Pregnant With My Ex's Billionaire Uncle

His slightly calloused fingertips lingered on my cheek for a single second. The cold touch froze the air in my lungs. My chest locked, unable to draw in another breath.

He dropped his hand and reached into his tailored suit jacket. He did not spare a single glance toward the front row, where Justin's parents sat pale and trembling.

Brandon pulled out a platinum band. At its center sat a ten-carat ruby, radiating a dark, mesmerizing glow under the chandeliers.

"Give me your hand," he commanded.

"Are you serious?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"I do not play games, Rosalie. Your hand."

"You are Justin's uncle. The board will crucify you for this."

"I own the board. Now give me your hand."

He didn't wait for my compliance. He seized my left wrist with a firm, inescapable grip and slid the ruby onto my ring finger. The metal felt ice-cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the burning stares of five hundred guests.

A chair screeched against the floorboards.

"Brandon!" The shriek tore through the hushed ballroom.

Justin's mother, Evelyn, stood abruptly in the front row. Her diamond necklace rattled against her collarbone.

"Are you crazy?" Evelyn screamed, pointing a shaking finger at the altar. "She almost became your niece-in-law!"

Brandon released my hand. He turned slowly toward the audience.

The room fell silent. His black eyes fixed on Evelyn without a trace of warmth.

"Watch your tone," Brandon said. His voice rumbled low, vibrating like the deep strings of a cello.

Evelyn flinched, but anger drove her forward. "You cannot do this! She is a discarded bride! You are humiliating our family! Justin will be back. He just went to help Chloe!"

"He abandoned his bride at the altar," Brandon replied smoothly. "He surrendered his claim."

"She is a desperate gold digger!" Evelyn yelled, taking a step into the aisle.

"And from now on, she is the supreme mistress of the Sinclair clan," Brandon declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Gasps erupted from the surrounding pews. Women clutched their purses. Men stared in shock.

"Mind your address," Brandon added, his stare pinning Evelyn in place. "Sister-in-law."

Evelyn's mouth opened and closed. Her flush vanished, and she sank back into her seat beneath the force of his stare.

Dead silence fell over the hall. The mocking laughter from earlier was erased.

Brandon turned back to me. His towering frame blocked out the glaring spotlights, casting me in a protective shadow.

"Put your arms around my neck," he ordered.

"I can walk," I argued, lifting my chin.

"Not with broken shoes."

Before I could utter another word of protest, he swept me off my feet. One thick arm wrapped around my back, the other hooked under my knees. The sudden lift forced me to grab his broad shoulders to steady myself.

"Put me down," I hissed near his collar.

"Stop fighting me. Unless you want to walk through that mob barefoot and bleeding."

I pressed my lips together and leaned against his broad, solid chest. The steady, powerful thud of his heartbeat drummed against my ear. It was a grounding rhythm in a room spinning out of control.

He carried me down the steps of the altar.

His leather oxford came down on a small, glittering object in the white carpet. A pearl cracked beneath his sole—the boutonniere pin Justin had torn loose in his rush to reach Chloe.

Brandon walked coldly over the debris, not breaking his stride.

I tightened my fist. The edge of a folded promissory note dug into my palm—a reminder of the five-hundred-thousand-dollar startup debt I had assumed to buy Justin more time. I clutched it tighter, hiding the evidence of my foolish loyalty.

"They are going to tear you apart in the press tomorrow," I murmured, watching the blurred faces of the guests pass by.

"Let them try," he answered flatly.

"You are ruining your pristine reputation for a stunt."

"Do I look like a man who performs stunts?"

We reached the oak doors at the back of the hall. Two bodyguards shoved them open, creating a barrier against the sudden flash of camera bulbs waiting in the lobby.

"Mr. Sinclair! Is it true the wedding is off?" a reporter shouted, thrusting a microphone over a bodyguard's shoulder.

"Who is the bride marrying?" another yelled.

Brandon ignored the frenzy. His grip on me tightened, shielding my face from the blinding flashes. We bypassed the reporters' cameras completely, slipping through a side exit reserved for staff.

The cool evening air hit my bare shoulders.

A sleek, black stretch Maybach idled in the private alleyway. A driver in a crisp uniform stood at attention, pulling the rear door open as we approached.

Brandon set me on the plush leather seat. The interior smelled of rich cedar and expensive car wax.

I shifted, pulling the ripped hem of my ruined wedding dress over my knees. The ruby ring on my finger caught the dim streetlights outside, flashing like a warning sign.

He climbed in after me. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the city.

"Why did you do that?" I demanded, turning to face him.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket and settled into the seat across from me. "You asked for a husband. I provided one."

"You don't even like me," I shot back. "You spent the last three years ignoring my existence at every family dinner."

"I observed," he corrected, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "I watched you clean up the messes of a boy pretending to be a man."

"So this is what? Pity?"

"I do not do pity, Rosalie."

"Then what is it? A hostile takeover?" I uncurled my fingers, revealing the crumpled promissory note. "Because if you think marrying me buys you control over my father's shares, you are mistaken."

He didn't look at the paper. He kept his gaze pinned to my face.

"Your father's shares are insignificant to me."

"Then explain this!" I raised my left hand, shaking the ruby ring at him. "You just humiliated your own sister-in-law. You claimed me as the mistress of your clan. Why?"

Brandon leaned forward. The space between us vanished.

His large hand caught my wrist, stopping my frantic movement. The heat of his palm contrasted sharply with the cold metal of the ring.

"Because Justin is weak," Brandon said softly. "And the Sinclair empire does not tolerate weakness. You survived his betrayal without shedding a single tear. That makes you useful."

"Useful," I repeated, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. "I am a tool to you."

"A partner," he corrected. "A wife who understands the cost of power."

"I don't want power. I wanted a marriage."

"You wanted loyalty," he countered. "Justin gave his to a manipulator. I give mine to the contract."

I stared at the glowing ruby on my finger. "You are insane."

"I am efficient."

He released my wrist and slid closer, crowding my space until I was pressed against the tinted window. His towering frame blocked out the streetlights, casting me in his shadow.

"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice dropping.

He braced one hand on the back of my seat.

Brandon leaned in close. His warm breath hit the shell of my ear, sending a sudden jolt straight down my spine.

"The marriage agreement is ready at the London estate," he said. "You have three seconds to back out and get out of the car."