded in the room.

The harsh white light fired like strobe lightning.

Abigayle gasped, her lungs burning as she instinctively threw her arm over her face to block the assault.

Her trembling fingers blindly searched the foot of the bed, grabbing a massive, wrinkled men's dress shirt.

She yanked the fabric against her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard she thought they might crack.

"Disgusting."

The voice was cold, dripping with absolute contempt.

Abigayle lowered her arm, her vision swimming before finally focusing on the man standing at the foot of the bed.

Jeffery Sullivan.

Her fiancé stood there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his fingers casually adjusting his expensive cuffs.

There was no shock in his eyes. No heartbreak. Only a chilling, calculated satisfaction.

Right behind him, her best friend, Kim Stein, rushed into the room.

Kim slapped a hand over her mouth, letting out a loud, theatrical gasp that echoed off the walls.

"Abigayle! How could you?" Kim shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the messy sheets and the red marks on Abigayle's neck. "How could you do this to Jeffery?"

Abigayle's throat was sandpaper.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her mind was a complete, terrifying blank.

She couldn't remember leaving the charity gala. She couldn't remember walking into this room.

Jeffery let out a dry, humorless laugh.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a crisp, folded piece of paper.

He stepped forward and threw it directly at her face.

The sharp edge of the thick paper sliced a tiny, stinging line across Abigayle's cheek before landing on the white duvet.

It was a lab report from New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

The bold black ink screamed the results: Progesterone levels elevated. Pregnancy confirmed. Eight weeks.

Abigayle stared at the letters until they blurred.

Her blood turned to ice water in her veins.

"That's impossible," she choked out, her voice cracking. "Jeffery, we haven't even..."

"You not only spread your legs for some random bastard, but you're carrying his bastard, too," Kim interrupted, stepping closer to the bed.

Kim's voice was laced with fake agony, but Abigayle saw it.

She saw the malicious gleam dancing in Kim's eyes. She saw Kim's finger twirling a strand of blonde hair-a nervous habit she only did when she was lying.

A sickening realization slammed into Abigayle's gut.

The champagne.

Kim had handed her a glass of champagne right after the silent auction last night. She hadn't taken another sip of anything else before the world went black.

Abigayle bit down on her lower lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood.

She forced her shaking legs to move, pulling the oversized shirt tighter around her body as she stood up from the mattress.

"I want a retest," Abigayle demanded, locking her eyes onto Jeffery's. "Right now. A blood test."

Jeffery took a half-step back, his nose wrinkling as if she were a rotting corpse.

"You make me sick," he spat loudly, ensuring the two tabloid reporters he had personally escorted up the private elevator caught every word. "Keep your lenses focused, boys," he murmured over his shoulder, confirming he controlled the spectacle.

The reporters eagerly pressed their camera shutters, the mechanical clicks sounding like a firing squad capturing the ruined socialite in her oversized shirt.

"Stop it!" Abigayle lunged forward, reaching out to grab the nearest camera lens.

Jeffery moved faster.

He planted his hand firmly on her shoulder and shoved her backward with brutal force.

Her bare feet tangled in the heavy duvet.

She lost her balance and crashed hard onto the floor.

Her elbow slammed into the sharp corner of the wooden nightstand. A sickening thud echoed in the room, followed by a sharp, shooting pain that paralyzed her arm.

Kim immediately crouched down, extending a hand as if to help her up.

But as Kim leaned in close, her designer perfume masking the smell of sex in the room, she whispered directly into Abigayle's ear.

"You stupid bitch."

The sheer audacity sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through Abigayle's veins.

She raised her uninjured arm, aiming a vicious slap right at Kim's flawless face.

Jeffery's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Abigayle's wrist like a steel vice, stopping her hand mid-air.

He squeezed her bones until she gasped, then violently threw her arm back down.

He turned his back on her, facing the flashing cameras.

"The Sullivan family will not tolerate this level of depravity," Jeffery announced, his voice booming for the recording devices. "The engagement is over."

The reporters nodded, their faces flushed with the thrill of the scoop. They lowered their cameras and followed Jeffery toward the door.

Kim stood up slowly, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles on her designer skirt.

She looked down at Abigayle, who was still sprawled on the carpet, and offered a triumphant, sickeningly sweet smile.

The heavy suite door slammed shut.

The electronic lock clicked, sealing Abigayle inside the dead silence of the ruined room.

Abigayle sat on the floor, her chest heaving.

She curled her fingers into tight fists, her manicured nails digging so deeply into her palms that the skin broke.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she locked her jaw.

She refused to let a single drop fall.

The rough fibers of the hotel carpet scraped against Abigayle's palms as she pushed herself up.

Her knees shook, but she locked them into place.

She dragged her feet across the room, stopping in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror.

The woman staring back at her looked like a ghost.

Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her lips were swollen, and the oversized men's shirt swallowed her frame, exposing the violent, purple bruises on her neck.

She turned away from the reflection and walked straight into the marble bathroom.

She turned the chrome faucet all the way to the cold side.

Cupping her hands, she splashed the freezing water directly onto her face, letting the icy shock numb the throbbing pain in her temples.

She grabbed a hand towel, dried her face roughly, and marched back into the bedroom to find her clothes.

She spotted her custom silk evening gown crumpled near the armchair.

When she picked it up, the fabric fell apart in her hands. The zipper was completely ripped from the seam, the delicate silk shredded beyond repair.

The electronic lock on the door beeped again.

Abigayle spun around, clutching the ruined dress to her chest.

Jeffery stepped back into the room, alone this time. The cameras were gone. The righteous anger was gone.

He closed the door quietly, leaning against the wood with a smug, negotiating posture.

"If you agree to walk away with nothing," Jeffery said, dropping his voice to a low, business-like murmur. "I can make sure the worst of those photos don't make the front page."

Abigayle stared at his perfectly styled hair and his expensive shoes.

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place inside her brain.

A cold, bitter laugh ripped from her throat.

She dropped the shredded dress and walked over to the velvet sofa.

She snatched her limited-edition clutch from the cushions, snapped it open, and pulled out her phone.

Her thumb quickly swiped the screen, hitting the bright red record button on her voice memo app.

She placed the phone face-up on the glass coffee table.

"How much did you pay for that fake lab report on the black market, Jeffery?" she asked, her voice steady and lethal.

Jeffery's posture stiffened.

His eyes darted to the recording phone, his fingers immediately reaching up to adjust his cuffs.

"You're out of your mind," he snapped, his voice rising defensively. "The evidence is right there. You're a whore."

Abigayle took a step toward him, closing the distance.

"The report says I'm eight weeks pregnant," she said, enunciating every syllable. "Eight weeks ago, I was in Paris for Fashion Week. I was surrounded by fifty people every day, and you were in New York."

Jeffery's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek as the glaring hole in his plan was exposed.

He lunged forward, his hand swiping toward the glass table to grab the phone.

Abigayle was faster.

She snatched the device, taking three quick steps backward to keep it out of his reach.

"Your IQ is as pathetic as your performance in bed," she sneered, holding the phone tightly against her chest. "You couldn't even forge a document right."

Seeing that physical force wouldn't work, Jeffery's face morphed into a mask of victimhood.

He let out a heavy, exaggerated sigh.

"Abby, be reasonable," he pleaded, his tone shifting to a pathetic whine. "I'm a victim here too. My father... the family forced my hand. I had to find a way out."

Hearing him blame his family extinguished the very last ember of affection she had ever held for him.

He wasn't just a traitor; he was a coward.

Abigayle raised her left hand.

The three-carat diamond engagement ring caught the dull morning light streaming through the window, flashing brilliantly.

It was the symbol of the Sullivan family's promise. Now, it just looked like a shackle.

She grabbed the diamond with her right hand and yanked it off.

The metal scraped harshly against her knuckle, leaving a bright red friction burn on her skin.

She walked right up to Jeffery.

Before he could react, she slammed the heavy platinum ring directly into the center of his chest.

The diamond hit his breastbone with a dull thud, bounced off his expensive suit, and hit the carpet, rolling away into a dark corner.

"You didn't dump me," Abigayle stated, her chin tilted up, her eyes burning with absolute disgust. "I, Abigayle Pena, am dumping you. You spineless coward."

Jeffery stood frozen for two seconds.

Then, his face twisted into an ugly, furious snarl.

"You shameless bitch!" he roared, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

The sound of clicking heels echoed from the hallway.

The door pushed open, and Kim poked her head in, her eyes darting between them.

"Jeffery, honey? Is everything handled?" Kim asked, her voice dripping with fake concern.

Abigayle turned her head slowly, her gaze locking onto Kim like a sniper finding a target.

"A piece of advice, Kim," Abigayle said, her voice dropping to a deadly calm. "When you pick up someone else's trash, make sure you don't catch an infection."

Kim's face drained of color. The sweet, innocent mask cracked, revealing the ugly jealousy underneath.

Desperate to regain his pride, Jeffery walked over and wrapped his arm tightly around Kim's waist.

"We love each other," Jeffery declared, lifting his chin. "Something you wouldn't understand."

Abigayle looked at the two of them standing there.

The air in the room suddenly felt thick, suffocating, and utterly toxic.

She turned around, grabbed a thick, heavy white towel from the bathroom door, and wrapped it tightly over the men's shirt.

She pulled the terrycloth fabric securely around her waist, covering every inch of her exposed skin.

She walked straight toward the door, her spine perfectly straight, her shoulders pulled back.

She didn't step aside. She forced Jeffery and Kim to step back to let her pass.

As her bare feet crossed the threshold into the hallway, Abigayle stopped.

She didn't turn around.

"Every ounce of humiliation you gave me today," she said to the wall in front of her. "I will return to you tenfold."

She stepped out into the corridor, leaving the two of them standing in the wreckage, and walked toward the storm waiting outside.

The thick carpet of the hallway muffled Abigayle's bare footsteps as she approached the elevator bank.

She reached out to press the down button, but before her finger could touch the metal panel, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

Four massive bodyguards in identical dark suits poured into the corridor, instantly fanning out.

Right behind them stepped Martha, the Chief Public Relations Officer for the Sullivan family.

Martha adjusted her thin, wire-rimmed glasses, her face a mask of corporate detachment.

The bodyguards moved in unison, forcing Abigayle to take three steps backward until her spine hit the cold, hard wall of the dead-end corridor.

She was trapped.

Abigayle pressed her back against the wallpaper.

"What do you want, Martha?" Abigayle asked, her voice tight but unwavering.

Martha didn't blink. She unzipped her leather briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of stapled papers.

She held the Non-Disclosure Agreement out toward Abigayle.

"Sign this," Martha commanded in a flat, robotic tone. "It states you admit to the infidelity, you waive all rights to any financial compensation, and you agree to permanent silence. Sign it, and we let you walk out of here."

Abigayle didn't reach for the papers.

She stared at the bold legal jargon on the front page, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"The Sullivan family thinks they can bury me with a piece of paper?" Abigayle met Martha's cold eyes. "You're dreaming."

Martha's brow furrowed slightly. She took a deliberate step forward, invading Abigayle's personal space.

"The lobby is swarming with paparazzi from the New York Post," Martha warned, dropping her voice to a harsh whisper."You're wearing a men's shirt. You can't live on the street. "

Abigayle let out a short, sharp laugh.

"If I walk into that lobby right now, looking exactly like this," Abigayle challenged, tilting her head. "Whose scandal do you think will make the front page tomorrow?"

She raised her voice, making sure the bodyguards heard every word.

"The world will see the former future daughter-in-law of the Sullivan family, drugged, assaulted, and paraded half-naked. That's a much juicier headline than a simple cheating scandal, don't you think?"

Martha's stoic expression cracked.

Her eyes darted to the bruises on Abigayle's neck, realizing the socialite wasn't bluffing about the physical evidence.

Abigayle didn't give her a second to recover.

"Jeffery's fake lab report has a date that places me in Paris," Abigayle stated, her tone turning to ice. "All I have to do is walk into the police station and ask for a blood test, and all your public relations strategies will completely collapse.Martha hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the NDA.

It was obvious the PR team had been kept in the dark about the forged documents. They were just the cleanup crew.

Abigayle saw the hesitation. She seized the power dynamic instantly.

Her posture shifted from defensive to commanding.

"Get me clothes," Abigayle ordered, her voice echoing off the narrow walls. "A decent coat and shoes. Now."

Martha stiffened, trying to salvage her authority.

"Do not push your luck, Miss Pena. The Sullivan family is not to be threatened."

Abigayle pulled her phone from her clutch.

She tapped the screen, bringing up the dial pad, and typed 9-1. Her thumb hovered over the final 1.

"Three," Abigayle counted down, her eyes locked on Martha. "Two."

Right as she formed the word 'one', Martha snapped her fingers.

She gestured to a junior assistant hovering near the elevator doors, silently ordering her to move.

Ten agonizing minutes later, the assistant returned, breathless, clutching a black paper shopping bag.

She handed it to Abigayle. Inside was a simple, tailored black trench coat and a pair of black leather flats.

Abigayle snatched the bag without looking at Martha.

She turned the handle of an unlocked housekeeping closet nearby and stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.

She pulled the men's shirt over her head, her stomach twisting with disgust, and shoved it deep into the trash can.

She slipped her arms into the trench coat, buttoning it all the way up to her collarbone to hide the bruises, and shoved her bare feet into the stiff leather flats.

She took a deep, shuddering breath, locking all her trauma behind a wall of pure ice.

Abigayle pushed the closet door open and stepped back into the hallway.

She wore no makeup, her hair was still messy, but the sheer force of her presence made the bodyguards subconsciously step aside.

She walked directly up to Martha.

She reached out, snatched the thick NDA from Martha's hands, and ripped it straight down the middle.

She tore the halves again, letting the shredded pieces of paper flutter down onto the carpet like dirty snow.

"Tell Elmer Sullivan," Abigayle said, her voice dangerously low. "I'm keeping a tab."

One of the bodyguards twitched, reaching for Abigayle's arm, but Martha held up a hand, stopping him.

Martha watched in complex silence as Abigayle walked past them.

Abigayle pressed the elevator button. The doors opened immediately.

She stepped inside, turning around to face the PR team as the metal doors slowly slid shut, severing their visual connection.

The moment the elevator began its descent, Abigayle's rigid shoulders dropped.

She leaned heavily against the cold metal wall of the cab, her chest rising and falling rapidly.