Safeguarding Isla

Married To My Ex-Fiancé's Silent Uncle

Ming Yue

Twenty minutes before the "Wedding of the Century" at The Plaza, I stood outside the Presidential Suite in a fifty-thousand-dollar Vera Wang gown. I was the girl from a West Virginia trailer park about to marry Hugh Maxwell, the golden heir to a billion-dollar defense empire. I pushed the door open only to find Hugh pinned against the bed with my own stepsister, Floy. She was wearing my bridal diamond necklace, and the sounds of their laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. I didn't scream; I listened as Hugh grunted that once the wedding was over and the trust fund unlocked, he'd dump "that hillbilly trash" on a bus back to the mountains. They weren't just cheating; they were planning to steal my family's land deeds and leave me with nothing. When I set off the sprinklers and exposed their naked bodies to the paparazzi, the Maxwell family didn't apologize. They called me a "greedy peasant" and threatened to ruin my life unless I signed a new deal to save their crashing stock. I realized then that I was never a bride to them. I was a transaction, a rounding error in a ledger to be used and discarded. They thought my poverty made me weak and my silence made me a victim. "If we don't have a marriage certificate by midnight, the bank freezes thirty percent of our liquidity," their lawyer warned. So, I gave them exactly what they wanted. I used a loophole in their hundred-year-old family covenant and married the only other direct heir available. I didn't marry Hugh. I walked into the ICU and married his uncle, Fleet Maxwell-the legendary war hero who had been in a vegetative state for months. Now, I am the matriarch of the Maxwell dynasty. I've suspended Hugh's executive powers, exiled my mother-in-law to the Swiss Alps, and taken control of the family vault. They think I'm just a gold-digger waiting for a "corpse" to die so I can collect a fifty-million-dollar widow's payout. But last night, as I lay beside my comatose husband, the man they called a vegetable gripped my hand back.

Modern Scheming Contract marriage Billionaires CEO Flash Marriage Revenge Age Gap

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"Aurora, what is keeping you? The new sponsors are already waiting at the Gentry Club. It's been half an hour since Mr. Saunders set off with Lana. You'd better hurry, or you'll definitely be late, granting Lana more time to curry favor with the new sponsors. Everyone's aware Lana only got her job through connections. If you let her grab this chance, your title as the leading finance anchor might be gone before morning."

Hearing her friend's voice message from ten minutes earlier, Aurora Flynn froze mid-motion, fingers tangled in her half-loosened updo.

She stood in the Odonrith Broadcasting Station's dressing room, the scent of studio lights and powder still clinging to her after finishing the evening finance segment.

That broadcast slot had originally been Lana Stewart's, yet Marc Saunders, their director, had reassigned it to Aurora—and conveniently rescheduled the sponsor dinner an hour sooner. The timing reeked of manipulation. Lana clearly hoped Aurora would miss the meeting with the new sponsors entirely.

Schemes didn't scare Aurora, but the title of leading finance anchor was one she'd earned, not one she intended to surrender.

Still wearing her sleek on-air suit and heels, Aurora grabbed her bag and hurried out into the night toward the Gentry Club.

As soon as Aurora stepped inside, she went rigid. Lana sat perched on the lap of Leland Wells—one of the new sponsors—her smile sugary sweet, her posture all coquettish charm.

For what was supposed to be a simple dinner meeting, Lana had already resorted to seduction, brazenly flaunting her eagerness to win his approval.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Wells." Aurora walked forward, lifted a wine glass with a steady hand, and drained it in one swallow.

Leland's palm rested possessively against Lana's exposed waist as he studied Aurora with a mild smile. "Miss Flynn, why do you look so familiar?"

Assuming it was the sort of casual remarks men tossed around at these functions, Aurora gave a polite smile—until he turned slightly and added with teasing amusement, "You remind me of my good friend's ex-girlfriend."

Her gaze instinctively followed Leland's line of sight—and landed on a man seated nearby. He wore gold-rimmed glasses and a sharply tailored black suit, the shirt and tie perfectly matched. Every inch of him radiated precision and restraint, an aloof refinement that seemed untouchable. Behind the lenses, his eyes were cool, incisive, and utterly commanding.

Aurora's pupils widened in stunned disbelief. She knew that face—too well to mistake. Grayson Rockefeller, hailing from a lineage steeped in law and politics, had soared through the national exams five years ago, earning a coveted place in the Odonrith Prosecutor's Office. At just twenty-five, he'd become the youngest prosecutor in the city's judicial ranks—brilliant, unyielding, and already destined for power.

Yet, the first thing he'd done after securing that triumph was end their three-year relationship—cleanly, coldly, without warning. Aurora had been blindsided, utterly unprepared.

Now, Grayson regarded Aurora with composed, almost detached eyes, his expression unreadable beneath the sheen of calm professionalism.

Aurora forced a faint, bitter smile. She turned her head away, hiding the tremor in her breath and the turmoil flickering across her features. Her friend's off-hand remark turned out to be true—tonight's dinner wasn't hers to claim. It would be Lana's stage, from start to finish.

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