One Night With My Exs Uncle

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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Anna's POV

I tilted my head back, surrendering to the intoxicating rhythm of being lifted and dropped, over and over, in a frenzy that bordered on violent. The sensation was dizzying, decadent like falling without fear.

In the haze of pleasure, a sharp truth sliced through me: I, Anna Shaw, who once swore Jack Simpson would be my first and only, was now tangled in sheets with a stranger I hadn't even asked the name of.

And the most shocking part? I loved every second of it.

He moved with skill confident and unrelenting. Each thrust was deliberate, hard and thick, like he was trying to break me apart just to reconstruct someone new. My thoughts blurred, except one: next time, maybe I'll pick someone gentler to fuck me.

My nails sank into his shoulders, tracing the taut shift of muscle beneath his skin. The room spun as I let go, drowning in a tidal wave of pleasure I'd denied myself for far too long. He drove into me harder, deeper, and my body clenched around him like he was the only thing anchoring me to earth. My release came sharp and sudden, so intense I nearly blacked out.

The shrill ring of my phone dragged me back to the present.

I blinked at the ceiling unfamiliar, sterile, expensive.

"Ms. Shaw, don't forget about the wine tasting this afternoon at three. The social committee will be expecting you," came Rachel's voice crisp, efficient, and far too awake.

Of course, they'd schedule something right after my divorce was finalized. Like vultures circling, eager for proof that Anna Shaw couldn't stand on her own. Predictable.

"I'll be there," I said, ending the call with a sigh. One o'clock. I'd overslept.

As I shifted to sit up, an arm looped tightly around my waist, drawing me against a bare chest. I froze.

It was oddly intimate too intimate for daylight.

"Let go," I said, my voice sharper than intended. I pushed his arm away, fingers brushing muscle that triggered a vivid flash of last night. Those arms had hoisted me effortlessly, holding me midair as if gravity no longer mattered.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks.

I slipped out of bed.

He remained asleep, half his face buried in the pillow. All I could see was the sharp line of his jaw and the shadow of lashes against his cheek.

I escaped to the bathroom, showered quickly, and dressed. When I returned, he was awake leaning by the window, wrapped in nothing but a towel, a cigarette dangling between his fingers as he stared out at the skyline.

Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Sculpted back. The Olympus Club hadn't exaggerated their "premium" offerings.

I scribbled a check, placed it on the table.

"Last night was satisfying. Five stars," I said coolly, then added, "And next time, don't smoke in front of me."

I didn't wait for a reply. I walked out.

Rachel was already waiting by the car. Her eyes widened as she took in the bruises blooming across my neck and collarbone.

"Ms. Shaw... your neck-"

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