Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Billionaire Uncle

The crystal flute slipped from her fingers.

A wave of heat, sudden and suffocating, washed over Fiona Donaldson. It started in her stomach, a sick, coiling warmth that climbed up her throat and made the air thick as water. Her vision swam, the glittering chandeliers of the Park Avenue hotel blurring into a smear of painful light.

She reached out, steadying herself on the back of a velvet armchair.

"Fiona, darling, are you alright?"

It was her fiancé, Chip Ball. His voice, usually smooth and practiced, held a strange edge. She looked at him, past the perfect blond hair and the bespoke suit. There was no concern in his eyes, only a flicker of something else.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird.

"You've had too much to drink," her adoptive sister, Bette Coleman, said, gliding to her side. Bette's touch was cool on her arm, but it made Fiona's skin crawl. The scent of her cloying floral perfume was suddenly nauseating.

Fiona's gaze drifted to the table. To the champagne glass with her lipstick stain on the rim. The one she'd only taken a single sip from.

Understanding hit her like a physical blow.

They drugged me.

The thought was so cold, so sharp, it cut through the fog in her head for a single, terrifying second. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet.

The drug was a fire in her veins, a heavy poison pulling her down. But a deeper, more primal instinct screamed at her. Run.

With a surge of adrenaline, Fiona shoved Bette away. The smaller girl stumbled back with a surprised cry.

"What the hell, Fiona!" Chip lunged for her.

His hands were almost on her arm. Fiona's hand shot out, grabbing the first thing it found-a heavy, abstract metal sculpture from a side table. It was cold and solid in her palm. She swung it, not at his face, but at his reaching hand.

There was a sickening crunch of metal on bone.

Chip howled in pain, cradling his hand.

That was all the time she needed. Fiona turned and ran. She threw her entire body against the heavy, ornate door of the suite. It swung open, and she stumbled into the brightly lit hallway.

The corridor stretched before her, a dizzying tunnel of polished marble and gold fixtures. The lights warped and twisted in her blurry vision. Her legs felt like lead, each step a monumental effort.

Behind her, she heard them. Chip's pained curses and Bette's shrill voice. "Get her! Don't let her get away!"

Their footsteps echoed, getting closer.

Panic clawed at her throat. There was nowhere to go. The elevator was too far. Her mind was a maelstrom of fear and chemical confusion.

Then she saw it.

A few yards ahead, a single black door was slightly ajar. A sliver of cool, calm light spilled out from the crack. It was different from the harsh, glittering lights of the hallway.

She didn't think. Her body moved on pure survival instinct.

She launched herself at the door, pushing it open with the last of her strength, and fell inside.

The world shifted.

The air here was different. Cool and still, smelling faintly of expensive whiskey and old paper. The frantic sounds from the hallway were instantly muffled.

A tall figure rose from a low-slung leather sofa. He was a silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling window that showcased the glittering expanse of the New York skyline. The sheer size of him, the oppressive sense of quiet power he exuded, filled the room.

Fiona didn't have time to stop. She collided with him, her face pressing into the hard wall of his chest. The fabric of his shirt was crisp and cool against her burning skin.

Strong hands gripped her arms, steadying her.

Ewart Blake had been reviewing a time-sensitive acquisition file when his private suite door was thrown open. He looked up, his brow furrowing in annoyance at the intrusion. Then he saw the woman who had stumbled in. Her dress was slightly torn at the shoulder, her hair in disarray, her skin flushed with an unnatural heat.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were wide, unfocused, pupils blown wide. All she could make out was a sharp, unforgiving jawline and the dark shadow of a man. She clung to the front of his shirt, her knuckles white.

"Help me..." The words were a ragged whisper, torn from her throat. "Please."

Ewart's gaze sharpened. He took in the details-the panicked breathing, the tremor in her hands, the sheen of sweat on her brow. This wasn't a drunken mistake. This was a predator-and-prey situation.

He heard a man's angry shout from the hallway. "Where did she go?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Ewart Blake made a decision. He hooked his heel back, catching the edge of the heavy suite door. It swung shut with a nearly silent, decisive click.

The lock engaged automatically.

The last of Fiona's strength gave out. Her body went limp, a dead weight against him. The world dissolved into a suffocating darkness.

As she fell into unconsciousness, the drug peaked. Her body, seeking relief from the inferno within, instinctively pressed closer to the only source of cool, solid reality in her collapsing universe.

******

The first thing she registered was pain. A dull, throbbing ache behind her eyes.

The second was sunlight. Bright, intrusive sunlight warming her skin.

Fiona's eyelids fluttered open. She was in a bed. A vast, unfamiliar bed with sheets that felt like cool silk against her bare skin.

Fragments of the night before came rushing back. The champagne. Chip's cruel smile. The desperate run down the hallway.

There was a soft sound from the other side of the bed. A rustle of fabric.

Her body went rigid. Slowly, mechanically, she turned her head.

A man was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to her. He was buttoning a crisp, white shirt. His shoulders were broad, his movements economical and precise.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head.

He had a face that was all sharp angles and cold authority. A strong jaw, a straight nose, and eyes the color of a winter storm. It was a handsome face, but utterly devoid of warmth.

Fiona's breath caught in her throat. Her pupils contracted to pinpricks.

She knew that face. Not from a meeting, but from the glossy pages of business magazines and hushed, reverent conversations at Donaldson family dinners.

Ewart Blake.

The reclusive, formidable CEO of Apex Global. A legend in the world of finance and technology.

And Chip's maternal uncle.