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. She forced herself to look up, to meet that oppressive gaze.

"It's Kason's birthday party," she said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. "I'm supposed to be here."

A cold smile touched the corner of his mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Kason's party." He said the name like it was something distasteful. His gaze flickered over her dress, her carefully styled hair, the hopeful look she knew was still on her face. It felt like he was peeling her open, layer by layer.

Ding.

The elevator arrived at the penthouse level. The sound was a reprieve.

Horace stepped out first, his long legs eating up the space. He took two steps into the plush hallway, then stopped. He didn't turn around fully, just angled his head, his profile sharp and predatory in the dim light.

His eyes found hers in the reflection of the polished wall.

"The games they play up here," he said, his voice barely a whisper but carrying the weight of a threat, "are not for you, little Solis."

A hot, inexplicable wave of humiliation washed over her. He knew her name. Little Solis. It was a dismissal. A pat on the head to a child who'd wandered into the adult's section.

She watched his broad back disappear down the corridor and glared at the empty space where he'd been.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she tried to reset. To find that happy, hopeful girl who had stepped out of the car just minutes ago. She was here for Kason. That's all that mattered.

She turned and walked toward the double doors of the main suite, the thumping bass of electronic music growing louder with each step.

She pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

Well, not empty. The music was so loud the floor vibrated. A few half-empty bottles of expensive tequila were scattered across a low table, surrounded by a mess of lime wedges and sticky-looking glasses. The party had clearly been here, but it had moved on.

Eleanora placed the cake on the edge of the table, a small, perfect square in the middle of the chaos. She'd find him. He was probably just mingling in the hallway.

She stepped out of the suite. The hallway was dimmer, quieter. At the far end, a door was ajar, a sliver of light spilling out.

Feminine laughter, throaty and familiar, drifted from within, followed by a man's low groan.

She told herself to turn back. It was none of her business. Some socialite and her flavor of the week, hiding from the crowd.

But then she heard the laugh again, a specific, cloying sound she'd known her whole life.

It was her cousin, Brielle.

Eleanora's feet stopped moving. They felt nailed to the floor. Her heart, which had been fluttering with excitement, was now a cold, hard stone in her chest. A hand, invisible and cruel, was squeezing it. Tighter. Tighter.

Slowly, as if moving through water, she approached the half-open door. Her palm was slick with a cold sweat as she reached out, her fingers trembling.

She didn't need to push it open. The gap was wide enough.

And through it, she saw a scene that made the blood in her veins turn to ice.