Sweet Revenge: I Married His Billionaire Uncle

The cold rain over Fifth Avenue struck like needles, washing away the heat of the restaurant in an instant.

Ivy did not run. She walked, the hem of her trench coat heavy with water, her heels striking the wet pavement in a steady, unbroken rhythm. Only when she turned the corner onto Fifty-Fourth Street, shielded by the limestone overhang of a luxury jeweler, did the tightness in her ribs finally give way.

A ragged breath escaped her lips. Three years of scrimping, three years of dulling her own shine just to fit into Jordy’s small, fragile world.

She pulled out her phone and tapped the top contact.

"Grant." Her voice was barely a rasp against the wind.

"Ivy?" Grant Hayes’s tone sharpened instantly. "Where are you?"

"Fifty-Fourth and Fifth."

The rustle of keys cut through the receiver. "Do not move. Two minutes."

Ivy lowered the phone, resting her shoulder against the damp glass of the display window.

Across the wide avenue, the private VIP entrance of a five-star hotel swung open. A cluster of men in bespoke dark overcoats emerged into the rain, personal security forming an immediate, impenetrable perimeter.

In the center stood a man taller than the rest, broad-shouldered and radiating a suffocating, untouchable stillness. The amber streetlights caught the sharp, aristocratic plane of his jaw and a cold, carved profile that belonged on an ancient Roman coin.

A black Maybach glided to the curb. A chauffeur in white gloves pulled the door open, bowing low as the tall figure bent smoothly into the leather interior and vanished into the city traffic.

Ivy watched the red taillights disappear, a cold, reckless thought flashing behind her eyes.

If Jordy thought climbing into corporate servitude was victory, he had never even seen the men who actually owned the world.

The low, familiar roar of a twin-turbo engine cut through the downpour. A silver Porsche 911 swung aggressively toward the curb, hazard lights cutting through the sheets of gray water.

Grant threw open the passenger door, leaning across the console. "Get in!"

Ivy slid into the leather seat, the door shutting out the roar of Manhattan with a solid thud.

The heat blasted instantly across her cold ankles. Grant tossed a heavy cashmere throw over her lap, his eyes scanning her pale face with fierce, protective fury.

"Did that parasite lay a hand on you?"

"He tried," Ivy said, leaning her head back against the headrest, her breathing finally evening out. "I threw ice water in his face and tore his check into confetti."

Grant let out a sharp, appreciative bark of laughter as he accelerated smoothly into the avenue traffic. "That’s my girl. Where to? Back to that depressing walk-up in Queens?"

"No," Ivy said coldly. "The Carlyle. I’m moving back to the Long Island estate tomorrow. The charity project is officially over."

Before Grant could answer, the phone on the carbon-fiber console began to buzz frantically.

Jordy’s name flashed on the screen.

Ivy tapped the speakerphone without hesitation.

Jordy’s furious, trembling voice exploded through the car's sound system: "You crazy bitch! Do you have any idea what you just did? You humiliated Kennedy in front of the head sommelier! Her uncle is a high-ranking executive closely tied to Stone Holdings! One word from her family, and I will personally ensure you are blacklisted from every financial firm in New York!"

The audio cut off as Ivy tapped the red icon with a completely calm thumb.

She went straight to his contact card, pressed block, and deleted his number. Then, opening her gallery, she wiped every trace of the last three years into permanent oblivion.

Grant shook his head, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. "A high-ranking executive tied to Stone Holdings. The idiot is groveling for crumbs from a third-tier Bentley and thinks he holds the keys to Wall Street."

"Grant," Ivy said, her dark eyes reflecting the city lights. "What exactly is Stone Holdings? The way Jordy uses that name, you'd think they control the currency."

Grant’s expression tightened, the lazy humor draining from his features.

"They don't control the currency, Ivy. They control the debt. The Stone family is true old money, and the man at the top, Everet Stone, is a phantom. He never does press, never attends galas, and crushes multi-billion-dollar takeovers before breakfast. Even your grandfather handles that family with absolute care."

Ivy tasted the name in the back of her throat, a strange, sharp spark igniting in her blood.

Before she could speak, her phone chimed with a private encrypted notification.

It was from Helen Walsh, the head housekeeper of the Carlisle-Jiang family estate in Oyster Bay.

"General Jiang expects you at the main house tomorrow morning by ten o'clock sharp, Ivy. He has a very important private guest arriving, and he insists on your presence."