Claimed By My Fiancés Ruthless Uncle

Elisa picked up her phone from the polished mahogany table. The screen was black. No missed calls. No texts. Just her own reflection staring back-a woman composed of hairspray, silk, and desperate patience. She opened the "Find My Friends" app. The little blue dot representing Chris was moving fast. It wasn't heading toward his office. It was heading south. Toward Chelsea.

She took a breath that rattled slightly in her lungs, then set the phone down, face up. For the tenth time, she adjusted the white rose in the center of the table. Her finger brushed against a petal, catching a drop of water that hadn't yet evaporated. It was perfect. Everything was perfect.

She glanced at the bottle of 1982 Lafite Rothschild breathing on the sidebar. It had been open for exactly forty-five minutes. The timing was precise. The crystal glasses gleamed under the dim chandelier light, reflecting the cold, empty perfection of the penthouse dining room. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the lights of the Upper East Side shimmered, a sprawling grid of wealth and indifference that mirrored the stillness in her own chest.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed. Nine o'clock.

Chris was two hours late.

Elisa smoothed the skirt of her dress, her palms damp against the fabric.

Smile, she told herself. Just smile. It's the anniversary.

The sound of the front door lock turning was like a gunshot in the silence.

Elisa stood up immediately. Her chair scraped softly against the rug. She walked toward the foyer, her heels clicking on the marble, rhythmically masking the erratic thumping of her heart.

Chris Osborne walked in, bringing with him a gust of cold November air and the faint, sweet scent of bourbon. He didn't look at her. He was busy wrestling with his scarf, his movements jerky and irritated.

"You're home," Elisa said, her voice soft, practiced. She reached out to help him with his coat.

Chris turned his shoulder, dodging her hands. "I've got it." He hung the cashmere coat on the rack himself, the fabric rustling aggressively. "Traffic was a nightmare. Absolute gridlock on Fifth."

He still hadn't looked at her eyes. His gaze bounced from the coat rack to the floor, then to the hallway mirror. anywhere but at her.

"I was worried," Elisa said, stepping back to give him space. "I thought maybe a meeting ran late."

"Something like that." Chris walked past her, loosening his tie. He headed straight for the dining room without waiting for her.

Elisa followed him. She watched his back, the tension in his shoulders. He sat down at the head of the table, not noticing the flowers, the candles, or the wine. He just looked tired. Or bored.

"Hungry?" she asked, moving to the sidebar to pour the wine. The dark red liquid swirled into the glass, rich and heavy.

"Starving," he muttered, picking up his napkin and dropping it onto his lap.

Elisa placed the glass in front of him. She sat to his right, close enough to touch him, but she kept her hands in her lap. "Happy anniversary, Chris."

Chris froze. His hand, halfway to the wine glass, stopped in mid-air. He blinked, a slow, painful movement, as if his brain was grinding gears to catch up. He looked at the wine, then at the elaborate dinner setting.

"Right," he said, his voice flat. He picked up the glass and took a large swallow, treating the vintage vintage like cheap water. "Happy anniversary, babe."

He had forgotten.

Elisa felt a cold stone settle in her stomach. It wasn't surprise. It was just a heavy, familiar weight. She forced the smile to stay on her lips, though it felt like the skin might crack.

"Three years," she said quietly. "It feels like a lifetime."