Sweet Revenge: Kissing My Ex's Uncle

The weight of the custom-made cake box felt good in Eleanora's hands. Solid. Real.

She stepped out of the black town car and onto the polished granite sidewalk in front of The Apex, a private club so exclusive it didn't even have a sign.

"Good evening, Ms. Solis," Leo, the doorman, said, his voice a low, respectful murmur as he pulled open the heavy glass door. "Have a wonderful night."

"Thank you, Leo. You too." She gave him a small, genuine smile, the kind she reserved for people who were kind for no reason.

She adjusted the thin strap of her French cocktail dress, a whisper of silk against her skin. Tonight was Kason's birthday. A surprise. Her heart was doing a frantic little tap dance against her ribs, a rhythm of pure, unadulterated anticipation.

Inside, the lobby was a galaxy of crystal and light. The chandelier wasn't just a light fixture; it was a statement, dripping diamonds of light onto the marble floor. She walked quickly toward the VIP elevator, her mind a rehearsal stage for the words she'd say, the way she'd hand him the cake, the look on his face when he saw her.

The elevator doors were sliding shut.

"Hold it," a low voice commanded from behind her.

A hand, large and stark against the gleaming metal, shot into the gap. The doors jolted and retracted.

Horace Reeves stepped inside.

The air in the small space instantly changed. It became heavier, charged. He wore a black suit tailored with such precision it looked like a second skin, sharp and unforgiving. A scent clung to him-cedar and something colder, like winter air and smoke.

Eleanora instinctively pressed herself into the corner of the elevator, making herself smaller.

Her brain, without her permission, flashed a reel of headlines from the Times. Reeves Scion in Another Scandal. Aspiring Starlet Rushed to Rehab After Attending Reeves' Party. The stories painted a picture of a man who consumed people, especially women, and spit them out. A walking disaster wrapped in a billion-dollar fortune.

He was Kason's uncle. The black sheep. The monster in the stories the family whispered at holidays.

His eyes, a deep and unsettling shade of blue, swept over her. It wasn't a glance. It was an inventory. He looked at her the way a man might look at a car he was thinking of buying, or maybe stealing.

Eleanora dropped her gaze to the tips of her own heels, suddenly wishing she'd worn something less... delicate. The silence in the elevator was absolute, broken only by the whisper of its ascent. The slight feeling of weightlessness made the frantic thrumming of her own pulse pound in her ears.

"This isn't the place for you," he said suddenly.

His voice was a low rasp, gravel and whiskey, and it detonated in the quiet. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

"You should go home."

Eleanora's fingers tightened on the cake box. The cardboard edges dug into her skin. She forced herself to look up, to meet that oppressive gaze.

"It's Kason's birthday party," she said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. "I'm supposed to be here."

A cold smile touched the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Kason's party." He said the name like it was something distasteful. His gaze flickered over her dress, her carefully styled hair, the hopeful look she knew was still on her face. It felt like he was peeling her open, layer by layer.

Ding.

The elevator arrived at the penthouse level. The sound was a reprieve.

Horace stepped out first, his long legs eating up the space. He took two steps into the plush hallway, then stopped. He didn't turn around fully, just angled his head, his profile sharp and predatory in the dim light.

His eyes found hers in the reflection of the polished wall.

"The games they play up here," he said, his voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a threat, "are not for you, little Solis."

A hot, inexplicable wave of humiliation washed over her. He knew her name. Little Solis. It was a dismissal. A pat on the head to a child who'd wandered into the adult's section.

She watched his broad back disappear down the corridor and glared at the empty space where he'd been.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she tried to reset. To find that happy, hopeful girl who had stepped out of the car just minutes ago. She was here for Kason. That's all that mattered.

She turned and walked toward the double doors of the main suite, the thumping bass of electronic music growing louder with each step.

She pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

Well, not empty. The music was so loud the floor vibrated. A few half-empty bottles of expensive tequila were scattered across a low table, surrounded by a mess of lime wedges and sticky-looking glasses. The party had clearly been here, but it had moved on.

Eleanora placed the cake on the edge of the table, a small, perfect square in the middle of the chaos. She'd find him. He was probably just mingling in the hallway.

She stepped out of the suite. The hallway was dimmer, quieter. At the far end, a door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling out.

Feminine laughter, throaty and familiar, drifted from within, followed by a man's low groan.

She told herself to turn back. It was none of her business. Some socialite and her flavor of the week, hiding from the crowd.

But then she heard the laugh again, a specific, cloying sound she'd known her whole life.

It was her cousin, Brielle.

Eleanora's feet stopped moving. They felt nailed to the floor. Her heart, which had been fluttering with excitement, was now a cold, hard stone in her chest. A hand, invisible and cruel, was squeezing it. Tighter. Tighter.

Slowly, as if moving through water, she approached the half-open door. Her palm was slick with a cold sweat as she reached out, her fingers trembling.

She didn't need to push it open. The gap was wide enough.

And through it, she saw a scene that made the blood in her veins turn to ice.

Through the crack in the door, the image burned itself onto the back of her eyes.

Kason.

His back was to her, but she knew the line of his shoulders, the way his expensive shirt stretched across them. He had Brielle pressed against the arm of a sofa, his hands locked on her waist. Brielle's fingers were tangled in his tie, her head thrown back in a silent laugh as his mouth moved against her neck.

It wasn't a clumsy, drunken fumble. It was practiced. Intimate.

Her clutch slipped from Eleanora's numb fingers.

It hit the hardwood floor with a dull, sickening thud.

The sound, small as it was, shattered the moment inside the room. Two heads snapped toward the door. Kason's face, when he saw her, wasn't guilty. It wasn't apologetic. It was annoyed. Like she was a waiter who had brought the wrong order.

Brielle, still nestled in Kason's arms, let out a soft, deliberate giggle. Her eyes, full of triumphant venom, met Eleanora's.

"Kason?" Eleanora's voice was a ragged whisper. The word tore at her throat. "It's your birthday." As if that explained everything. As if that was a shield against this.

He let out a short, cold laugh and stood up, casually straightening his shirt. "The party's been over for a while, Ellie. You're late."

"You're just his little puppy, following him everywhere," Brielle purred, not even bothering to move from the sofa. She looked Eleanora up and down, a cruel smirk on her lips. "He told me kissing you was like kissing a dead fish. No passion."

The words were like slaps. Each one landed, sharp and stinging.

"He's been bored for months," Brielle continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "You were the only one who didn't seem to notice."

Eleanora's vision blurred. Tears welled, hot and thick, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

A surge of white-hot rage propelled her forward. She lunged, her hand raised to strike the smug, indifferent look off Kason's face.

But Brielle was faster. She moved between them, a fluid, serpentine motion. In her hand was a glass of red wine. With a small, calculated push, she tipped the glass.

The dark liquid splashed across the front of Eleanora's dress. It bloomed against the pale silk like a fresh wound.

The cold, wet shock of it, the dark stain spreading over her chest, was the final humiliation.

"Get out," Kason said, waving a dismissive hand at her as if shooing away a fly. "Don't stand there and ruin my night."

Eleanora stumbled backward, her back hitting the doorframe. The sharp pain was a distant, grounding sensation in a sea of emotional agony.

She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob that was clawing its way up her throat and turned, running.

She ran blindly down the corridor, away from the laughter, away from the music, away from the life that had just been detonated.

At a corner, she collided with a waiter carrying a tray.

A clatter of glass, the splash of liquid. Several colorful cocktails shattered on the floor, the sticky liquid splashing onto her bare legs.

"I'm so sorry, miss!" the young man stammered, his face pale with panic. He fumbled to offer her a bottle of sparkling water from his tray. "Are you alright?"

She pushed his hand away, shaking her head, but the young man insisted, producing a small glass of amber liquid from his tray. "Please, miss, it's a special calming tincture the bar makes for overwhelmed guests. You look like you need it."

Her mouth was desert-dry, her throat tight with unshed tears. The grief was a physical thing, a thirst. Without thinking, without even registering what it was, she grabbed the glass and drank it down in one long, desperate gulp.

It burned. A sharp, bitter heat that was almost a relief. There was an aftertaste she couldn't place, a chemical numbness that coated her tongue.

She ignored it.

She kept moving, searching for the elevator, for escape. But the hallway seemed to twist and turn. The lights, once just bright, now smeared and spun in her vision.

A fire started deep in her belly, a strange, prickling heat that spread through her veins. Her skin became hypersensitive, the silk of her ruined dress suddenly abrasive. Her legs felt weak, unsteady.

She had taken a wrong turn. This corridor was dark, silent. The air was cool. It was a service passage, or something private.

She stumbled against a wall, her body screaming for relief from the internal furnace. Her head was swimming, the world tilting on its axis.

Ahead, a heavy, soundproofed door stood slightly ajar. Through it, she saw a flicker of mesmerizing blue light. Water.

A pool.

The thought of cold, clean water was a siren's call. To quench the fire. To wash away the stain. To just... stop burning.

Without a second thought, she pushed the door open and staggered toward the source of the light.

And then, she fell.

The icy shock of the water was a physical blow.

It stole her breath, a brutal contrast to the fire raging under her skin. For a split second, the cold was a relief, a baptism. Then, her dress, soaked and heavy, began to pull her down.

Her limbs felt disconnected from her brain. She flailed, her arms slapping uselessly at the surface. Water splashed into her mouth, and she coughed, a raw, choking sound that echoed in the silent, cavernous room.

She tried to grab the edge of the pool, her fingers scraping against smooth, slick tile, finding no purchase.

The door to the suite's main living area slid open.

Horace walked into the poolside lounge, his focus on a stack of documents in his hand. He'd come back for the quarterly reports he'd forgotten. A muffled splash, a sound that didn't belong, made him stop.

He looked up.

His brow, which had been set in a line of cool indifference, instantly furrowed. There was a woman in his pool. Thrashing. Drowning.

Through the distorted veil of water and her own blurred vision, Eleanora saw the tall, dark silhouette on the deck. Kason. He'd followed her. To mock her? To finish the job of destroying her?

Panic, raw and primal, clawed at her. She tried to back away, pushing herself deeper into the pool, away from the figure. The movement made her swallow more water.

Horace strode to the edge, his shadow falling over her. He looked down, his expression unreadable.

He saw her flushed face, the unnatural brightness of her eyes, the way her pupils were blown wide in the dim light. This wasn't just a clumsy fall. This wasn't a normal drowning.

A cold, sharp intuition, the kind that had kept him alive in boardrooms and back alleys, screamed at him. She was on something. A powerful hallucinogen, by the looks of it. A roofie.

He tossed the files onto a lounge chair and crouched, stripping off his suit jacket. He extended a hand. "Take my hand."

But Eleanora, lost in the drug-fueled nightmare, didn't see a rescuer. She saw her tormentor.

She slapped at the water, sending a weak spray in his direction.

"Go away!" she slurred, the words garbled. "Leave me alone, you... you cheating bastard! You disgusting old pervert!"

Horace's hand didn't freeze. A slow, cold smile spread across his lips. Old pervert. The insult, so juvenile, only seemed to amuse him, though the amusement was razor-sharp and dangerous.

"Watch your mouth," he said, his voice dropping to a low, cold growl.

She didn't hear the warning. She only felt the threat of his presence. Sobbing, she tried to swim away, toward the center of the pool, toward the illusion of safety.

Then, a brutal, searing cramp seized her right calf. Her leg locked up.

Her body went rigid, then sank.

Water rushed over her head, into her nose, her mouth. The world went silent, blue, and terrifying. A desperate, burning need for air consumed her. Her eyes were wide with a final, silent scream as her hands clawed at the water that was filling her lungs.

On the deck, Horace didn't hesitate.

He launched himself into the pool in a clean, powerful dive. The splash was a violent explosion in the quiet room. He was on her in two powerful strokes, a predator closing in on his prey.

A strong arm snaked around her waist, a band of steel locking her against him. He hauled her upward, breaking the surface with a gasp.

Her back was flush against his hard chest. Water streamed from his hair, dripping from his sharp jawline onto her face. She was coughing, sputtering, but she was breathing.

The drug was still in control. The terror of drowning was replaced by a confusing, shameful sense of security. His body was a warm, solid anchor in her spinning world. The strength of his hold wasn't just restraining; it was... grounding.

Her struggles ceased.

Like a drowning sailor clinging to a piece of driftwood, her wet, trembling arms came up, wrapping around his neck. She held on, her survival instincts overriding everything else.

Dazed, she tilted her head back, her cheek resting against his chest. Her lips, swollen and parted, were inches from his throat.

Horace felt the shift in her. The fight going out of her, replaced by a pliant, desperate clinging. He felt the heat of her body through their soaked clothes, the soft press of her breasts against his ribs.

His entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing as if bracing for a blow.

His face was a mask of stone, but his voice was a low, guttural snarl, laced with a fury she was too far gone to comprehend.

"What the hell did you take?"