Claimed By The Cheating Fiancé's Ruthless Uncle

"Harder, Elton... don't stop..."

The muffled gasp drifted through the half-inch crack of suite 1402 at the Plaza Hotel, thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cheap desperation.

Annabel Rojas stood on the crimson wool runner, her fingers tightening around the plastic keycard. The faint calluses on her fingertips scraped against the sharp edge of the card.In the room, the voice of her fiancé, Elton Henson, responded with a low, hurried laugh, immediately followed by the wet rustle of silk bedsheets and the sharp, greedy moans of his mistress, Jaylynn Cortez.

Annabel did not kick the door open. Her amber eyes remained flat, reflecting the dim hallway sconces like frozen glass. Without a word, she let her fingers relax. The keycard slipped from her hand and dropped with a dull clatter into the brass trash chute beside the ice machine.

She turned on her heel, her black heels sinking silently into the carpet as she walked toward the private elevator at the end of the corridor.

The polished bronze doors caught her reflection. She looked small in her thrifted trench coat, but as she reached up to twist her dark, wavy hair into a messy knot, the quiet exhaustion on her face peeled back, revealing razor-sharp bone structure and a stillness that belonged to an apex predator.

She pressed the top button.

The private elevator shot up forty floors without stopping. When the doors slid open onto the penthouse landing, four men in charcoal Savile Row suits stepped forward, their broad shoulders instantly walling off the corridor.

"Private floor, ma'am," the lead guard said, his hand resting near his lapel. "Turn around."

Annabel lifted her chin by a fraction of an inch, looking straight past the guard's bulk to the carved double doors at the end of the marble foyer.

"Tell Demetrius that his nephew's fiancée is here to collect a debt."

The guard's earpiece crackled with static. Two seconds later, his jaw tightened, and he stepped back, extending an arm toward the doors.

"You have five minutes."

The heavy oak doors swung inward. The penthouse smelled of aged cedar, Montecristo cigars, and cold, sovereign wealth. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the glittering grid of Manhattan, turning the room into an ivory tower floating above the clouds.

A man stood with his back to her in front of the glass, a tumbler of amber liquid in his right hand. He was broad-shouldered, with a tailored white shirt pulled taut across his back, his dark hair cut sharp and clean.

Demetrius turned around.

His obsidian eyes locked onto her face, heavy with an intensity that could strip the composure off seasoned Wall Street executives. A thin trail of blue smoke curled from the cigar resting in the crystal ashtray beside him.

He did not speak. He simply stood there, letting the silence crush the room like dropping atmospheric pressure.

Annabel stepped across the cashmere rug, her steps light and measured. She stopped three feet from him, tilting her head slightly, letting a faint, mocking softness coat her voice.

"You're awake late, Mr. Franco."

Demetrius crushed the cigar into the crystal bowl with a single, deliberate twist of his wrist. His leather Oxfords clicked against the hardwood as he closed the distance between them, his presence blocking out the city lights until her back met the cold mahogany paneling of the bar wall.

He leaned down, his cool breath brushing the sensitive shell of her ear. The gold signet ring on his left pinky grazed the curve of her jawline.

"Does Elton know his sweet, obedient fiancée visits his honorary uncle in the middle of the night?"

Annabel bit the inside of her cheek, suppressing the instinct to break his wrist where it touched her throat. Instead, she leaned back against the wall, lifting her eyes to meet his dark, invasive stare.

She reached up with two fingers, hooking them into the crisp knot of his silk tie, pulling him down a fraction of an inch.

"He doesn't need to know, Mr. Franco."

Demetrius's gaze darkened into midnight. His thumb came up, pressing hard against her lower lip, rough and hot against her soft skin.

"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a rasp. "What are you selling, Annabel?"

"A partnership," she whispered, her amber eyes reflecting his rigid jawline. "Henson Group is trying to swallow my architectural portfolio to clear their offshore debt. You want Henson Group off the board. I want them destroyed."

Demetrius gave a dry, humorless chuckle. He released her jaw, stepped back to the marble counter, and poured two fingers of bourbon into a clean crystal glass.

"Prove you're worth the trouble."

Annabel did not touch the glass. She stepped around the counter, stepping directly into his space until the fabric of her coat brushed his trousers.

She lifted her right hand, her fingertips tracing the sharp line of his collarbone, feeling the sudden, violent jump of his pulse against her knuckles.

Demetrius's breath hitched. Before she could pull back, his large hand locked around her wrist, hauling her flush against his chest.

His mouth came down on hers with bruising precision.

It was not a gentle kiss; it was a territorial claim, heavy with the taste of bourbon and raw dominance. He lifted her effortlessly, setting her onto the cool marble of the bar, sweeping the crystal glasses aside with a crash that went ignored.

Annabel stiffened for half a second before her hands slid up his shoulders, anchoring herself into the crisp fabric of his shirt as she kissed him back with calculated hunger, letting him believe he was the one taking everything.