Dear Ex, Your Billionaire Uncle Is Mine

"I’m telling you, boys,” he laughed, the sound sharp and cruel, “a week tops. She’s sweet, sure, but not that clever. Give me a few more nights, and she’ll be begging me to put a ring on her finger. Easy game.” The words hit her like a hammer to the chest. Seraphina Vale froze just beyond the doorway of the private lounge. The low murmur of laughter, the clinking of champagne glasses, the warm glow of crystal light—it all came to her ears like a cruel symphony. Her fingers shook slightly around the stem of her untouched flute, the strawberry she had so carefully placed on its rim now tasting bitter, like her pride. They had no idea she was standing there. What made it worse was that they weren’t even quiet. They weren’t sneaking their words. They were laughing, carefree, as if no one could hear or as if no one mattered. Adrian Hawke, the man she had spent two whole years loving, was in there. Laughing with his friends. Saying things about her that she could never erase from her mind. He was the same man who, just last week, had spoken of “forever” with stars in his eyes. And now, here he was, boasting about her like she was a game piece in a story of cigars and whiskey. A bet. That was what she had been. She had been nothing more than a wager. Two years of her love, her trust, her everything, reduced to a joke. How could she have believed any of it was real? “Come on now,” Adrian said, leaning back against the soft velvet of the sofa, every inch of his handsome face carved with smug satisfaction. “She’s beautiful, yes, but all heart. So easy to impress. Daddy’s gone, mom’s lost, and she’s just… waiting for someone to save her.” He raised his glass in mock ceremony and added with a lazy smirk, “Guess who gets to play hero?” Seraphina’s heart felt like it stopped. A storm of anger and betrayal churned inside her. Every whispered “I love you,” every late-night conversation, every dream she had dared to share, it was all a lie to them. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to grab that glass and throw it in his perfect, arrogant face. She wanted him to know that she had heard every word. That she had been standing right there. Instead, she smiled. She walked into the room like she had not just been eavesdropping on her soul being dissected. “Hey, love,” she said, her voice syrupy and sweet, as her eyes locked onto his. Adrian froze, his smug grin faltering. “You left your phone in the car. Thought you might need it.” His friends tensed. Adrian straightened too quickly, awkwardly. “Seraphina, I—” “Oh, don’t stop for me,” she said, tilting her head, her gaze gleaming like shattered glass. “You were on a roll. I especially loved the part about me begging you to propose. So flattering.” A hush fell over the room. She let the silence linger, savoring the moment. Her humiliation had turned into power. She let it wrap around him, a smoke curling from a slow, dangerous fire. Then she leaned in, just close enough for him alone to hear. She whispered, soft but lethal, “One week, right? That’s the limit you set for yourself?” Her lips brushed against his ear as she added, with a teasing, provocative tone, “Game on, Adrian.” Picking up a cigarette from the table, she lit it and stepped away before any apology could form on his lips. She would not cry over a man like him. She would destroy him but she would do it carefully, intentionally, with precision. Her mind turned to the one man capable of dismantling Adrian Hawke in an instant. One name came to her: Lucien Blackthorne. Her stomach knotted as she thought about how to get him on her side. Adrian’s uncle. Her new weapon. The hallway beyond the lounge was colder than she remembered or maybe it was just her own chill. Her heels clicked against the marble like she owned the world, but inside, she felt like she was breaking into a million pieces. She had loved him genuinely and wholeheartedly. Her heart had been laid bare, and he had treated it like a wager to be placed and forgotten. Just another story to be retold over drinks. Just another conquest. Seraphina barely made it to the empty ballroom before her breath caught in her throat. She stumbled into the shadows behind a curtain, pressing her trembling hand to her lips. She swallowed hard, forcing her tears back. Men like Adrian would never see her cry. She wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand, catching her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. The soft, flowing blush gown hugged her curves, seductive yet innocent. She hated it. She hated how vulnerable she appeared. How small. How easy. Straightening her posture, she whispered to herself, “You wanted a bet, Adrian? Let’s raise the stakes.” She would not ruin him with screaming. She would ruin him with silence, with a smile, and with the one person he thought would never touch her. Lucien Blackthorne. The mere mention of his name carried weight. Business halls whispered it. Underworld circles feared it. And Adrian Hawke’s family? They loathed it. Lucien needed nothing and no one. Money, influence, a presence that commanded rooms without lifting a finger. He did not attend family gatherings, he did not pose for photographs, and he certainly did not entertain girls half his age. But tonight, he would. Seraphina squared her shoulders and turned, eyes scanning. She had no precise idea of what he looked like, only that he was older, colder, elusive. Her gaze landed on a figure at the bar—dark suit, broad shoulders, a glass of whiskey in hand, posture relaxed but dangerous. The air around him seemed to push people back, subtly warning them to keep their distance. Her stomach tightened. That had to be him. Taking a steadying breath, she flicked her cigarette beneath her shoe, replaced her mask of sweet innocence, and stepped toward him. Tonight, the game had truly begun.