Claimed By My Ex’s Uncle After Divorce

Chapter 5: A Shadow of Protection

Elowen's POV

I froze, staring at the dark window. The sheer intimacy of the hotel room flashed vividly in my mind, making my heart race. "No, thank you, Uncle Rhysand. Julian is sending a car for me. I’ll wait."

The window rolled down further. Rhysand’s face was silhouetted against the luxurious leather interior of the car, his expression entirely carved from stone.

"I don't like repeating myself, Elowen," he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously low register that brooked absolutely no argument.

Before I could protest further, the front door of the Maybach opened, and his professional chauffeur stepped out, holding a massive golf umbrella. He walked quickly up the steps, bowing respectfully. "Mrs. Julian, please. Mr. Rhysand insists."

Realizing how pathetic I looked shivering under the awning, I swallowed my pride, gathered the wet fabric of my dress, and followed the chauffeur down the steps. He opened the heavy door, and I quickly slid into the warm, leather-scented sanctuary of the backseat.

The door clicked shut, sealing out the sound of the storm.

The contrast was immediate. The car was silent, the air filled with the rich, comforting scent of expensive woodsmoke and amber that belonged exclusively to the man sitting beside me. I pulled myself into the corner, trying to keep my dripping dress away from the pristine leather seats.

Without a word, Rhysand reached over, unbuttoned his heavy, bespoke wool suit jacket, and threw it over my shoulders.

The fabric was incredibly warm, saturated with his personal scent. It draped over me like a heavy, protective shield.

"Thank you," I murmured, my voice trembling slightly from the cold. "I... I’ll have it dry-cleaned and returned to your office as soon as possible."

Rhysand didn't look at me. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead on the rain-slicked road, his profile sharp and completely unreadable. "Don't bother."

The rest of the ride was conducted in absolute, suffocating silence. He didn't ask why I was alone. He didn't offer empty small talk. His help was entirely efficient, quiet, and carried a profound, disciplined sense of boundaries that somehow made me feel safer than I had in years.

By the time the car finally pulled up to the entrance of my Upper East Side building, a wave of intense exhaustion and dizziness washed over me. I stepped out of the car, murmuring another thank you, and managed to drag myself up to the penthouse.

The moment I unlocked the door and stepped onto the marble foyer, my vision suddenly blurred into streaks of black. The world tilted violently. Before I could even reach for the wall, my knees gave out, and darkness swallowed me whole.

When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh, white glare of fluorescent lights blinded me. The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nose, and the faint, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor echoed in the small room.

I blinked, realizing I was lying in a private hospital bed, an IV line running into the back of my hand.

A nurse in blue scrubs walked into the room, her expression softening as she saw me moving. "Ah, you’re finally awake, Mrs. Julian. You gave us quite a scare. You were admitted with a severe lung infection and a high fever. You've been unconscious for nearly twenty-four hours."

"Twenty-four hours?" I croaked, my throat feeling like sandpaper.

"Yes," the nurse nodded, checking my vitals. "Your husband was absolutely frantic. He stayed by your side the entire night, watching over you. He only stepped out a few minutes ago because of an urgent matter. Look, he even brought you fresh flowers."

She pointed to the bedside table, where a massive bouquet of white roses.

A faint, stupid spark of hope tried to flutter in my chest. Did he really stay the whole night? Was I wrong about everything?

Driven by a sudden, desperate need for answers, I pulled the blanket off, swung my legs over the bed, and ignored the nurse’s protests as I stood up. Holding the metal IV pole for support, I slowly walked out of the room, my slippers clicking softly against the linoleum floor.

I walked down the quiet, private corridor, looking for Julian.

As I rounded the corner toward the elevators, I stopped dead in my tracks.

A few yards away, Julian was standing next to a nurse's station. He wasn't looking at a laptop, nor did he look stressed about work. Instead, his arms were wrapped protectively around a woman with long, dark hair. She was wearing a loose-fitting maternity dress, her hand resting over a visibly rounded stomach.

Julian was looking down at her with an expression of pure, unadulterated tenderness, his thumb gently wiping a tear from her cheek as he guided her slowly, carefully, toward the prenatal clinic elevators.