Sweet Revenge: Kissing My Ex's Uncle

The weight of the custom-made cake box felt good in Eleanora's hands. Solid. Real.

She stepped out of the black town car and onto the polished granite sidewalk in front of The Apex, a private club so exclusive it didn't even have a sign.

"Good evening, Ms. Solis," Leo, the doorman, said, his voice a low, respectful murmur as he pulled open the heavy glass door. "Have a wonderful night."

"Thank you, Leo. You too." She gave him a small, genuine smile, the kind she reserved for people who were kind for no reason.

She adjusted the thin strap of her French cocktail dress, a whisper of silk against her skin. Tonight was Kason's birthday. A surprise. Her heart was doing a frantic little tap dance against her ribs, a rhythm of pure, unadulterated anticipation.

Inside, the lobby was a galaxy of crystal and light. The chandelier wasn't just a light fixture; it was a statement, dripping diamonds of light onto the marble floor. She walked quickly toward the VIP elevator, her mind a rehearsal stage for the words she'd say, the way she'd hand him the cake, the look on his face when he saw her.

The elevator doors were sliding shut.

"Hold it," a low voice commanded from behind her.

A hand, large and stark against the gleaming metal, shot into the gap. The doors jolted and retracted.

Horace Reeves stepped inside.

The air in the small space instantly changed. It became heavier, charged. He wore a black suit tailored with such precision it looked like a second skin, sharp and unforgiving. A scent clung to him-cedar and something colder, like winter air and smoke.

Eleanora instinctively pressed herself into the corner of the elevator, making herself smaller.

Her brain, without her permission, flashed a reel of headlines from the Times. Reeves Scion in Another Scandal. Aspiring Starlet Rushed to Rehab After Attending Reeves' Party. The stories painted a picture of a man who consumed people, especially women, and spit them out. A walking disaster wrapped in a billion-dollar fortune.

He was Kason's uncle. The black sheep. The monster in the stories the family whispered at holidays.

His eyes, a deep and unsettling shade of blue, swept over her. It wasn't a glance. It was an inventory. He looked at her the way a man might look at a car he was thinking of buying, or maybe stealing.

Eleanora dropped her gaze to the tips of her own heels, suddenly wishing she'd worn something less... delicate. The silence in the elevator was absolute, broken only by the whisper of its ascent. The slight feeling of weightlessness made the frantic thrumming of her own pulse pound in her ears.

"This isn't the place for you," he said suddenly.

His voice was a low rasp, gravel and whiskey, and it detonated in the quiet. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order.

"You should go home."

Eleanora's fingers tightened on the cake box. The cardboard edges dug into her skin.