His Uncle, My Sweetest Revenge

Joanna's eyes snapped open.

The blinding Hampton sun stabbed her retinas. She gasped, her lungs burning as if they were still filled with the stagnant, chemical-laced water of the asylum bathtub. Her chest heaved. Her fingers dug into the padded fabric of the sun lounger, her knuckles turning bone-white.

She wasn't dead.

A waiter in a crisp white uniform walked past, a silver tray of champagne balanced on his palm. Joanna reached out. Her fingertips shook violently. The crystal flute clinked against the tray, almost tipping over.

The icy condensation on the glass shocked her nervous system. She was back. Three years ago. The annual Madden family summer party.

Her gaze cut through the crowd of socialites and trust-fund heirs. It locked onto the far side of the Olympic-sized pool.

Freddie.

Her fiancé was leaning against the tiled edge, laughing as Jessie Beck playfully splashed water onto his chest. A wave of somatic nausea hit Joanna's stomach. The bile rose in her throat. The memory of his cold, indifferent face as he signed her commitment papers flashed behind her eyes.

Joanna took a slow, jagged breath. She forced her facial muscles to relax. The corners of her mouth lifted, clicking into the harmless, polished smile of a perfect socialite.

She stood up. Her silk stilettos clicked against the wet concrete as she walked toward the deep end of the pool.

Jessie caught sight of her approach from the corner of her eye. The aspiring actress immediately took a half-step backward toward the pool's edge, her eyes widening in a pathetic attempt to look intimidated.

Joanna saw right through the cheap trick. She didn't slow down. She sped up.

Freddie noticed the shift in the atmosphere. His brow furrowed. He pushed off the edge and stepped forward, trying to place his body between Jessie and his fiancée.

"Joanna, what are you doing?" Freddie demanded.

Jessie calculated the distance perfectly. She let out a high-pitched, theatrical gasp. She leaned back, her hand shooting out to grab the delicate fabric of Joanna's skirt, intending to drag them both into the water to play the victim.

Joanna's eyes went dead.

She didn't flinch. She didn't pull back like she had in her past life. Instead, as Jessie's fingers grazed her dress, Joanna's hand shot out. She clamped her fingers around Jessie's wrist, twisting it downward and using her own forward momentum to shove the other woman hard.

Two heavy splashes echoed over the thumping bass of the party music.

The freezing, chlorinated water swallowed Joanna whole. She didn't fight it. She let her body sink into the two-meter depth, the noise of the party instantly muting into a dull hum.

She opened her eyes underwater. The chlorine stung, but she watched the surface.

Freddie's body broke the water seconds later. He didn't even look in her direction. He swam frantically straight toward Jessie, who was thrashing and screaming for her life.

Joanna's chest burned. A cold, hollow laugh bubbled up in her throat, escaping as a stream of silver air. The perfect victim script was written. The crowd above was already shouting. Cell phone cameras were definitely recording the scandal.

Her lungs screamed for oxygen. She bent her knees, preparing to kick up to the surface.

Suddenly, the water current shifted violently.

A massive, dark shadow sliced through the water. The resistance of the pool seemed to mean nothing to him. He moved with terrifying speed, heading straight for her.

Panic spiked in Joanna's chest. She tried to swim up, but her calf muscle seized. A sharp cramp locked her leg. Her body jerked downward.

A thick, muscular arm wrapped around her waist like a steel vice.

Even through their soaked clothes, the heat radiating from his body was scorching. It sent a violent shiver down her spine. Joanna thrashed instinctively, her hands pushing against a chest that felt like solid granite.

He didn't let go. He clamped her tighter against him, his sheer physical power easily subduing her panic, and kicked upward.

They broke the surface.

Water cascaded down Joanna's face. She gasped, sucking in massive mouthfuls of air, coughing violently as her lungs expanded.

She wiped the water from her eyes and looked up.

Her breath stopped completely.

She was staring into a pair of cold, predatory, gray-blue eyes.

Her brain short-circuited. It was Carlton Madden. Freddie's uncle. The ruthless, untouchable patriarch of the Madden empire.

Carlton didn't say a word. He just stared past her shoulder, his gaze locking onto Freddie, who was currently dragging a sobbing Jessie to the shallow end. Carlton's eyes were dead, looking at his nephew like he was a piece of trash.

Freddie turned his head. The color instantly drained from his face.

"Uncle... Uncle Carlton," Freddie stammered, his voice cracking.

The flashes of dozens of cell phone cameras strobed around them. The scandal was being immortalized.

Carlton's jaw tightened. "Confiscate every single device," he barked.

His low, gravelly voice cut through the noise like a gunshot. The estate's security team immediately swarmed the guests, snatching phones from their hands.

Joanna shivered. The cold wind hit her wet skin, but the trembling came from the sheer terror of being pressed against this man. She placed her hands on his chest, trying to push away and create distance.

Carlton's arm tightened around her waist. He didn't let her step back.

Instead, he snatched a massive, thick pool towel from a nearby cabana chair. With a single, forceful motion, he threw the heavy fabric over her trembling shoulders, completely obscuring her soaked figure from the prying cameras. He didn't lift her. He didn't offer any scandalous intimacy. He simply clamped his large, calloused hand around her upper arm like an iron shackle, his grip uncompromising and bruising.

A drop of water fell from his sharp jawline, landing directly on her exposed collarbone. The cold drop sent an electric shock straight to her core as he forcibly marched her forward.

Freddie scrambled out of the pool, dripping wet. "Uncle, let her go, I can-"

Carlton ignored his nephew completely. He didn't even spare him a glance. Flanked instantly by his security detail to block the crowd's view, he practically dragged Joanna alongside him, turning and walking straight toward the mansion's private elevator.

The heavy steel doors of the private elevator slid open.

The thick, dark carpet of the penthouse absorbed the sound of Carlton's leather shoes. The silence in the hallway was deafening. The only sound was the heavy, uneven rhythm of Joanna's breathing mixing with his steady, calm exhales.

"I can walk," Joanna said, her voice trembling slightly. She pushed against his shoulder.

Carlton's bicep flexed against her back. He didn't loosen his grip by a single millimeter. He walked up to the massive double doors of the suite and pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner.

The lock clicked. He kicked the door open and carried her into the cavernous, freezing living room.

He walked over to the sprawling leather sofa. He didn't set her down gently. He dropped her.

Joanna hit the cushions with a heavy thud, the impact forcing a sharp gasp from her lips. The leather was cold against her bare legs. She looked up, her heart hammering against her ribs as she realized just how dangerous this man actually was.

Carlton reached up and ripped the soaked silk tie from his neck. He threw it onto the glass coffee table. He turned his back to her, walking toward the wet bar with a rigid, furious posture.

Joanna's teeth began to chatter. She pulled her knees to her chest, trying to preserve whatever body heat she had left. Her high-end silk dress was ruined, clinging to her skin like a second layer of freezing ice.

A massive, dry bath towel suddenly hit her in the face.

She pulled the thick fabric down from her head. Carlton was standing over her. He held a crystal glass filled with three fingers of neat whiskey.

"Your footing was sloppy," Carlton said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

Joanna froze. The blood drained from her face.

"You think pulling her in was flawless?" he continued, taking a slow sip of the amber liquid. "I saw the way you shifted your weight before the fall. The deliberate, anchored step into her space right as she grabbed your skirt. You didn't slip. You used her own momentum against her. Amateur."

Her pulse skyrocketed. The air in her lungs vanished. He had seen it. He had seen the exact moment she intentionally orchestrated the trajectory to drag Jessie into the water. Her perfect victim disguise was completely useless against him.

Joanna forced her hands to stop shaking. She gripped the towel tightly and tilted her chin up, meeting his terrifying gray-blue eyes.

"If you saw everything, why didn't you expose me down there?" Joanna asked, her voice surprisingly steady. "Are you planning to use this to protect your nephew?"

Carlton let out a dark, humorless chuckle. He tossed the rest of the whiskey down his throat.

He set the glass down on the table with a sharp clink. Then, he leaned forward. He placed both hands on the sofa, trapping her body between his massive arms. The scent of cedarwood, expensive alcohol, and pure male aggression completely engulfed her.

"The Madden family reputation," Carlton whispered, his face inches from hers, "will not be dragged through the mud for your cheap, high-society soap opera."

The physical pressure radiating from him was suffocating. But Joanna knew this was her only window. If she backed down now, she was dead.

She stared directly into his eyes. "The tech company Madden Group is acquiring next week. Their financials are fabricated."

The air in the room instantly turned to ice.

Carlton's eyes narrowed into lethal slits. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He stared at her, analyzing her, trying to figure out how a socialite who spent her days shopping knew about a highly classified, multi-billion-dollar corporate acquisition.

"Offshore account ending in 4409," Joanna said, her voice cold and precise. "And another under a shell company in the Caymans ending in 8812. Check them."

She had heard Freddie screaming about those exact accounts over the phone while she was locked in the asylum. It was the deal that almost bankrupted the family.

Carlton slowly straightened up. He didn't take his eyes off her. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed his executive assistant.

"Leo," Carlton said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Run a deep trace on two offshore accounts. 4409 and 8812. Now."

He put the phone on speaker and tossed it onto the table.

The silence in the room was agonizing. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded like a bomb counting down. Joanna's palms were slick with cold sweat.

Two minutes later, the phone buzzed.

"Sir," Leo's voice came through the speaker. "The accounts are black holes. Massive debt hidden off the books. If we sign next week, we absorb three billion in liabilities."

"Cancel the acquisition," Carlton ordered. He hung up.

When he looked back at Joanna, the contempt in his eyes was gone. It was replaced by something much darker. A dangerous, consuming curiosity.

"I want you to handle the media downstairs," Joanna said, pressing her advantage. "And I want a secure exit from this building. Today."

Carlton walked slowly back to the sofa. He stopped right in front of her. He reached out.

His rough thumb brushed against her cheek, wiping away a stray drop of pool water. The touch was light, but the calluses on his skin sent a violent tremor straight to her core.

"Deal," Carlton murmured. "But if you ever use my family's name to play your little games again, I will ruin you."

Joanna turned her face away, her skin burning where he had touched her. The survival instinct in her brain was screaming at her to run.

Carlton turned and walked toward the master bedroom. "Go take a shower. You're ruining my leather."

The scalding water from the rainfall showerhead beat down on Joanna's back.

She stood in the massive marble enclosure, letting the heat thaw the ice in her veins. Her brain was working in overdrive. She had just negotiated with the devil and survived, but the physical memory of Carlton's thumb brushing her cheek made her stomach knot with anxiety.

She turned off the water.

Stepping out of the shower, she looked at the marble vanity. Her ruined silk dress lay in a pathetic, chlorine-soaked heap. The delicate fabric was torn at the seam. It was completely unwearable.

She wrapped a thick white towel around her body and cracked the bathroom door open.

The penthouse living room was empty.

Joanna stepped out barefoot. The thick carpet muffled her footsteps as she moved quickly toward the half-open door of the walk-in closet. She needed clothes. Anything to cover herself so she could leave.

She pushed the closet door open. It was a massive space, filled entirely with rows of dark, custom-tailored suits and crisp dress shirts. There wasn't a single item of women's clothing. It was a stark reminder of the cold, solitary life the patriarch led.

She had no choice.

She reached for the first thing she saw-a black, French-cuff dress shirt hanging on the end of the rack. She dropped her towel and quickly slipped her arms into the sleeves.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem barely covered the top of her thighs, and the fabric swallowed her small frame. She began rolling up the excessively long sleeves as she walked out of the closet.

She stepped into the living room and froze.

Carlton had just walked in from the balcony, a phone in his hand. He stopped dead in his tracks.

His dark, piercing gaze dropped instantly to her bare legs, then traveled slowly up the length of his black shirt draped over her body. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

Joanna swallowed hard. She instinctively reached down and tugged at the hem of the shirt, her cheeks burning under his intense scrutiny.

Carlton's Adam's apple bobbed once. "Who gave you permission to touch my clothes?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rougher than before.

"I'll have the dry-cleaning fee wired to your account," Joanna said, forcing her voice to stay level. "I need to leave now."

She walked over to the coffee table and picked up her phone. The screen lit up with thirty-two missed calls from Freddie. In her panicked rush, she completely failed to notice a microscopic, unfamiliar grey icon flashing briefly in the top corner of her screen-a silent digital tether he had swiftly installed while she was in the shower. She felt a surge of disgust and immediately switched the phone to silent.

She looked up at Carlton. "I need your security to escort me out through the service elevator."

Carlton walked over to the wet bar. He set his phone down, his broad back facing her. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"You had the nerve to stage a scandal in front of three hundred people," Carlton sneered, turning around to face her. "And now you're too much of a coward to walk out the front door?"

"It's called damage control," Joanna fired back, refusing to be intimidated. "Keeping the media from getting a photo of me leaving your private suite is part of our deal."

Carlton's eyes darkened. He closed the distance between them in three long strides.

Joanna backed up instinctively until her shoulder blades hit the cold wall. Carlton stopped right in front of her. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest. He looked down at her, his presence completely suffocating.

He raised his hand.

Joanna stopped breathing. She braced herself, unsure of what he was going to do.

Instead of grabbing her, Carlton's rough fingers brushed against her collarbone. He grabbed the fabric of the shirt and slowly fastened the top button, which she had left undone.

His knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of her neck. A violent jolt of electricity shot through her nervous system. Her stomach flipped, and she pressed herself harder against the wall, trying to escape the burning sensation of his touch.

Carlton dropped his hand. "Remember who cleaned up your mess today," he whispered, his voice dangerously low.

He turned away and pressed a button on the wall intercom. "Leo. Bring a coat and a pair of flats to the suite. Have two men wait at the service elevator."

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Leo handed over a long trench coat and a pair of simple black flats.

Joanna practically ripped the coat from Leo's hands. She put it on, tying the belt tightly around her waist, completely hiding the black shirt and her bare legs. She needed to get out of this predator's territory immediately.

"Thank you," she said stiffly, walking toward the door.

"Joanna," Carlton's voice stopped her as her hand touched the doorknob. "What about your dress?"

"Throw it in the trash," she said without looking back, pulling the door open and rushing out into the hallway.

The heavy door clicked shut. The penthouse fell dead silent again.

Carlton stood in the middle of the living room. He walked slowly toward the bathroom. He looked down at the trash can, where the ruined, wet silk dress lay crumpled.

He didn't call housekeeping.

He bent down, his large hand grasping the wet fabric. He picked it up. The faint scent of her perfume-vanilla and chlorine-hit his senses.

Carlton walked over to his private storage cabinet, opened it, and tossed the dress inside. The lock clicked shut, sealing away a dark possessiveness he no longer tried to suppress. The scent of her lingered in his domain, and he stood there in the deafening silence, fully accepting the twisted, consuming hunger that was rapidly taking root in his mind.