Claimed By The Husband's Ruthless Uncle

Conway stood in front of the massive glass windows of his corporate office. He stood behind a professional-grade telescope mounted on a sleek carbon-fiber tripod, the powerful lenses focused sharply on the building directly across the street.

Julian slouched on the expensive leather sofa behind him, tossing a crystal paperweight from hand to hand. "Uncle, why are you doing this? Just lock her up in the manor and be done with it."

Conway stepped away from the telescope. His jaw was set in a hard line. "If I do that, I only see a prisoner. I do not see who she really is. Go. Keep your eyes on her. I want to know every person she meets and every phone call she makes."

Julian groaned, dropping the paperweight onto the table. He reluctantly grabbed his camera bag and left the office. He rented a small room in the building directly across from Diana's penthouse and set up his telephoto lens.

For the next few days, Diana's life was painfully mundane. She walked to the grocery store. She browsed books at a local shop. She sat in the public library. She moved like a ghost, quiet and unseen.

Julian sent Conway dozens of photos of these boring activities. He texted complaints every hour, begging to end the assignment.

Conway refused. He felt a persistent itch at the base of his skull. His instincts told him this woman was hiding something.

On a Tuesday afternoon, Diana walked out onto her penthouse balcony. She carried a plastic laundry basket. She began pinning wet clothes to a drying rack.

Julian sat by his window, yawning. He swung the heavy telephoto lens across the balcony, ready to pack up for the day.

Suddenly, his finger froze on the shutter button.

There, hanging right next to Diana's white bedsheets and delicate lace bras, was a pair of men's black Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

Julian sat up straight. His heart pumped faster. He twisted the focus ring, zooming in tight on the black fabric flapping in the wind. He snapped a dozen high-resolution photos in rapid succession.

He pulled out his phone, attached the clearest image, and hit send. "Bingo! Looks like your new wife isn't wasting any time."

Miles away, Conway sat at the head of a long boardroom table. A massive screen displayed a video feed of his European CEO delivering a quarterly report. Conway's phone buzzed against the polished wood.

He glanced down at the screen.

The blood roared in Conway's ears. His pupils contracted into tiny, sharp points.

He stared at the photo. The black men's underwear hung casually on the balcony of his property. The woman he legally owned was standing right next to it, smoothing out a towel.

A violent, scorching heat shot up Conway's spine. His knuckles cracked as his hands curled into tight fists on the table. He remembered the infidelity clause in the prenuptial agreement. She had been married for less than a week, and she was already bringing another man into his territory.

The European CEO continued talking on the screen, but the words sounded like underwater static to Conway.

Conway's fingers tightened on the gold Montblanc pen in his hand, snapping it in two with a sharp, violent crack. Ink bled onto his knuckles. He calmly raised a hand. "The meeting is suspended," he said, his voice deceptively soft, yet carrying a cold, absolute fury that silenced the room instantly. He then reached over and cut the video feed with a precise, deliberate press of a button. The room full of senior executives sat in stunned silence. No one dared to breathe. They had never seen Conway Maxwell lose his composure.

Conway marched out of the room and dialed Julian's number. "Where is he? Is the man inside the apartment?"

"I haven't seen anyone come out," Julian replied, his voice buzzing with excitement. "But she just pulled the curtains shut. They might be busy."

Conway's face turned a mottled, furious red. His chest heaved. He felt a deep, burning sense of being made a fool of. It was not a broken heart that fueled his rage. It was the violation of his absolute authority. His property had been touched.

He ended the call and immediately dialed Mr. Davenport. "Gather your team. Bring the recording equipment. We are going to execute Section 7, Clause A of the prenuptial agreement right now."

He called Julian back. "Lock down every exit of that building. Do not let anyone leave."

"Copy that!" Julian said. "The show is about to start."

In the penthouse, Diana stepped out of the shower. She wrapped a thick towel around her wet hair and walked into the living room, picking up a book.

She had absolutely no idea that a massive storm was heading straight for her door. The black underwear hanging on the balcony was a size XXL she had bought at Walmart. She had intentionally left the thick plastic zip-tie tag attached, unable to find scissors in her hurried unpacking. She hung it there deliberately to create the illusion of a male roommate, hoping it would scare off Julian if he ever decided to show up and harass her.