My Uncle Under My Spell
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The night he paid a hundred million dollars for my first time, I had already made up my mind.
I was going to bring this man to his knees.
Even if he was my uncle.
…
One month earlier, I accidentally saw my future:
I don't carry Hartford blood. I was switched at birth.
My family cast me aside like trash. My fiancé fell in love with the real heiress. Together, they had me committed to a psychiatric hospital.
In the end, I died screaming on an electroshock table.
I will not let that happen. I want to live. I want to rewrite my fate. I want the man standing at the very top of America's pyramid to fall for me, to drown in me, to become my greatest shield.
So I planned every step. I set traps and let myself be framed. I played harmless in front of him — sweet, kind, easy to push around. I let tears fall where he could see them, until pity made protecting me something he couldn't refuse.
But it wasn't enough.
So — on a rainy night, I climbed into his bed because I was afraid of the thunder. Beside the hot spring, I made him bring me clothes, then stumbled and fell into his arms. Late one night, I swallowed a pill and staggered into his room in a thin, nearly transparent slip, pressed against him, and whispered, "Help me."
But Uncle Cole held the line. He would not cross it.
Until the day I got engaged to another man.
My fiancé was reading his vows in the main hall. Uncle cornered me in the dressing room and tore my wedding dress open.
His eyes were bloodshot. He seized my waist like a beast that had lost control, threw me down, pressed me hard against the table, and kissed every inch of my skin. The possessiveness in his eyes made no attempt to hide itself.
"Ella. You are not marrying anyone else. You're mine."
I was going to bring this man to his knees.
Even if he was my uncle.
…
One month earlier, I accidentally saw my future:
I don't carry Hartford blood. I was switched at birth.
My family cast me aside like trash. My fiancé fell in love with the real heiress. Together, they had me committed to a psychiatric hospital.
In the end, I died screaming on an electroshock table.
I will not let that happen. I want to live. I want to rewrite my fate. I want the man standing at the very top of America's pyramid to fall for me, to drown in me, to become my greatest shield.
So I planned every step. I set traps and let myself be framed. I played harmless in front of him — sweet, kind, easy to push around. I let tears fall where he could see them, until pity made protecting me something he couldn't refuse.
But it wasn't enough.
So — on a rainy night, I climbed into his bed because I was afraid of the thunder. Beside the hot spring, I made him bring me clothes, then stumbled and fell into his arms. Late one night, I swallowed a pill and staggered into his room in a thin, nearly transparent slip, pressed against him, and whispered, "Help me."
But Uncle Cole held the line. He would not cross it.
Until the day I got engaged to another man.
My fiancé was reading his vows in the main hall. Uncle cornered me in the dressing room and tore my wedding dress open.
His eyes were bloodshot. He seized my waist like a beast that had lost control, threw me down, pressed me hard against the table, and kissed every inch of my skin. The possessiveness in his eyes made no attempt to hide itself.
"Ella. You are not marrying anyone else. You're mine."
















































