My Uncle Under My Spell

Ella's POV

"Next up—the first night of another beautiful lady. Bidding starts at one million."

The spotlight slammed down on me as someone shoved me stumbling onto the stage.

Dozens of eyes below latched onto me all at once. The way you'd size up a piece of merchandise at a market.

And that was exactly what this was. On the Hamilton, the women who went up on this stage didn't come back down as guests. The highest bidder took you to a suite below deck, and no one ever asked what happened after the gavel fell.

I knew exactly what I looked like right now. White gown, wet lashes, shoulders drawn tight, lower lip bitten pale. Just the right amount of despair. Just the right amount of helpless charm. Just enough to stir the greed in the eyes of everyone lounging in those private boxes.

Not a single person aboard recognized me as the eldest daughter of the Hartford family. Then again, with people of their standing, they wouldn't care about some minor heiress from a small West Coast family.

Which was exactly what I wanted.

I pinched my arm, forcing out two tears. It would make me look even more pitiful. No man can resist catching a little lamb that's wandered into a pack of wolves. Sure enough, someone below immediately let out a low whistle.

The man held up his paddle, smug.

"Five million."

Another voice jumped in right behind him.

"Six million."

"Seven million…"

"Eight million…"

"Ten million…"

The numbers kept climbing. Going up fast, like someone was cracking a whip behind them.

My pulse climbed right along with them.

My eyes swept the room. Cole Westmore should be here. A forty-minute closed-door negotiation, and he'd leave the moment it was done. I'd spent a month digging, ten million dollars to buy that piece of intel. It couldn't be wrong. I had to make him see me before he walked out.

When the bidding hit fifteen million, the man in the corner named Gabriel raised his hand, his eyes full of greed, wearing the grin of a man who'd already won. I knew him—the oil tycoon who'd been riding high across North America these past two years. Three or four other women were already clustered around him, quiet, glassy-eyed, the ones he'd bought earlier tonight. They were all his trophies now, and everyone in the room knew it.

"Thirty million," he said.

Tossed out so lightly, yet it doubled the price on the spot. The auctioneer's eyes lit up as he lifted the gavel.

"Thirty million going once—anyone else want to claim this beautiful lady's first night?"

Time was draining away. But no one else placed another bid. I stood on the stage, tear tracks down my face, but my eyes were locked dead on the largest box up on the third floor.

As the auctioneer's "Thirty million going twice" fell—

the door to the private suite finally opened. A man stepped out.

Tall. Broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, a Savile Row suit cut close enough to show it. A high-bridged nose, a jawline like it had been carved with a blade. And the eyes—deep-set, a brown so dark it was almost black. When that gaze moved across a room, it was like a rifle swinging on its mount, and no one wanted to be what it landed on.

He stopped at the door and did nothing at all—yet the whole salon fell quiet on its own.

The aura of a man born to rule. Impossible to fake, impossible to contain.

It was him. Cole Westmore.

The sole heir of the Westmore dynasty. The youngest kingmaker in Washington's political and business circles. A regular at White House dinners. A man who made the front pages of the world's financial headlines.

And, though no one on this ship knew it—the man my father once trusted more than anyone alive.

He swept the room with a glance. There was no warmth in it, and no one dared meet his eyes. When that gaze passed over me, it didn't pause at all.

My heart sank.

The yacht manager beside him leaned in, lowering his voice with a smile. "Mr. Westmore, this is just a little diversion we provide for our guests. If the woman on stage catches your eye, we'd be happy to send her up—compliments of the house."

"No need."

Two words, and the man shut up on the spot.

He hadn't even lifted his eyelids. There was no disgust in those two words, not even the effort of refusal—just a bored kind of distance, like brushing a speck of dust off his cuff. Who the woman on that stage was, whether she lived or died, who bought her, where she ended up—none of it had anything to do with him.

To him, I was nothing but a stranger not even worth a direct glance.

He turned, and started walking toward the exit.

At the same moment, the auctioneer brought down his final strike. "Thirty million, going three times—sold!"

"Let's congratulate Mr. Gabriel on winning this beautiful lady's first night!"

Every ounce of strength drained out of me at once.

My knees buckled, my heels lost their footing completely, and I dropped to the floor.

But even in a moment of despair like this, there was still one string in my head that hadn't snapped.

Because I knew—the way I'd crumpled to the ground was the most flattering pose I had. And more than that, it turned my left wrist face-up.

I covered my face, feigning a breakdown. And in that position the cuff at my left wrist flipped over just right—an old military cufflink, catching a small flare of cold light under the chandeliers.

That cufflink was the whole reason I'd walked onto this ship. It was my father's. There was only one other person in the world who owned its match.

I was gambling. Gambling that he'd recognize it. Gambling that whatever had once been between my father and him hadn't been worn smooth by time.

I stared hard at the floor, leaving only a sliver between my fingers wide enough to see him.

My heart hammered like it was about to crack my ribs.

See it, Uncle Cole.

That was my father's. And yours.

Please.

Cole was three steps from the door.

Suddenly, he stopped.

I saw it happen through the gap in my fingers—the corner of his eye caught my wrist. His thumb, which had been idly turning the ring on his finger, went still.

He turned back toward the stage.

Below, Gabriel had already risen to his feet, wearing the grin of a winner, the people around him applauding, the auctioneer lifting his hand to declare it final—

"One hundred million."

A man's voice came down from above. Low, quiet, like the deepest string on a cello—one sentence, and the whole room's noise was pressed flat.

The entire hall went dead silent in an instant.

The auctioneer's words caught in his throat. Gabriel's triumphant grin froze on his face.

No one dared point out that the auction was already over. Because on the Hamilton, the moment a Westmore opened his mouth, that word was the new rule.

Cole looked down over the stunned crowd, his voice level as ice over a frozen lake, yet every word landing hard against every eardrum in the room:

"Her. I'll take her."