Claimed by my ex husband’s uncle

Chapter 3

THE STRANGER'S TOUCH

ELENA'S POV

I drink champagne like it's water.

The bartender keeps refilling my glass without asking, and I don't stop him. I watch myself in the mirror behind the bar and barely recognize the woman staring back. Her hair is falling down. Her makeup is smudged. She doesn't look like Elena Blackwood or a dutiful wife or someone's charity case. She doesn't look like any version of herself that anyone taught her to be.

She looks broken.

I'm on my fourth glass when the bartender leans across the counter. His face shows worry, real worry, and that almost breaks me all over again.

"Miss, you're drinking too fast," he says quietly. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie, but we both know it's not true.

"Bad day?" he asks, and his kindness makes my eyes burn.

"Bad life," I say, and I laugh—a sound that's sharp and bitter and doesn't belong to me.

A man's voice comes from behind me. "I think you should slow down."

I turn and find him. He's in an expensive suit, dark hair, dark eyes. His eyes look tired, like they've seen things they wish they hadn't. He studies me with an expression I can't read, and it makes me both afraid and curious at the same time.

"I don't know you," I say.

"You don't," he agrees. He doesn't tell me his name, and I'm grateful because names feel too real right now. Names mean connection, and connection means pain.

"Are you here to judge me?" My voice comes out angry. "Because I'm tired of being judged."

"No," he says simply. "I think you shouldn't be alone tonight."

Something in his words hits me. This stranger sees me sitting here falling apart, and he doesn't turn away. He doesn't look disgusted. He looks at me like I'm a person. Like I matter.

"Do you have somewhere to go?" he asks.

I think about the mansion waiting for me. I think about Margaret's satisfied smile, about facing tomorrow as Mrs. Adrian Blackwood, about slowly disappearing into that life until there's nothing left of me.

Terror fills my chest.

"No," I say. "I don't have anywhere."

"I have a place," he says. "You can come."

I should say no. I should go home and face my marriage and accept my fate. But tonight, I've already lost my marriage, my dignity, my whole identity. What's one more bad choice?

"Okay," I say. "Let's go."

The elevator ride up is silent. My heart won't stop racing. When the doors open, we're at the top floor. The penthouse takes my breath away. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the entire city below us, glittering and alive.

I walk to the glass and press my forehead against it. The cold feels real. The view feels real. Everything else in my life has been fake.

"It's beautiful," I whisper.

"Yes," he says, and I think he's looking at me, not the city.

I turn around and he's closer now. "Talk to me," he says. "Tell me what happened."

So I do. The words pour out of me like I've been holding them in for years. I tell him about Adrian and the marriage and every dream I gave up. I tell him about the gala and being humiliated in front of hundreds of people. I tell him about my cousin, and Adrian's words cut me all over again.

"He said I was a thief," I say, and my voice shakes. "He said I broke into his family like a thief, and everyone laughed."

"He's wrong," the man says with absolute certainty.

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Because I can see you," he says, and his words feel like they're breaking my heart open. "I can see who you really are, and you're not a thief. You're just someone who got hurt by people who didn't deserve you."

I cry. I cry in front of this stranger in a penthouse, and the tears won't stop. They come from somewhere deep inside me that's been locked away, forgotten, abandoned. My whole body shakes with grief and rage and relief all mixed together.

He doesn't touch me. He just lets me fall apart.

After a while, I stop crying and wipe my face. My hands are shaking. "I'm sorry," I say. "You don't know me. Why are you even listening to this?"

"Because you need someone to," he says, and something inside me cracks open all over again.

We sit on the couch. The city lights dance behind us. At some point, he's closer than before. I can see his face clearly now—sharp cheekbones, a scar along his jaw, and in his eyes, an exhaustion as deep as my own. He looks like someone who understands loneliness. He looks like someone who's lost things too.

"What's your name?" I whisper.

He hesitates. I see the war happening behind his eyes. He's about to push me away, and I can't let that happen. Not tonight.

I kiss him instead.

His hands go to my waist. My hands tangle in his hair. The champagne taste on my lips mixes with whiskey and something darker. My entire body comes alive under his touch, like it's been waiting for this moment without knowing it.

"We shouldn't do this," he whispers against my mouth.

"I know," I say, breathless. "But I want to."

"You don't know me," he says, and there's anguish in his voice.

"I know," I say. "And that's the point. You can't hurt me because you don't know enough about me to hurt me. We're just two lost people for one night."

He pulls back and looks at me like he's trying to memorize my face.

"Okay," he finally says. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure," I say.

The rest of the night is sensation and emotion blurred together. His hands on my skin ignite a fire inside me. There's a desperate intimacy between us—two people who don't know each other but understand each other's loneliness without words.

For the first time in three years, I feel alive.

For the first time in my life, I'm not performing. I'm not pretending. I'm not disappearing.

When morning comes, the bed is too large and too expensive. He's still sleeping beside me, his face less guarded. I could ask his name and try to make this moment mean something.

But I don't.

I slip out of bed quietly, pull my torn ball gown back on, and I leave the penthouse without looking back.

Some moments are meant to stay perfect.

But as I'm closing the door, I hear him stir. I hear him call out—not a name because he never knew mine, just a sound. A cry like someone waking from a beautiful dream and realizing it's gone forever.

I run. My heels echo down the hallway as I flee from the only person who's made me feel real.