Jilted Heiress: Seducing My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle

"Good morning, niece-in-law," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke. "You were very enthusiastic last night."

Ivy trembled.

Hours earlier, the world had been a different kind of hell. The stem of the champagne flute felt like it was going to snap between Ivy Wallace's fingers.

She stood in the dead center of the Pierre Hotel's grand ballroom. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast a light that was too bright, too exposing. It made the diamonds around the necks of the women nearby glitter aggressively, like teeth bared in a smile.

Ivy took a sip. The liquid was warm now. It tasted like vinegar and regret.

She could hear them. The whispers. They moved through the room like a draft of cold air, rustling the silk gowns and stiff tuxedos.

Did you see her dress? Last season's Dior.

I heard the Wallace accounts are in the red again.

Poor thing. She doesn't even know where he is.

Ivy knew exactly where he was.

Clive Fitzpatrick stood near the terrace doors. He was looking at his phone, his brow furrowed in that way that usually meant he was annoyed with the stock market or the temperature of his scotch. He was handsome in a conventional, soft way, the kind of handsome that came from three generations of never having to lift anything heavier than a fountain pen.

Ivy took a step forward. Her heels sank slightly into the plush carpet. She needed to be next to him. That was her job. She was the accessory, the mute, smiling doll that signaled stability to the investors.

Then she saw the red dress.

Catrina Bowers slid into the frame like a slash of fresh blood. The dress was cut low, dangerously low for a family charity gala. It was the kind of dress that made people talk, and Catrina lived for the talk. She linked her arm through Clive's.

It was possessive. It was intimate.

Ivy stopped. Her breath hitched in her throat, a physical stumble in her chest.

Clive looked up then. His eyes met Ivy's across the room. There was no warmth in them. No apology. Just a flash of irritation, as if she were a stain on his cuff that he couldn't quite scrub out. He waved his hand, a dismissive flick of the wrist.

Go away.

Catrina saw the gesture. She turned her head, her blonde curls bouncing. She found Ivy in the crowd and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a victory lap.

Then they turned together and walked out the terrace doors, disappearing into the night.

Ivy stood there. The room seemed to tilt.

It wasn't just the humiliation. It was the three glasses of champagne she had consumed on an empty stomach. She hadn't eaten since yesterday. Claudia, her adoptive mother, had mentioned that the dress was fitting a little snug around the waist. Ivy had taken the hint.

A waiter approached with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The smell of truffle oil hit Ivy's nose and her stomach rolled violently.

She pushed past him, her shoulder knocking into the tray. A murmur of annoyance followed her, but she didn't care. She needed air. She needed quiet.

She stumbled toward the elevators. The polished brass doors reflected a distorted version of herself. Pale skin. Wide, panicked eyes. A woman on the verge of shattering.

She pressed the button for the penthouse level.

The Wallace family didn't have a suite up there. They were on the eighth floor. But the eighth floor was full of people-her mother, her sister Delsie, the staff. Ivy couldn't handle people. She remembered Clive saying something about the Fitzpatrick family keeping a suite permanently reserved at the top for private meetings.

Clive wasn't there. He was with Catrina. The room would be empty.

The elevator ride made her ears pop. When the doors slid open, the silence of the hallway was heavy, suffocating. The carpet here was thicker. The sconces on the walls were dimmer.

Ivy walked down the corridor, trailing her hand along the textured wallpaper. She counted the doors. One. Two.

The third door was slightly ajar.

A sliver of darkness waited inside.

She pushed it open. The room smelled different than the hallway. It smelled of cedar wood, expensive leather, and the sharp, cold scent of tobacco. It was a masculine smell, overpowering and distinct.

Ivy didn't think. She kicked off her heels, leaving them where they fell on the entryway tile.

She walked into the bedroom. The curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the city lights. It was a cave. A sanctuary.

She collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was firm, unforgiving. She curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to hold the pieces of her dignity together.

The alcohol pulled her down. The room spun slower, then stopped. Her eyelids felt like lead weights.

She drifted.

Sometime later, the bed shifted.

It wasn't a subtle movement. The mattress dipped significantly, as if a heavy weight had settled onto the other side.

Ivy groaned, her mind still wrapped in a fog of champagne. Clive? He must have come back. Maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he realized he couldn't leave his fiancée alone at their engagement celebration.

A hand touched her waist.

It was large. Heavy. The heat radiating from the palm burned through the thin silk of her dress.

Ivy leaned into the touch. She was so starved for affection, for any sign that she wasn't just a business asset, that she didn't question it. She turned over, seeking the warmth.

The hand slid up her ribcage. It was rougher than Clive's hands. Clive had soft, manicured hands. This hand had calluses. It felt dangerous.

A body pressed against hers. Hard muscle. The scent of cedar and tobacco intensified, filling her lungs, drowning her.

Ivy gasped as a mouth covered hers. It wasn't a tentative kiss. It was a claiming. It was hungry and demanding.

Wait, she thought. Her brain fired a warning signal, but it was weak, distant.

The man shifted, his weight pinning her to the mattress. His knee drove between her legs, spreading them with an authority that made her breath catch.

"Don't move," a voice growled against her neck. It was deep, vibrating through her bones.

It wasn't Clive's voice.

But the fear didn't come. Or maybe it did, and it just felt like adrenaline. Ivy was floating, untethered. For the first time all day-for the first time in years-someone wanted her. Not for her name, not for her shares, but for her skin, her breath, her body.

She didn't push him away. She wrapped her legs around him.

It was a free fall. A collision.

The pain was sharp, tearing through the haze of alcohol, but it was followed by a wave of sensation so intense it made her cry out. He didn't stop. He didn't ask if she was okay. He took what he wanted, and Ivy let him, because in that moment, being used felt better than being invisible.

The darkness swallowed them both.

Light.

It was the enemy. It pried Ivy's eyelids open before she was ready.

A sharp, throbbing pain sat behind her eyes. Her mouth tasted like cotton. Her body felt... wrecked. Every muscle ached, a dull soreness that radiated from her core.

She blinked, trying to focus on the ceiling. It wasn't her room. The crown molding was different.

Memory returned in jagged shards. The party. The red dress. The elevator. The dark room.

The man.

Ivy froze. She stopped breathing.

She turned her head slowly on the pillow, terrified of what she would find.

The man next to her was asleep. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. The sheet had slipped down to his waist, revealing a chest that looked like it was carved out of marble-broad, tanned, and scarred.

Ivy's gaze traveled up to his face.

Strong jawline, covered in the shadow of morning stubble. High cheekbones. A nose that had been broken once, maybe twice.

It wasn't Clive.

Ivy's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew this face. Everyone in New York knew this face. It was on the cover of Forbes. It was in the nightmares of Wall Street traders.

Bruno Fitzpatrick.

Clive's uncle. The black sheep. The family's executioner.

Panic, cold and liquid, flooded her veins. She had slept with her fiancé's uncle. The night of her engagement party.

This wasn't a mistake. This was a death sentence. If Claudia found out... if the family found out...

Ivy scrambled backward, the sheets tangling around her legs. She needed to leave. Now. Before he woke up.

She reached for the edge of the mattress, her foot searching for the floor.

A hand shot out.

It wrapped around her wrist with the speed of a striking snake. The grip was iron-clad. Painful.

Ivy gasped, freezing in place.

Slowly, the man on the bed lowered his arm from his face.

He opened his eyes.

They were black. Pitch black. There was no sleep in them. No confusion. He looked like he had been awake for hours, watching her, waiting for her to move.

Bruno Fitzpatrick pulled himself up. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he leaned back against the headboard. He looked at Ivy. He didn't look at her face. He looked at her naked shoulders, the marks on her neck, the terror in her eyes.

A slow, cruel smile spread across his lips.

Ivy yanked the sheet up to her chin. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the fabric. It was a useless shield. He had already seen everything. He had touched everything.

"I... I thought..."

Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, but the sound was pathetic.

"I was drunk," she whispered. "I made a mistake."

Bruno stared at her. He didn't blink. He looked like a predator examining a particularly stupid rabbit that had just hopped into his den.

He threw the covers off his legs and stood up. He was completely naked. He didn't care. He walked across the room toward the bathroom with the casual arrogance of a man who owned the world and everything in it.

"Get dressed," he said over his shoulder. "You have five minutes."

Ivy's heart was beating so fast she felt nauseous.

"I'm leaving," she said.

Bruno stopped at the bathroom door. He turned slowly. The look he gave her made the air in the room drop ten degrees.

"You aren't going anywhere until I say so. Unless you want to walk out into the hallway naked? I believe the housekeeping staff is doing their rounds."

Ivy looked around frantically for her dress. She found it in a heap near the door. The delicate silk strap was torn. The zipper was busted. It was unwearable.

Tears pricked her eyes. Hot, angry tears.

Bruno tossed something at her. It landed on the bed with a soft thud. It was a white dress shirt.

"Put it on."

He disappeared into the bathroom. The shower turned on.

Ivy put on the shirt. It was massive on her. The hem hit her mid-thigh. It smelled like him. It made her skin crawl, and yet, a treacherous part of her brain remembered the heat of his skin against hers.

She buttoned it all the way to her chin.

When Bruno emerged, he was transformed. He wore a dark grey suit, tailored to perfection. His hair was wet, slicked back. He looked every inch the corporate shark.

He checked his watch.

"Let's go."

He grabbed her arm. His fingers pressed into the tender flesh of her bicep. He didn't drag her, but the pressure was a clear command. Walk, or be dragged.

They bypassed the main elevators and took the service lift. It smelled of cleaning chemicals and stale coffee. They exited into the loading dock behind the hotel.

A black sedan was waiting. The windows were tinted so dark they looked like polished obsidian.

A driver stood by the rear door. He was a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a scar running through his eyebrow. Hank. Ivy knew him by reputation. He was Bruno's shadow.

Hank opened the door. He didn't look at Ivy. He didn't look at her bare legs or the oversized men's shirt. He looked at nothing.

"Get in," Bruno said.

Ivy slid onto the leather seat. It was cold. Bruno got in beside her. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud. The locks engaged automatically. Click.

"Where are you taking me?" Ivy asked. Her voice was stronger now. The panic was settling into a cold, hard knot in her stomach.

"To see a show," Bruno said.

He pulled a tablet from his briefcase and started reading a financial report. He ignored her completely.

The drive was silent. The city landscape gave way to the highway, then to the manicured greenery of Long Island.

Ivy watched the trees blur past. She felt like a prisoner.

An hour later, the car turned down a gravel driveway. Ivy recognized the area. The Hamptons. This was where the old money hid during the summer.

The car stopped in front of a modern, glass-fronted villa. It was secluded, surrounded by high hedges and dunes.

Bruno put his tablet away. "Out."

He led her around the side of the house. The grass was wet with morning dew. It chilled Ivy's bare feet.

He stopped in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a gap. A deliberate, voyeuristic gap.

"Look," Bruno commanded.

Ivy stepped closer. She peered through the glass.

The living room inside was bathed in sunlight.

Clive was there. He was wearing a bathrobe. It was open.

And Catrina was there.

She was wearing nothing but Clive's dress shirt-the same way Ivy was wearing Bruno's.

They were on the sofa. Catrina was straddling Clive's lap. Her head was thrown back, laughing.

"She's such a bore, Clive," Catrina said. Her voice was muffled by the glass, but Ivy heard it. "I don't know how you stand her. She's like a mannequin."

Clive ran his hands up Catrina's thighs.

"It's just business, Cat," he said. His voice was affectionate. Sickeningly affectionate. "Once I get the voting rights from the marriage, she can go rot in that apartment for all I care. I'll spend every night with you."

Ivy felt the blood drain from her face.

It wasn't just cheating. She knew men like Clive cheated. It was the contempt. The absolute, utter disrespect. He didn't just not love her. He loathed her. He saw her as a hurdle to be cleared so he could be with his cousin.

A hand settled on Ivy's shoulder. Bruno.

He leaned down. His breath stirred the hair near her ear.

"This is the man you're selling yourself for?" he whispered.

Ivy tried to turn away. She didn't want him to see her face. She didn't want him to see the humiliation burning in her eyes.

Bruno's grip tightened. "Look at them."

Ivy forced herself to look.

Clive kissed Catrina. It was a passionate kiss. A real kiss. Not the dry pecks he gave Ivy for the cameras.

Something inside Ivy snapped.

It was a quiet sound. Like a dry twig breaking in a winter forest.

The tears that had been threatening to fall evaporated. The heat in her chest turned to ice.

She was Isobel Maldonado. She had survived the destruction of her family. She had survived hunger, fear, and the loss of her name. She would not be broken by a mediocre man in a bathrobe.

She wiped her face with the back of her hand. The movement was sharp. Violent.

She turned to Bruno.

The wind whipped her hair across her face. She didn't brush it away.

She looked up at him. For the first time, she didn't look like a victim. She looked like a woman who had nothing left to lose.

Bruno was watching her. His eyes were narrowed, assessing. He saw the change. He saw the fire ignite in the ashes.

"Take me away," Ivy said.

Her voice didn't tremble.

"I have a proposition for you."

The partition was up.

The back of the sedan was a sealed capsule of leather and silence.

Ivy sat on the edge of the seat. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her fingers were tapping a rhythmic, agitated beat against her knuckles.

Bruno took a cigar from a silver case built into the armrest. He clipped the end with a precise, metallic snip. The sound was loud in the quiet car. He lit it, and the smell of expensive tobacco filled the air, replacing the oxygen.

"Seen enough?" he asked. Smoke curled from his lips. "Now you can go back to being the dutiful little bride."

Ivy turned her head. She looked at him. Really looked at him.

He was a monster. Everyone said so. He had destroyed companies, ruined lives, and supposedly killed to get where he was.

But he was powerful. And right now, he was the only weapon she could reach.

"Why did you show me that?" she asked.

Bruno shrugged. "Entertainment."

He viewed her life as a sitcom. A tragedy for his amusement.

Ivy felt a cold clarity wash over her. If she was a toy, she would be the one that broke the other toys.

She reached for the top button of the white shirt.

Bruno's hand paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked down, then back up to her face. They narrowed.

Ivy undid the first button. Then the second.

The fabric fell open slightly, revealing the curve of her collarbone. A dark, purple bruise bloomed there-a hickey. His mark.

She shifted on the seat, turning her body toward him. She moved off the seat and onto her knees on the floor of the car, between his legs.

"Let's play a different game," Ivy said. Her voice was raspy.

Bruno reached out. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw. He tilted her face up.

"You want to seduce me? To get back at Clive?"

Ivy didn't blink. "Clive cares about two things: his reputation and his inheritance. Imagine what would happen if he found out his perfect, boring fiancée was warming his uncle's bed."

Bruno laughed. It was a dark, low sound. "You're playing with fire, Ivy."

Ivy took his hand from her chin and pressed it against her cheek. She leaned into the roughness of his palm.

"I'm already in hell," she whispered. "I don't care if the fire gets bigger."

The air in the car changed. It became heavy. Charged.

Bruno looked at her. He wasn't looking at a victim anymore. He was looking at a potential accomplice. Or maybe just a more interesting diversion.

He crushed the lit cigar into the ashtray. Sparks flew and died.

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her forward.

"You want to be my mistress?" he asked.

"My ally," Ivy corrected. "I want Clive to bleed. You want to watch the world burn. We don't have a conflict of interest."

Bruno smirked. "Allies need equal leverage. What do you have?"

Ivy leaned forward. She pressed her lips against the pulse point of his throat. She felt his heart beating there. Steady. Powerful.

"I have the ability to make sure you're never bored," she breathed against his skin.

It was a lie. A desperate gamble. But it was the only card she had.

Bruno's hand tightened in her hair. He pulled her head back, forcing her to look at him.

"Prove it."

He kissed her. It wasn't like the night before. It was possessive. It was a contract being signed in saliva and breath.

Ivy responded with everything she had. She poured her rage, her fear, and her desperation into the kiss.

His hands roamed over the shirt, finding the skin beneath. The car seemed to shrink, the world outside ceasing to exist.

Then, a sound shattered the moment.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

It was a generic, cheerful melody. Ivy's phone.

She froze. Bruno didn't stop. His mouth moved to her neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle there.

Ivy scrambled for her purse, which was on the floor. She pulled out the phone.

The screen flashed a name: CLIVE.

Ivy stared at it. Her stomach dropped.

Bruno pulled back slightly. He saw the name.

His eyes glinted with malicious delight.

"Answer it," he commanded.

Ivy shook her head. "I can't."

"Answer it," Bruno repeated. He moved his hand lower, sliding it up her thigh. "Put it on speaker."