Sweet Revenge: I Married His Billionaire Uncle

"Reservation under Bentley," Ivy said, her voice cutting clean through the quiet hum of Le Bernardin. "Kennedy Bentley."

The maitre d' glanced down at the leather-bound book, his pencil hovering. "Ah, yes. Miss Bentley reserved the private salon. She indicated she was hosting a... conciliatory dinner for an acquaintance."

A dry, razor-sharp smile touched the corner of Ivy's lips.

A conciliatory dinner.

It had been three months since Jordy Norton abruptly ended their three-year relationship, trading loyalty for what he called 'inevitable ambition.' Then, out of nowhere, his new benefactress had reached out with saccharine chivalry, claiming she 'felt terrible about how things ended' and insisted on treating Ivy to a luxury dinner to 'personally apologize for any misunderstanding.'

An apology from the mistress. What a novel, transparent little farce.

It wasn't an olive branch; it was a brazen, gloating victory lap. And Ivy had accepted the invitation for one reason only: she genuinely wanted to see what kind of extraordinary creature had managed to dazzle Jordy into throwing away his spine.

"Right this way, Miss Carlisle," the maitre d' said, bowing with polished discretion as he led her across the plush carpet toward the paneled corridors.

Three years.

Three years of splitting five-dollar bodega sandwiches while Jordy wept over his sensitive pride, three years of Ivy intentionally concealing her family trust fund just to protect his fragile ego-and now here he was, playing the kept man in a three-Michelin-starred dining room.

The heavy brass handle of the private salon turned, and the door swung open.

Jordy sat at the far end in a brand-new charcoal suit that looked expensive, stiff, and utterly ill-fitting on his narrow frame. Beside him, practically draped across his right arm, sat a blonde woman in a sleeveless champagne silk dress, her wrist clinking under an ostentatious stack of gold Cartier bangles.

Ivy stepped inside and took a slow, sweeping inventory of Kennedy Bentley.

I thought she'd at least be breathtaking, Ivy mused coldly, not a single muscle on her face flinching. All this noise... for this?

Jordy looked up. For a fraction of a second, raw guilt flickered in his eyes, but it vanished instantly behind a wall of defensive smugness.

"You're late, Ivy," Jordy said, clearing his throat. He reached over, patting Kennedy's hand with exaggerated tenderness before gesturing toward a solitary wooden chair across from them. "Sit down. Kennedy was kind enough to arrange this so we could give our past a clean, civilized ending."

Kennedy leaned forward, her bangles clattering against the glass tabletop as she offered a faux-sympathetic pout. "I really did feel awful, Ivy. A man like Jordy simply has needs that a girl living on student stipends can't fulfill. I thought the least I could do was buy you a proper meal so there are no hard feelings."

Ivy pulled the heavy chair out with one hand, her movements effortless and fluid, and sat down. She leaned back against the leather, crossing her legs with the relaxed poise of someone inspecting amateur theater.

"If you called me here to deliver that apology, Kennedy, go ahead. I'm sitting right here. Let's hear it."

Kennedy's sweet smile stiffened for an instant, clearly not expecting Ivy to treat her like a hired performer.

Before Kennedy could answer, the waiter stepped in, distributing embossed leather menus.

Kennedy snatched hers with two fingers, waving it airily. "We will have the caviar tart, the poached lobster, and a bottle of the ninety-six Dom Pérignon. And do ensure the butter is unsalted." She tossed the booklet onto the linen, smirking at Ivy. "Order whatever you want, Ivy. Don't look at the right side of the menu. Tonight is entirely on my card."

"Listen to Kennedy, Ivy," Jordy chimed in, leaning back with the generous air of a king tossing pennies to peasants. "You never got to eat like this when we were together. Consider it a parting gift."

Ivy didn't even bother opening the leather booklet.

She lifted her eyes, meeting the French waiter's gaze directly, and spoke in effortless, unhurried Parisian French.

"Un verre d'eau glacée, s'il vous plaît. Sans citron. La compagnie me coupe déjà l'appétit."

(A glass of ice water, please. No lemon. The company has already ruined my appetite.)

The waiter's posture snapped into genuine, deferential alignment. He offered Ivy an appreciative, knowing bow. "Tout de suite, Madame."

Kennedy's painted eyebrows twitched. "Cute party trick. I suppose you pick up a few phrases scrubbing pans in cheap bistros."

"It's called an education, Kennedy. You should ask your family to buy you one sometime."

Jordy's face darkened. "Ivy, don't be so aggressive. Kennedy is delicate. You're being deliberately hostile."

Delicate? Ivy almost laughed aloud. The woman who stole another person's partner and summoned her to a three-star restaurant to gloat was now playing the fragile victim, and Jordy was performing his role as white knight on cue.

"You said you wanted to apologize," Ivy said, her dark eyes pinning Jordy to his seat. "So stop hiding behind the champagne and get on with it."

Jordy shifted, his collar suddenly looking far too tight. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pale blue slip of paper, and slid it across the mahogany table until it rested in front of Ivy.

"That's fifty thousand dollars," Jordy said, puffing out his chest with righteous authority. "I know how hard you struggled while I was studying for the CFA. I'm not ungrateful. Take it as compensation for the three years."

Ivy looked at the check. "Fifty thousand dollars."

"Take it and be sensible," Kennedy interjected, her voice sharp with triumphant malice. "Jordy is transitioning to senior portfolio strategy next month.My uncle happens to hold immense authority within Stone Holdings' circle. A senior branch of the family. One word from him, and Jordy will be stepping into seven figures.One word from him, and Jordy will be stepping into seven figures before thirty. He's simply outgrown you, Ivy."

Stone Holdings.

Ivy's finger paused for half a second on the linen tablecloth.

Jordy took that brief stillness as submission. He smiled, smug and self-satisfied. "You see, Ivy? We belong to different worlds now. Take the money, move back upstate, open that little shop you always dreamed about. Be realistic-you will never stand in rooms like this on your own merit."

"Just look at your coat, darling," Kennedy giggled, pointing a manicured nail at Ivy's plain wool trench. "It's practically vintage thrift. You should thank God Jordy has the decency to fund your bus ticket out of Manhattan."

The waiter returned silently, placing a heavy crystal tumbler of ice water directly in front of Ivy before backing away into the shadows.

Ivy looked at the water. Then she looked at the two creatures across the table.

Every memory of London and New York-three years of hiding her identity, three years of letting him believe they were equals in poverty just so his pathetic masculinity wouldn't shatter-crystallized into pure, freezing clarity. She hadn't lost a partner. She had simply rid herself of an ambitious parasite.

Ivy reached out, wrapping her slender fingers around the heavy crystal tumbler.

Without a word, without a warning flicker in her eyes, she snapped her wrist forward.

SPLASH.

The entire glass of ice water and heavy cubes slammed square into Jordy's smug face.

Water and crushed ice exploded across his starched collar, drenching his new charcoal jacket and dripping down his pristine silk tie into his lap.

"Jesus Christ!" Jordy shrieked, shooting out of his chair as the freezing liquid soaked straight through to his skin.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Kennedy screamed, leaping backward so violently her chair scraped a horrific screech against the hardwood floor. "Are you out of your mind?!"

Ivy rose to her feet.

She stood tall, shoulders square, radiating a cold, imperious authority that instantly sucked the air out of the room. Looking down at the shivering man across the table, her eyes held neither tears nor sorrow-only absolute, crushing disdain.

She reached down, picked up the fifty-thousand-dollar check between two fingers, and tore it in half.

She tore it again. And again.

Until the blue slip was nothing more than a handful of jagged paper scraps.

With a flick of her wrist, Ivy threw the confetti straight into Jordy's dripping, humiliated face.

"Fifty thousand dollars for three years?" Ivy's voice dropped into a low, crystalline whisper that rang through the salon. "Keep your handouts, Jordy. You traded three years of devotion for table scraps from an uncle you haven't even met. You aren't climbing into high society-you're begging in a rented suit."

Jordy stepped forward, his fists shaking, his face mottled red with fury and shock. "Ivy, you-"

Ivy's gaze swept over him, then shifted to Kennedy, her lips curling into a lethal, mocking smile.

"And as for you, Kennedy... congratulations. A stray dog and a counterfeit heiress. I wish you both the eternal misery you so richly deserve."

She picked up her leather handbag, smoothed the front of her coat, and turned toward the door.

"Ivy Carlisle! Don't you dare walk out of here!" Jordy snarled behind her.

Ivy didn't even turn her head. Her stride was steady, elegant, and completely unbothered as she pushed through the heavy salon doors and walked out into the corridor.

Only when she pushed through the brass exterior doors of Le Bernardin did the biting November wind strike her bare throat.

She paused on the pavement, drawing in a long, shuddering breath of freezing air. The pride had held, the armor had not cracked-but beneath the cold fury, the raw ache of three wasted years still burned behind her ribs.