Claimed By My Ex’s Uncle After Divorce

Chapter 2: The Dark Room

Elowen's POV

The alcohol hit me the moment I stepped out of the lounge. The world tilted slightly, the glittering city lights blurring into long, neon streaks. Jade had tried to force me into a cab to come stay at her apartment, but I couldn't bear the thought of being watched, of having my pity witnessed. Instead, she had reluctantly booked me a suite at The Vanguard—a notoriously exclusive, ultra-luxury boutique hotel Midtown.

"Let me walk you to the elevator, El," Jade had insisted at the lobby doors.

"No," I murmured, leaning against a marble pillar, pushing her gently away. "I just need a bed and total silence. Please, Jade. I’m fine."

I wasn’t fine. My head was spinning, a heavy dull ache throbbing behind my temples as the elevator glided silently up to the penthouse suites. Stepping out onto the plush, dimly lit corridor of the top floor, my vision swam. I fumbled in my designer clutch for the keycard Jade had handed me, my mind completely numb.

Room 904. Or was it 906?

I dragged my feet across the thick carpet, stopping in front of a heavy, dark wood door. I swiped the card blindly. To my surprise, the lock didn't beep, but the door gave way under my weight, swinging open into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

Before I could even reach for the wall switch, a sudden, powerful grip clamped onto my wrist.

I gasped, the sound catching in my throat as I was violently pulled forward. The heavy door slammed shut behind me with a resounding click, locking out the faint light from the hallway. I was thrown back against the wall, a tall, imposing silhouette looming over me in the shadows.

"You're late," a deep, velvety baritone rumbled through the darkness. The voice was dangerously smooth, dripping with an icy authority that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

"Wait—let go of me!" I panicked, the alcohol instantly evaporating from my system, replaced by raw adrenaline. I thrashed against his hold, but his grip on my wrists was like iron, pinning them effortlessly above my head.

"Stop playing games," the man murmured, his breath brushing against my ear. He smelled faintly of expensive woodsmoke, high-end scotch, and a dangerous, clean masculine scent that felt intoxicatingly predatory. His free hand swept down to my waist, his long fingers burning through the thin fabric of my silk dress as he pressed his solid, heavy frame against mine.

"I told you to leave," I cried out, my voice cracking as I struggled to free my hands. "You have the wrong person! Let me go!"

Perhaps it was the genuine terror in my voice, or perhaps it was the realization that my stature didn't match whoever he was expecting. The man froze. In the ensuing second of absolute stillness, my hand scrambled along the wall behind me, my fingers blindly catching the edge of a light switch.

I flicked it up.

A brilliant, crystalline chandelier burst to life, flooding the massive luxury suite with blinding light.

I blinked against the sudden glare, my breath coming in ragged gasps. As the blurry shapes solidified, my heart violently stopped.

Standing mere inches from me, his shirt completely unbuttoned to reveal a broad, sculpted chest covered in faint shadow, was a man I recognized instantly. He possessed a sharp, aristocratic jawline, piercing silver-gray eyes that could freeze an entire boardroom, and an aura of absolute, untouchable power.

Rhysand.

Julian’s uncle. The terrifying patriarch who held the true reins of the sprawling family empire, the man the entire family whispered about in hushed, fearful tones. He was a ruthless titan who had rejected his own father's inheritance to build an independent empire six times the size of the family's original fortune. He was completely cold, entirely unapproachable, and had remained an enigmatic bachelor for as long as anyone could remember.

And right now, he was staring down at me, his silver eyes narrowing as recognition flashed through them, replacing the cold irritation.

"Elowen?" his baritone voice dropped, a rare hint of surprise cracking through his icy demeanor.

I looked down, suddenly acutely aware of how compromising our positions were. My dress had ridden up my thighs, and his hand was still firmly planted on my hip, his thumb resting against the bare skin above my waistline. My face burned with a fierce, suffocating heat.

I pushed against his chest, and this time, he let go immediately, stepping back a full foot, his expression instantly closing off into a mask of unreadable, detached calm.

"I... I got the wrong room," I stammered, my hands shaking as I frantically smoothed down my dress, refusing to look him in the eye. The humiliation was absolute. "The door was unlocked. I thought... please, let's just pretend tonight never happened. It was a mistake."

Rhysand stood perfectly still, his hands casually sliding into his trouser pockets. His silver eyes tracked my frantic movements, utterly devoid of the warmth or panic normal men would show. He didn't offer an apology, nor did he ask what Julian's wife was doing drunk in a hotel corridor at two in the morning.

"Go home, Elowen," he said quietly, his voice maintaining a disciplined, perfect distance.

I didn't wait for another word. I turned, yanked the door open, and practically ran down the hallway, the memory of his cold, intense gaze burning into my back.

By the time I finally made it back to the Upper East Side penthouse via a frantic cab ride, the sun was beginning to break over the city skyline. I unlocked the front door, exhaustion dragging at my limbs.

The lights in the living room were fully ablaze.

Julian was sitting on the plush leather sofa, his designer suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened. He looked up as I entered, his handsome face tight with a mixture of annoyance and anxiety.

"Where the hell have you been, Elowen?" he demanded, standing up and walking toward me. "I came home and the anniversary dinner was cold, and you weren't answering your phone. Do you have any idea how worried I was?"

I looked at him—at the perfectly styled hair, the gentle, worried eyes that had deceived me for seven years. A wave of profound disgust rose in my throat.

"Worried?" I echoed, my voice terrifyingly calm as I kicked off my heels. "Funny. I figured you were too busy working late at the office. Or perhaps... private consultations? Is that why you're questioning me? Because you assume I’m out doing exactly what you do behind my back?"

Julian flinched, a sudden, guilty flicker crossing his eyes before he quickly masked it with a soft, placating smile. He reached out, grabbing my shoulders gently. "El, sweetheart, what are you talking about? You're exhausted. I had an absolute nightmare of a crisis at the office tonight—a major infrastructure failure. I felt terrible about missing dinner."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box, opening it with an air of practiced romance. Inside sat a magnificent, custom-crafted diamond necklace, its stones catching the morning light.

"I bought this for you weeks ago," he murmured, his voice tender as he stepped behind me, lifting my hair and fastening the cold metal around my neck before I could protest. "Happy anniversary, my love. I’m sorry about tonight. Let me make it up to you."

He kissed the crown of my head and turned toward the bathroom to shower, completely oblivious to the rigidity of my posture.

The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was another message from Sophia.

It was a live photograph. The background was clearly a luxury bedroom. In the center of the frame was a close-up of Sophia’s elegant, bare throat.

Wrapped around her neck was the exact same, identical diamond necklace I was currently wearing.