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Elaine woke up with a splitting hangover after a wild one-night stand, desperate to just sneak out and forget it ever happened. But when the man beside her shifted in his sleep, her blood ran cold. It was Alaric Caldwell-the notoriously ruthless billionaire, her best friend's terrifying uncle, and the very man who had caught their respective fiancés cheating together six months ago. Panic-stricken, Elaine fled the hotel and anonymously couriered him $5,000 to buy his silence, only to discover her controlling father had just frozen her entire trust fund. Things spiraled out of control when she arrived at her office to find that Alaric had just taken over as the new CEO. He immediately summoned her to his top-floor office, trapping her against the wall. Slowly unbuttoning his shirt, he revealed the deep, angry scratch marks she had left on his back the night before. "Does this look like a mistake, Elaine?" He threatened to fire her and ruin her career if she dared to walk out the door. Elaine was trembling with sheer terror and confusion. She had insulted a ruthless tycoon by paying him off like a cheap gigolo. Why was he cornering a junior employee? Why didn't he just bury this scandal like he always did? Instead of handing her a termination letter, Alaric locked his cold, calculating eyes on hers and dropped a demand that shattered her reality. "Marry me."
Contents
One Night With My Best Friend's Uncle Chapter 1 A Terrifying Morning in a Manhattan Penthouse Suite
Elaine Pierce tried to push away the heavy duvet.
A sharp pain shot through her skull.
It felt like a tiny pickaxe chipping away at her brain from the inside.
She groaned, a weak sound swallowed by the plush pillows, and fell back onto the mattress. Her entire body ached with a dull, unfamiliar soreness.
She needed her phone. She needed water. She needed to know where the hell she was.
Her hand fumbled across the cool silk sheets, searching for the familiar rectangle of her phone on the nightstand. Instead, her fingertips brushed against something warm.
And hard.
She recoiled as if zapped by electricity, snatching her hand back. Her heart, which had been beating a slow, hungover rhythm, suddenly kicked into a frantic gallop.
It was skin. A firm, muscular chest.
Her fingers tingled from the brief contact. A flash of memory, hot and fragmented, seared through the fog in her head. The scrape of her own nails down a broad back. A man's low groan, not of pain, but of pleasure.
Her breath hitched.
Forcing her heavy eyelids open, she squinted through the dim light of the hotel suite. The blackout curtains were drawn tight, but a sliver of morning sun cut through, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air.
And the back of a man lying beside her.
He was huge. His shoulders were broad, tapering down to a narrow waist. Even in sleep, his presence filled the space, radiating a quiet power that felt both intimidating and strangely familiar. The steady, deep sound of his breathing seemed to magnify in the silence, each exhale a countdown to her own impending doom.
An instinct, primal and overwhelming, screamed at her.
Run.
She held her breath, trying to make herself smaller, lighter. Slowly, inch by painful inch, she began to move her body toward the edge of the bed. A sharp, piercing ache flared in her lower back and hips, so intense it almost made her cry out. She bit down hard on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood a faint distraction from the agony.
Her eyes darted around the room, desperately seeking clues. They landed on the nightstand on his side of the bed. A Patek Philippe watch lay there, its face gleaming softly in the gloom.
A high-class escort, then. The thought brought a wave of bitter relief, quickly followed by crushing self-loathing. Of course. Only the best for a Pierce, even in a moment of drunken rebellion. She'd paid for a good time, and by the feel of her body, she'd certainly gotten her money's worth.
The man on the bed shifted, rolling slightly onto his back. His face, previously hidden, was now partially visible.
Elaine's blood ran cold.
Her heart didn't just gallop; it stopped. For one, long, terrifying second, the world went silent and her lungs forgot how to draw air.
She knew that jawline. That straight, aristocratic nose. The sharp cut of his cheekbones.
She'd seen that face countless times. On the cover of Forbes. In the pages of the Wall Street Journal. Across the room at stuffy charity galas she was forced to attend.
It was Alaric Caldwell.
The Alaric Caldwell. The notoriously ruthless, brutally efficient, and terrifyingly private CEO of Caldwell Enterprises. The man her best friend, Courtney, spoke of with a mixture of familial affection and sheer terror.
Courtney's uncle.
A strangled gasp escaped her lips. The chasm between "high-class escort" and "billionaire tycoon uncle of her best friend" was so vast it gave her vertigo. A wave of nausea washed over her. She scrambled backward, her hands and feet pushing frantically against the mattress, desperate to put distance between them.
Her knee knocked against something on the nightstand. A glass of water. It teetered for a moment before tumbling onto the thick carpet with a dull, muffled thud.
The sound was deafening in the quiet room.
Elaine froze, squeezing her eyes shut. She went completely still, a rabbit playing dead in the face of a wolf. She counted the seconds, each one an eternity, waiting for him to stir, to open his eyes, to see her.
Nothing.
His breathing remained deep and even.
A long, shaky breath she didn't realize she was holding shuddered out of her. She didn't wait for a second chance. In one fluid, desperate motion, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold marble floor, the chill shooting up her spine and jolting her into action.
Her dress, a silk slip she'd worn to the bar, was in a heap on the floor. It was torn at the seam, utterly ruined. Humiliation burned her cheeks. She snatched it up, along with her scattered underwear. Her thigh muscles screamed in protest as she bent down, forcing her to brace a hand against the wall to keep from falling.
She pulled the clothes on haphazardly, her fingers clumsy and shaking. The zipper on the dress snagged halfway up her back. She gave it a frustrated tug, then abandoned it. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting out.
Her purse was on the sofa. She tiptoed towards it, her heart pounding in her ears. Her foot caught on something on the floor-his leather belt. She stumbled, her bare knees crashing hard into the sharp edge of a glass coffee table.
Tears of pain and frustration sprang to her eyes, but she choked back the sob. She grabbed her purse, her hands fumbling with the clasp.
A fleeting, insane thought crossed her mind: leave money. A payment. For the... service.
She opened her wallet. A few crumpled twenties and a ten. Not nearly enough to cover a night with a man who wore a Patek Philippe to bed, let alone the CEO of Caldwell Enterprises. The absurdity of the situation was so stark it was almost funny. Almost.
Shoving the wallet back into her purse, she abandoned the idea. She crept to the door, her bare feet silent on the plush rug. The weight of what she had done, the potential consequences, pressed down on her, suffocating her. If her father found out...
Her hand closed around the cold, heavy brass of the doorknob. She turned it with agonizing slowness. The latch made a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the silent suite.
She glanced back at the bed. He hadn't moved.
Pushing the door open just wide enough to slip through, she was hit by a blast of cool, air-conditioned air from the hallway. She squeezed through the gap and pulled the door shut behind her, not daring to let it slam.
The soft snick of the lock engaging was the sweetest sound she had ever heard.
She sagged against the wall in the empty corridor, her chest heaving as she dragged in huge, gulping breaths. The panic she had been holding at bay washed over her in a tidal wave.
Her hand went to her neck, tracing the collar of her dress. Her fingers brushed against a tender, raised mark on her skin. A bite. A love bite.
Shame, hot and sharp, flooded her, making her feel dizzy.
In the distance, an elevator chimed, announcing its arrival. The sound sent a fresh jolt of terror through her. She couldn't be seen like this. Not by anyone.
Pushing herself off the wall, she straightened her ruined dress, pulled up the collar to hide the mark on her neck, and ran.
Her legs trembled, but she forced them to move, her bare feet slapping against the carpeted floor as she fled the scene of her own personal apocalypse.
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