Falling For My Cheating Boyfriend's Uncle

Gracelyn POV:

Fresh off a grueling twelve-hour coronary bypass surgery, I received a frantic call from my boyfriend, Derik Mccarthy, claiming he was badly injured and needed me immediately.

I rushed through Boston's freezing autumn rain and burst into the VIP room of the sports bar he had texted me, only to find a blonde woman with her pale, slender legs draped shamelessly over Derik's thighs, her eyes rimmed with red.

It was Krystle Paul, a minor model desperate to claw her way into the NHL WAG circle.

"Gracelyn, you're finally here. Krystle hurt her ankle. Hurry up and look at it," Derik ordered. There wasn't an ounce of guilt in his voice, just impatient entitlement.

Soaked to the bone by the freezing rain, my heart plummeted.

So he had panicked me into rushing over in a storm just to treat his new fling's ankle?

Swallowing the bitterness in my throat, I crouched down anyway. But just as my hand reached out, before my fingers even brushed her skin-

"Ah! It hurts!" Krystle let out a shrill, agonizing gasp, burying her face into Derik's neck.

"Gracelyn, are you blind? Can't you be gentle?!" Derik snapped, his eyebrows knotting together in furious annoyance.

I froze. "I haven't even touched her yet."

"If you didn't touch her, why would she cry out in pain?" Derik glared at me, his large hand gently rubbing Krystle's back to soothe her.

Looking at the man in front of me, the extreme contrast felt like a scalpel slicing straight into my chest.

I had been his girlfriend for four years, but before that, we had known each other for nearly twenty. We went to the same private schools. Every off-season, I meticulously managed his diet. When he ran a fever during his rookie season, I stayed awake for forty-eight hours straight, applying cold compresses so he wouldn't miss a game.

He had known this girl for what? Four days? Yet he chose to believe her cheap tears over me.

I slowly stood up, my spine perfectly straight. "I'm a cardiothoracic surgeon, Derik. I can't treat this."

"Can't treat it?" Derik sneered. "The Mccarthy family fed you and funded your medical degree, and you can't even look at a twisted ankle? What use are you?"

The undisguised contempt in his voice completely shattered my last illusion of him.

Twenty years ago, my mother-a maid at the Mccarthy estate-died in a fire while shielding Derik's mother, Hedy. The Mccarthy family took me in out of so-called "charity." They let me attend school with Derik, and he naturally assumed I was just a lifelong maid his family had bought and paid for.

In his eyes, my identity had never changed.

"You're right. I can't treat it," I said, looking down at them. "And I apologize for taking up the position of your girlfriend for the past four years. We're done. The spot is officially hers."

A brief flash of shock crossed Derik's eyes, but an arrogant smirk quickly replaced it. "Are you throwing a tantrum and breaking up with me? Perfect. I was just thinking about giving Krystle a proper title anyway."

His tone was so painfully light. It was as if... he had been waiting for me to say those exact words.

"Enjoy your new title, Krystle," I said calmly. "I'm leaving."

When the heavy VIP room door clicked shut behind me, the suffocating weight of the past two decades came crashing down.

I had no family left. Every memory I had of growing up was tied to Derik. He had once announced I was his girlfriend in front of his whole team. He had even bought me a promise ring.

Those memories twisted with the image of him holding Krystle, acting like an invisible hand crushing my heart. I couldn't breathe.

Tears uncontrollably spilled from my eyes. Shivering, I dragged my heavy steps down the hallway, rushing straight into the women's restroom and locking myself in the furthest stall.

Just as I was about to let out a sob and release all my grievances, the stall door was violently shoved inward, snapping the latch. A towering figure forced his way in, locking the broken door behind him.

The overwhelming scent of fresh blood, mixed with cold peppermint and cedar, instantly suffocated me. I opened my mouth to scream, but a large, rough hand wearing a half-finger leather glove clamped over my lips, pinning me against the wall.

In the dim light, a pair of ice-blue eyes glared down at me like a cornered beast.

"Keep your mouth shut if you want to live," a deep, gravelly voice rasped against my ear. "Cooperate with me."

Gracelyn POV:

Before I could even process his threat, the main restroom door banged open. Heavy boots stomped against the tiles, accompanied by furious shouting.

"Check every stall! Don't let him make it back alive!"

The man's gloved hand clamped harder over my mouth. A warm, thick liquid seeped through the dark fabric of his shirt, staining my clothes. The overwhelming metallic scent of fresh blood hit my nose. He had a deep, severe wound.

I stopped struggling. As a cardiothoracic surgeon, my instincts immediately kicked in. If he didn't stop the bleeding, he would go into hemorrhagic shock in less than ten minutes.

Through the dim light, I looked straight into his cold, ice-blue eyes. They looked somewhat familiar, as if I had seen them somewhere before.

Footsteps approached the women's restroom.

My survival instinct took over. I grabbed the cold metal buckle of his leather belt and threw his exact warning back at him in a fierce whisper.

"If you want to live, cooperate with me."

Just like handling a critical patient in the ER, I decisively yanked his belt loose. Hearing the men kicking open the stalls one by one, I pulled out the small bottle of rubbing alcohol I always carried in my bag and splashed it everywhere to cover the scent of blood.

I stripped off my trench coat, exposing my thin silk camisole, grabbed the lapels of his blood-soaked shirt, and pressed my lips fiercely against his.

The moment our lips met, the stall door was violently kicked open.

A blinding flashlight beam swept over us. I immediately broke the kiss, turned my head, and snapped at the intruders.

"What the hell are you looking at? Get out!"

Men are predictable creatures. Seeing a half-dressed woman pinned against the wall, the thug holding the flashlight let out a sleazy whistle.

"Just a couple of crazy drunks getting some action in the bathroom," he laughed to his buddy. "Let's go. The guy probably ran out the back."

He slammed the door shut, and their heavy footsteps finally faded down the hall.

The moment the restroom went dead silent, I let out a long, shaky breath. My legs almost gave out, but I quickly pulled my coat back on.

The towering man stepped back, pulling his belt tight. He looked down at me, his ice-blue eyes flashing with an unreadable, dark intensity. He turned to leave.

"Sit down," I ordered, grabbing his arm and pointing to the closed toilet lid.

He frowned, his gaze cold and questioning.

"If I had a severed artery, I'd listen to the doctor," I said, ignoring his deadly aura.

I didn't have a trauma kit with me, so I tore the silk scarf off the handle of my purse. I wrapped the scarf tightly just above the deep gash on his side, tying a firm knot. Then, I pulled a pen from my bag, slipped it under the knot, and twisted it to create a makeshift tourniquet.

"If you can't get to a hospital immediately, remember to loosen this pen for a few minutes every forty minutes, then tighten it again," I instructed, my hands moving with practiced efficiency.

It was only then, under the dim exhaust fan light, that I noticed his exposed chest and back. Beneath his hard, muscular physique, his skin was covered in criss-crossing old whip scars and a few jagged, hockey-related surgical marks.

The scars looked extremely old, yet they were so brutal that they would never fade.

Sensing my gaze, his back muscles instantly locked up. His large hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with bruising force.

"Don't stare, Doctor," he warned, his voice low and dangerous.

I pulled my hand back as he stood up. He buttoned his dark shirt with one hand, hiding the scars, and then reached out to grab my hand again.

My heart skipped a beat. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. His rough, calloused thumb pressed against my palm as he dropped a heavy, cold metal object into my hand.

"Until next time, Miss Wall," he rasped, his voice vibrating in the quiet room.

Without looking back, he pushed the broken door open and vanished into the dark hallway.

I stood frozen, looking down at the object in my palm. It was a custom-made, black-and-gold enamel cufflink with the number "19" engraved on it.

Wait. My blood ran cold. How did a complete stranger know my last name?!

Gracelyn POV:

Inside the dim bar restroom, the loud hum of the exhaust fan finally snapped me out of my daze.

I looked down at the cold metal object the man had pressed into my palm. It was a heavy, custom-made sterling silver cufflink. The number "19" was inlaid on the surface in black and gold enamel, its edges slightly worn.

Who was he? Very few people in Boston knew my legal first name was Gracelyn instead of Aurora.

Pushing the terrifying yet familiar ice-blue eyes out of my mind, I dropped the cufflink into my coat pocket. I couldn't stay here any longer.

Taking advantage of the fact that Derik was likely still tangled up with Krystle in that VIP room, I hailed a cab and rushed straight back to the Mccarthy villa. I needed to get my things before he returned.

Walking into the massive, silent villa, I headed straight for the second-floor master suite.

The walk-in closet was the size of a small apartment, overflowing with luxury. Row after row of Derik's custom Tom Ford suits, limited-edition sneakers, and display cases filled with expensive watches took up ninety percent of the space.

In the darkest, narrowest corner hung the only things that truly belonged to me: a few sets of worn-out hospital scrubs, some basic daily clothes, and heavy stacks of medical textbooks.

For four years, I had shrunk myself to fit into this tiny corner of his life, thinking my gratitude and compromises would earn me a home.

I spent less than twenty minutes packing my entire four years of existence into a single battered suitcase and a cardboard box of medical books.

When I dragged my things to the front porch, my best friend, Araceli Church, a top-tier sports PR director in Boston, pulled her Porsche up to the curb.

Seeing my heavy textbooks and suitcase, Araceli's eyes widened in shock. "Grace... are you planning to give Derik the silent treatment for half a year this time?"

"No," I said calmly, loading the heavy box into her trunk. "I broke up with him. For good."

Araceli knew me well. In the past, whenever Derik pushed my boundaries, I would only say I needed time to cool off. I had never once used the word "breakup."

Realizing I was dead serious, Araceli slammed the trunk shut and grabbed my hands. "I fully support you! You can crash at my place for as long as you want. That second-string leech doesn't deserve you anyway!"

Derik POV:

The next morning, the shrill sound of my alarm clock woke me up. My head throbbed violently from last night's alcohol.

I cursed under my breath, rubbing my temples as I walked into the walk-in closet. My eyes immediately fell on the first rack, where two perfectly coordinated bespoke suits were hanging.

On the lapel of each suit was a pale yellow sticky note with Gracelyn's neat handwriting, detailing which tie and watch to wear for my afternoon team meeting.

I didn't know the first thing about styling myself. For years, Gracelyn had managed my wardrobe flawlessly. Whenever I traveled for away games, she would pack my bags and label every outfit according to my itinerary.

I pulled the suit off the rack, a smug smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I didn't care if I was actually in love with Gracelyn or not. In my eyes, she was the perfect candidate for a wife. I could fool around with exciting, willing women like Krystle all I wanted, but at the end of the day, Gracelyn was the one I would marry.

She was useful, obedient, and completely dependent on the Mccarthy family's money. She had no backbone. Even though she threw a tantrum and stormed out last night, I knew she would crawl back today, just like she always did, to lay out my clothes and cook my breakfast.

I put on the suit and walked downstairs.

"Mr. Derik, your breakfast is ready," Martha, the housekeeper, said as she walked out of the kitchen.

I frowned, looking at the empty dining table. "Where's Gracelyn?"

Ever since she moved in four years ago, Gracelyn had cooked my breakfast every single morning unless she was on a night shift at the hospital. She knew exactly how I liked my eggs and coffee.

Martha hesitated, wiping her hands nervously on her apron. "Miss Gracelyn came back late last night and packed all her belongings."

My face instantly darkened.

"She actually moved out?" I sneered, feeling a surge of annoyed disbelief.

Did that poor maid's daughter really think she could survive in Boston without my family's wealth? She was just playing hard to get, trying to test my patience.

I pulled back my sleeve, glancing at my million-dollar Patek Philippe watch.

It was exactly 8:37 AM.

"Fine. Let her freeze out there," I said coldly, adjusting my tie. "I'll give her exactly twelve hours. If she doesn't text me begging to come back by 8:30 PM tonight, clear out her remaining junk. Krystle will be the new mistress of this house."