Claimed By My Ex-Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle

"No, thank you. I'm driving tonight."

Helena Hensley's voice was a practiced hum, smooth and devoid of any jagged edges. She raised a hand to decline the crystal flute of champagne offered by a woman whose name she had forgotten three seconds after being introduced. The woman drifted away in a cloud of expensive floral perfume, leaving Helena standing near a pillar in the Cipriani banquet hall.

She smoothed the velvet fabric of her dress. It was navy blue, high-necked, and entirely too warm for the crowded room. Harrison had picked it out. He said it made her look regal. Helena knew it made her look like a backdrop, something expensive and silent to be placed behind the main attraction.

Her eyes scanned the room, not looking for friends, but for a specific silhouette. Harrison had vanished twenty minutes ago to take a "business call."

She spotted Harrison's personal assistant, a young man named Greg, standing near the coat check. He was checking his watch every ten seconds, sweat glistening on his upper lip despite the air conditioning. He looked like a man holding a grenade with the pin pulled.

Helena didn't approach him. Instead, she turned and walked toward the corridor that led to the VIP lounges. The noise of the party-the clinking glass, the low roar of gossip, the string quartet-faded as she stepped onto the thick carpet of the hallway.

The lighting here was dim, designed for discretion. At the end of the hall, the door to the lounge Harrison usually reserved was ajar. A slice of warm, amber light spilled out across the floor.

Helena stopped. She took a breath, expecting the scent of cigars or aged scotch.

Instead, she heard a sound that made her stomach tighten into a hard, cold knot. It was a heavy, rhythmic panting.

Then came a laugh. High-pitched. Sharp. It belonged to Sienna, a socialite who had spent the last three months making passive-aggressive comments about Helena's shoes.

"You promised," Sienna's voice carried through the crack in the door. "The beach house in the Hamptons. You said the deed would be in my name by Christmas."

"I'm working on it, baby," Harrison's voice was thick, breathless. "Just let me get the trust fund voting rights unlocked. Once the old man's estate is settled..."

"And what about the nun? That boring little art piece display stand you keep dragging around?" Sienna giggled.

Helena stood frozen. Her hand hovered over the brass handle. Her heart didn't race. It slammed against her ribs once, hard, a physical blow that knocked the air out of her lungs.

She didn't push the door open. Not yet. She leaned in, her blue eyes narrowing as she looked through the gap.

Harrison was pressed against the mahogany desk, his tuxedo jacket thrown on the floor. Sienna was wrapped around him. It was a scene of chaotic, sweaty desperation.

"Helena?" Harrison groaned. "She's an asset. Mom says she polls well with the shareholders. She's... safe. Low maintenance."

Helena