Claimed By The Husband's Ruthless Uncle

The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight. The heavy, rhythmic chimes echoed through the cavernous bridal suite of Maxwell Manor. Diana Atkins sat frozen on the edge of the massive four-poster bed. The cold silk sheets seeped through the layers of her elaborate white wedding gown, chilling her skin. She had been sitting in the exact same position for three hours. A hard, cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach, making every breath feel shallow and forced.

A sharp click of the door handle made her heart slam against her ribs. Diana scrambled to her feet, her fingers instinctively clutching the heavy tulle of her skirt.

The heavy oak door swung open. A man leaned against the doorframe. He was undeniably handsome, but his lips were twisted into a cruel, mocking smirk. This was Julian Maxwell. The man she had just sworn her life to.

A heavy wave of stale whiskey and cloying, unfamiliar floral perfume rolled off him and hit Diana in the face. The scent felt like a physical slap. Her lungs burned as she inhaled.

Julian pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room. His eyes dragged over her, moving from the diamond tiara in her hair down to her satin shoes. It was the look of a man inspecting a damaged piece of merchandise.

"So, you are the replacement," Julian said. His voice was flat and entirely devoid of warmth. "Janessa Walsh had better taste, at least in running away."

The blood drained from Diana's face. Her fingertips turned ice-cold. She forced her spine to straighten, digging her nails into her palms to keep her hands from shaking. She had to remember her father's threats. She had to remember the failing Atkins Industries.

Julian did not wait for her to speak. He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a leather checkbook and a Montblanc pen. He uncapped the pen with a sharp snap.

He scribbled a series of numbers, tore the check from the book with a loud rip, and tossed it onto the glass surface of the vanity table. It fluttered down like a dead leaf.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Julian said, not looking at her. "For your trouble. Do not expect anything more tonight, or any other night."

Diana stared at the small rectangle of paper. Her throat closed up. The bile rose in her stomach. It felt as though her dignity had been torn from that book and thrown onto the table.

"I am not here for the money." Diana said, her voice trembling slightly.

Julian cut her off with a harsh laugh. "Oh, please. Every Atkins is. Your father sold you, and you showed up. Transaction complete."

He turned his back to her and walked toward the door. He did not spare her a second glance.

"Wait," Diana forced the word out of her tight throat. "Our marriage. Atkins Industries needs the capital injection."

Julian stopped. He slowly turned his head. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a dangerous, cold stare.

"Your family's problems are not my concern," he said. "This marriage is a contract to satisfy my grandfather, not to save your sinking ship."

He took a step closer, his height casting a long shadow over her. "As for our marriage, you will play the part of Mrs. Maxwell in public when required. In private, we are strangers. Understand?"

Diana opened her mouth, but no words came out. Julian did not care. He turned around, walked out, and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. The loud slam vibrated through the floorboards.

Diana was completely alone in the massive, suffocating room. Her legs gave out. She walked slowly to the vanity table and picked up the check. Her knuckles turned stark white as she gripped the paper. The sharp edge bit into her skin.

She looked up at the large mirror. The woman staring back at her wore flawless makeup and a dress that cost more than a house, but her eyes were hollow. She looked like a doll that had been bought, priced, and immediately discarded.

Her knees buckled. She slid down the side of the vanity and collapsed onto the thick carpet. The white fabric of her gown spread out around her like a dying rose.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She crawled over and grabbed it. A text message from her father, Walter Atkins, lit up the screen.

"Did everything go smoothly? When will the Maxwell funds hit our account?"

A violent shiver racked Diana's body. The coldness seeped into her bones. She dropped the phone onto the carpet. She did not reply.

Her fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons at the back of her dress. She tore the heavy gown off her body, leaving it in a heap on the floor. She pulled on her old, faded cotton pajamas from her suitcase. The familiar fabric against her skin was the only thing keeping her grounded.

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sprawling grounds of Maxwell Manor were pitch black. The high iron gates in the distance looked like the bars of a cage. She was trapped in a gilded prison. From the very first minute, this marriage was a dead end. The crisis facing the Atkins family was far from over.

Across the dark courtyard, in the master bedroom of the main estate building, a man sat in a leather chair. The room was dark, illuminated only by the glow of a large monitor on his desk. On the screen, Diana stood by the window in her pajamas.

Conway Maxwell watched her every move. His large hand rested on the desk, his index finger tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the wood. He watched her with the cold, calculating intensity of a predator who had just found a new obsession. The game had only just begun.