Jilted Heiress: Seducing My Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle

"Good morning, niece-in-law," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke. "You were very enthusiastic last night."

Ivy trembled.

Hours earlier, the world had been a different kind of hell. The stem of the champagne flute felt like it was going to snap between Ivy Wallace's fingers.

She stood in the dead center of the Pierre Hotel's grand ballroom. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast a light that was too bright, too exposing. It made the diamonds around the necks of the women nearby glitter aggressively, like teeth bared in a smile.

Ivy took a sip. The liquid was warm now. It tasted like vinegar and regret.

She could hear them. The whispers. They moved through the room like a draft of cold air, rustling the silk gowns and stiff tuxedos.

Did you see her dress? Last season's Dior.

I heard the Wallace accounts are in the red again.

Poor thing. She doesn't even know where he is.

Ivy knew exactly where he was.

Clive Fitzpatrick stood near the terrace doors. He was looking at his phone, his brow furrowed in that way that usually meant he was annoyed with the stock market or the temperature of his scotch. He was handsome in a conventional, soft way, the kind of handsome that came from three generations of never having to lift anything heavier than a fountain pen.

Ivy took a step forward. Her heels sank slightly into the plush carpet. She needed to be next to him. That was her job. She was the accessory, the mute, smiling doll that signaled stability to the investors.

Then she saw the red dress.

Catrina Bowers slid into the frame like a slash of fresh blood. The dress was cut low, dangerously low for a family charity gala. It was the kind of dress that made people talk, and Catrina lived for the talk. She linked her arm through Clive's.

It was possessive. It was intimate.

Ivy stopped. Her breath hitched in her throat, a physical stumble in her chest.

Clive looked up then. His eyes met Ivy's across the room. There was no warmth in them. No apology. Just a flash of irritation, as if she were a stain on his cuff that he couldn't quite scrub out. He waved his hand, a dismissive flick of the wrist.

Go away.

Catrina saw the gesture. She turned her head, her blonde curls bouncing. She found Ivy in the crowd and smiled. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a victory lap.

Then they turned together and walked out the terrace doors, disappearing into the night.

Ivy stood there. The room seemed to tilt.

It wasn't just the humiliation. It was the three glasses of champagne she had consumed on an empty stomach. She hadn't eaten since yesterday. Claudia, her adoptive mother, had mentioned that the dress was fitting a little snug around the waist. Ivy had taken the hint.

A waiter approached with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. The smell of truffle oil hit