Seducing My Ex's Ruthless Billionaire Uncle

The heavy oak doors of the Manhattan private club muffled the thumping bass of the music inside.

Out in the dimly lit hallway, the air smelled of expensive cigars and spilled alcohol.

Jaelynn Grant stood frozen, her knuckles turning stark white as she gripped her black quilted Chanel clutch. It was one of the last designer items she hadn't sold.

Artie Howard, her stepfather, stepped into her personal space. His face was flushed with cheap liquor.

He raised his hand and shoved her hard against the shoulder.

Jaelynn stumbled back, her spine hitting the cold, silk-lined wallpaper.

"You are going to walk into that room, and you are going to get that funding from the investors tonight," Artie warned, his voice a harsh, guttural whisper. "Or your father's medical bills go unpaid tomorrow."

Jaelynn bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of her own blood.

Her stomach twisted into a violent knot, bile rising in the back of her throat.

She stared at Artie's hypocritical, sweating face. She wanted to scream, to hit him, but the image of her father, Garfield, lying in the Intensive Care Unit at Mount Sinai Hospital flashed in her mind.

The machines keeping him alive cost tens of thousands of dollars a day. Since the Grant family company filed for bankruptcy under the Bankruptcy Code, all their assets were frozen. She had no money, no power, and no choice.

Artie sneered, turning his back on her. He pushed open the heavy door to the VIP room and walked into the noisy, smoke-filled space.

Jaelynn stayed in the hallway. She leaned against the cold wall and dragged a shaky breath into her burning lungs.

She turned her head and looked through the half-open crack of the door, scanning the room.

The lighting inside was dark, illuminated only by amber wall sconces.

Her eyes immediately locked onto the man sitting at the center of the largest leather sofa.

It was Dolph Valentine.

He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit that screamed old money. He wasn't talking to anyone. He was just sitting there, his long fingers casually flipping a silver lighter open and closed.

Click. Clack.

The sound seemed to cut through the noise of the room.

Before Jaelynn could process his presence, Filiberto Ortega, a balding investor with a massive gut, spotted her.

Ortega walked toward the door, holding a glass of dark liquor. His greedy eyes dragged down the deep neckline of Jaelynn's red silk dress.

He held the glass out to her, his lips curling into a predatory smile.

Jaelynn forced her facial muscles to relax. She swallowed the nausea rising in her throat and reached out to take the glass.

As her fingers brushed the crystal, she intentionally let her wrist go limp.

The glass tipped.

She timed it perfectly just as he was about to pass them toward the back of the room. Half of the dark red wine splashed directly onto the sleeve