Marrying My Ex's Powerful Billionaire Uncle

Chapter 1 The heavy oak doors of the bridal suite could not keep out the sound. The grand organ of Trinity Church echoed through the thick wood, the wedding march vibrating against the floorboards. Anissa Roy stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She stared at the woman reflected in the glass. The custom Vera Wang gown swallowed her in layers of pristine white tulle. Her eyes, usually soft and compliant, shifted. The fog of confusion evaporated, replaced by a clarity so cold it made her ch**t ache. She dug her manicured nails into the center of her palm. The sharp, biting pain pierced her skin. Her breath hitched. She wasn't dead. The freezing New York blizzard that had stopped her heart in her past life was gone. She was really back. Back to today. The suite door burst open. It slammed against the wall with a violent crack. Connor Snow rushed in. His phone was gripped tightly in his hand, his face pale and frantic. He didn't even look at her. He yanked at his black bowtie, his signature tell when he was cornered or lying. "I have to go," Connor blurted out, his voice tight. "Seraphina was on set. The wire snapped. She broke her leg. They just rushed her to Mount Sinai." In her past life, Anissa had begged. She had cried until her throat bled, clinging to his tuxedo jacket. Now, she just looked at him. Her face was a mask of ice. She watched him panic like a pathetic clown performing a cheap trick. Connor paused. Her silence felt wrong. He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes, but his panic quickly buried it. "You need to go out there," he ordered, pointing toward the door. "Handle the reporters from Page Six and Vanity Fair. Keep my grandfather Aurthur calm. Make up an excuse." "I'll make it up to you later," he threw the empty promise over his shoulder, already turning away. He sprinted toward the church's rear exit without a single ounce of hesitation. Gasps erupted from the hallway. The groomsmen shouted his name. Connor's escape was already causing a scene. Anissa walked slowly to the window. She looked down at the alley. Connor's silver Aston Martin tore out of the parking lot, leaving a trail of exhaust. A cold, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of her lips. The sharp click of heels echoed from the open doorway. Ashlee Roy walked in. She wore an ivory bridesmaid dress, but the custom tailoring and the excessive spray of diamond accents along the bodice made it far more luxurious than a standard attendant's gown, subtly designed to outshine the bride without crossing the line into obvious sabotage. Ashlee's face was twisted into a mask of deep concern, but the malicious gleam in her eyes gave her away. "Oh, Anissa," Ashlee sighed loudly, making sure the bridesmaids in the hall could hear. "Connor is just too loyal to his friends. You can't blame him for leaving." Anissa turned around. She dragged her heavy skirt across the carpet. Her eyes locked onto her adopted sister, sharp as broken glass. Ashlee took a step back. A sudden, unexplainable chill crawled up her spine. She forced a smile and reached out, trying to grab Anissa's arm. "Come on. Let's go out there and bow to the guests. You need to apologize." Anissa didn't hesitate. She swung her hand and sl**ped Ashlee's wrist away. The smack was loud and crisp. Ashlee gasped. She cradled her hand against her ch**t. The skin on the back of her hand turned bright red. Tears instantly pooled in her eyes. Lorraine Roy pushed through the crowd at the door. She saw Ashlee crying and rushed forward. "What the h**l is wrong with you?" Lorraine screamed, pulling Ashlee behind her. Lorraine pointed a shaking finger at Anissa's face. "The Roy family stock cannot crash just because you are too pathetic to keep a man in your bed!" "Fix your makeup," Lorraine commanded, her breathing heavy. "Go out to the main hall. Announce that the wedding is postponed. Tell them it's your fault." The suffocating weight of her past life pressed down on Anissa's ch**t. But the reborn Anissa only felt a deep, hollow sense of absurdity. "The wedding is not being postponed," Anissa said. Her voice was flat, cutting through her mother's rant. Lorraine and Ashlee froze. They stared at her, convinced the humiliation had finally snapped her mind. Anissa didn't explain. She grabbed handfuls of her heavy tulle skirt, lifted it, and walked straight past the two women. "Where are you going?" Ashlee yelled from behind. "The entire elite of New York is out there waiting to laugh at you!" Anissa didn't look back. "I'm going to get a new groom." She reached out and pushed open the heavy double doors leading to the Snow family's VIP corridor. Chapter 2 Anissa stood in front of the carved wooden doors of the VIP suite. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands were steady. Two men in black suits stepped in front of the door, blocking her path. "Mr. Harding Snow is in a closed-door meeting with Mr. Aurthur Snow," the guard said, his voice devoid of emotion. "No interruptions." Anissa looked him dead in the eye. She recited a specific sub-clause number. It was a highly classified emergency loophole regarding the Snow family trust fund succession-a closely guarded secret she had overheard Connor drunkenly bragging about. The guard's jaw tightened. He pressed two fingers to his earpiece and whispered into his hidden microphone. Three seconds passed. A heavy mechanical click echoed from inside the wood. The door unlocked. The guards stepped aside. Anissa walked into the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the sharp scent of black coffee and expensive cigar sm**e. Harding Snow sat in a single leather armchair. His long legs were crossed. He was casually flipping through a thick stack of merger documents. Aurthur Snow sat opposite him. The old man's face was purple with rage. He already knew about his grandson's disgraceful exit. Harding looked up. His deep, gray-blue eyes locked onto Anissa through his gold-rimmed glasses. His gaze was an abyss, giving absolutely nothing away. Aurthur gripped his cane. "Are you here to cancel the ceremony, Anissa? I am deeply sorry for what Connor did." Anissa straightened her spine. She looked at the two most powerful men on Wall Street and dropped the bomb. "The wedding proceeds as planned," Anissa said clearly. "But the groom's name changes." Aurthur gasped. His knuckles turned white around his cane. "Are you insane? Do you want to drag a random groomsman to the altar?" Anissa shifted her gaze. She looked directly at the silent man in the armchair. "I am marrying Harding Snow." The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Aurthur sucked in a sharp breath. Harding's fingers stopped turning the page. Harding slowly closed the folder. He leaned forward. "Do you have any idea what you are saying right now?" Anissa took a step closer. "The mutual benefit agreement we briefly discussed at the gala last year." She looked at him with absolute, unwavering certainty. "You need a wife to pacify the board and handle the family's pressure regarding your succession. I need a fortress to survive the fallout of today. Your name is the only one strong enough to shield me, and I am the only woman in New York desperate enough to sign away my freedom without asking questions. It's a win-win." A dark, imperceptible ripple crossed Harding's eyes. He stood up. His massive frame instantly swallowed the light in the room, radiating pure dominance. He walked until he was inches from her face. He looked down, his voice a low rumble in his ch**t. "If you sign this contract, Anissa, there is no backing out. Ever." She didn't flinch. She tilted her chin up. "I have nothing left to lose. I am not afraid of the dark." Aurthur suddenly stood up, his cane trembling. "Do it, Harding! This saves the family face. And it completely cuts that ungrateful ba**ard Connor out of the trust fund succession!" "If you agree, Harding," Aurthur breathed heavily, "I will have the lawyers alter the documents and the church screens immediately." Harding stared into Anissa's unwavering eyes. The silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod. He turned to his executive assistant standing by the wall. "Initiate Plan B. You have five minutes to replace all physical and digital materials." A sudden commotion erupted outside the door. Ashlee shoved past the guards, stumbling into the room. She saw Anissa standing dangerously close to Harding. "What are you doing?" Ashlee shrieked. "Are you trying to seduce your elder? You are disgusting!" Anissa didn't say a word. She closed the distance between them, raised her hand, and delivered a brutal backhand across Ashlee's face. The sharp crack echoed off the walls. Ashlee crashed to the floor, clutching her stinging cheek, screaming in shock. Harding didn't blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to Anissa. "Don't di**y your hands," Harding said softly. Chapter 3 The corridor leading to the main hall was dark and narrow. Harding bent his arm, offering it to her. Anissa slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. Her fingers brushed against the bespoke fabric of his suit. The sudden, intense heat of his body radiated through the material. The warmth hit her like a physical blow. Her brain misfired. A violent wave of PTSD crashed over her. The dim wall sconces blurred. The hallway twisted, morphing into the freezing, snow-covered streets of New York from her past life. She remembered the agonizing cold. Ashlee had framed her. The Roy family had thrown her out without a dime. The temperature was twenty below zero. She remembered dialing Connor's number with frostbitten fingers. She remembered hearing Seraphina's sweet, giggling voice on the other end before the line went dead. She remembered Lorraine's voice on the voicemail. Die in the street, Anissa. Just don't bleed on my carpets. The phantom ice clawed at her lungs. Her ch**t tightened. She couldn't breathe. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled forward. Harding's arm shot out. His large hand clamped around her waist, gripping her tight. He pulled her flush against his solid ch**t, stopping her fall. "Are you afraid?" his voice rumbled right against her ear, deep and incredibly grounding. Anissa looked up. She stared at the sharp, perfect lines of his jaw. The memories shifted again. She remembered floating above her own dead body. She saw Harding. The ruthless tyrant of Wall Street, standing in a sterile morgue. He had taken off his own wool coat and draped it over her frozen corpse. She saw his private armed security storming the Roy estate, taking her ashes by force. She saw him standing alone in a private cemetery in Long Island, hosting a funeral for a woman he barely spoke to in life. She remembered the suffocating weight of the dirt, the terrifying finality of death. She remembered the sheer, incomprehensible shock of waking up today, breathing, her heart beating in her ch**t. Why was she back? How was she back? The universe had given her a second chance, a miraculous reversal of fate that defied all logic. And in this new life, the only man she knew she could trust was the one who had shown her mercy when she was nothing but a memory. He had stood in that freezing cemetery, a solitary figure of absolute power, giving her the dignity in death that her own bl**d had denied her. In the present, Anissa's fingers dug into his arm. Her knuckles turned stark white. She took a ragged breath. She shoved the vulnerability deep into her stomach and shook her head. "I just realized it's too late." "Too late to see them for who they are," she whispered, her voice hardening into steel. "But early enough to destroy them." Harding looked down at her. His eyes dropped to the faint redness at the corners of her eyes. A violent, terrifying darkness flashed in his pupils. His assistant's voice crackled over the radio. "Sir. The main hall screens are rebooted. The press is in position." Harding lifted his hand. He gently adjusted the edge of her lace veil. The softness of his touch completely contradicted the lethal aura surrounding him. "Once we push these doors open," Harding said in a low gravel, "you are the hostess of Manhattan. No one will ever make you lower your head again." The organ music abruptly stopped. A second later, the grand, imposing chords of a royal wedding march shook the walls. The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall were slowly pulled open by two ushers. Blinding white light from hundreds of camera flashes spilled into the dark corridor. Anissa straightened her spine. She lifted her chin, her eyes turning into chips of ice. She looked like a queen stepping onto a battlefield. "Pleasure doing business with you, Uncle," she whispered. Harding heard the word. His jaw twitched. A dark, possessive smirk touched his lips. "According to the legal documents being drafted right now," Harding corrected her, "you will call me husband." The doors opened completely. A thousand eyes and camera lenses snapped directly onto them. Chapter 4 Inside the main hall, hundreds of Upper East Side elites whispered furiously. The buzzing sound of gossip almost drowned out the organ. Lorraine sat in the front row. Her face was pale and tight. She leaned over to her husband, Harold, frantically whispering about how to handle the PR nightmare. Ashlee sat next to them. She held a tissue to her face, pretending to cry, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a victorious smile. The reporters from Vanity Fair and Page Six had their telephoto lenses aimed at the altar. They were hungry for the shot of the abandoned, weeping bride. Suddenly, the twelve massive LED screens lining the church walls went pitch black. A collective g**p echoed through the pews. Three seconds later, the screens flared back to life. The scrolling gold letters that read Connor & Anissa were gone. In their place, massive, bold text read: Harding & Anissa. Near the altar, the million-dollar custom ice sculpture had been altered. Harding's crisis team had swiftly draped a velvet cloth over the original piece and wheeled out a pre-prepared, sleek silver plaque that perfectly covered the old base, displaying a sharp, immaculate H. A guest in the third row read the screens and let out a piercing scream of disbelief. Lorraine's head snapped up. She stared at the LED screen. All the bl**d drained from her face. She blinked rapidly, convinced she was having a st**ke. Harold's phone began to vibrate violently. Wall Street board members were spamming him, demanding to know if a hostile takeover of the Snow empire was happening. The main doors gr**ned open. The blinding backlight framed two tall silhouettes standing shoulder to shoulder. The flashes exploded like a violent thunderstorm. The shutter clicks sounded like machine-g*n fire. As the cameras focused, the entire church stopped breathing. A dead, horrifying silence crashed over the room. The man walking Anissa down the aisle was not a groomsman. It was Harding Snow. The phantom emperor of Wall Street, a man who despised public appearances. He wore a bespoke Tom Ford suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His presence was so suffocatingly powerful that the front-row guests instinctively shrank back in their seats. Anissa wore a diamond tiara. Her chin was high. There was no grief in her eyes. She looked down at the crowd with absolute disdain. Ashlee jumped to her feet. Her ankle rolled in her high heels, and she nearly collapsed into the aisle. Her mouth hung open in pure shock. As Harding and Anissa walked down the red carpet, the guests began to stand up. It wasn't out of respect for the wedding. It was pure, instinctual fear of Harding's power. Lorraine lunged forward, trying to run into the aisle to stop them. Harold grabbed her wrist and yanked her down, hissing at her not to provoke Harding. They reached the altar. The priest was sweating profusely. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his Bible. He stammered, looking at Harding in terror, completely unsure of which script to read. Harding shot the priest a freezing glare. "Skip to the core." The priest swallowed hard. He raised his voice, though it cracked. "Do you, Harding Snow, take Anissa Roy to be your lawfully wedded wife?" The crowd leaned in. Everyone assumed Harding was just standing in to save his nephew's face. A fake ceremony. He leaned toward the microphone. "I do. This vow is legally and personally binding, effective immediately and without exception." The vow dropped like a bomb. The media section lost their minds. The shutter noise became deafening. The priest turned to Anissa. Before he could finish the sentence, Anissa looked straight into Harding's eyes. "I do." Harding reached out. His assistant handed him a velvet box. Harding pulled out a ring. It was a massive, flawless blue and pink diamond heirloom. He took Anissa's left hand. He slid the ring-the ultimate symbol of the Snow family matriarch-onto her ring finger. Harding stepped closer. He lowered his head, and right through the thin tulle of her veil, he pressed his lips against hers in a deeply possessive, claiming k**s. Chapter 5 The black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided away from Trinity Church, leaving the screaming paparazzi eating dust. Inside the cabin, the soundproof partition hummed as it rolled up, completely cutting off the driver. The back seat became an absolute vacuum of privacy. Anissa let out a long, shaky breath. The adrenaline crashed. She reached up and pulled the heavy diamond tiara from her hair, dropping it onto the leather seat. Harding loosened his silk tie. He poured two glasses of amber bourbon from the crystal decanter and handed one to her. Anissa took the glass. The freezing condensation against her skin snapped her back to reality. "Thank you," she whispered. Harding took a slow sip. His eyes dropped to the massive blue diamond on her left hand. "That ring stays on your finger for the next three years. Do not take it off." Anissa rubbed her thumb over the cold stone. She nodded. "What are the exact terms of our contract?" "Simple," Harding said, his voice flat and businesslike. "In public, we are a devoted couple. In private, we do not interfere with each other. You will have unlimited access to my Black Card, and I will guarantee your absolute safety." The car descended into the underground garage of a hyper-luxury building on Billionaire's Row. They stepped into a private, biometric elevator. It shot straight up to the Penthouse. The elevator doors slid open. Eleanor Prentiss, the head butler, stood in the grand foyer with a line of uniformed staff. "Welcome home, Madam," Eleanor bowed deeply. "Your custom walk-in closet and the master bedroom have been prepared." Anissa caught the words. She turned her head and looked at Harding, her brow furrowed. "Master bedroom?" Harding shrugged off his suit jacket and handed it to a maid. "The media pays well for leaks. To ensure the staff doesn't sell stories about a fake marriage, we share the primary suite." Anissa's heart skipped a beat. Her stomach tightened, but she forced her face to remain blank. "Understood." She followed Eleanor into the bedroom. She stopped dead in her tracks. A massive wall of floor-to-ceiling glass offered a breathtaking, unobstructed view of Central Park. A sudden, piercing chill crawled up her spine, raising the fine hairs on her arms. Her eyes darted from a row of perfectly sized stilettos to a rack of coats tailored exactly to her shoulder width. How could he possibly know her precise measurements? Even the shoes were a specific half-size she only ever ordered privately from European boutiques. This wasn't a rush job. Harding had been preparing this space for her long before Connor ran away today. The realization hit her like a physical weight. This level of surveillance, this meticulous, silent observation... it was terrifying. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. The man she had just married was not just a shield; he was an apex predator who had been watching her from the shadows. She had walked willingly into the den of a man far more dangerous than she had ever anticipated. She took a hot shower. She changed into a conservative, high-necked silk pajama set. When she walked out of the bathroom, Harding was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through a tablet. He wore a dark gray bathrobe. The V-neck hung open, exposing the hard, muscular lines of his ch**t. The sterile, untouchable aura he had in the church was gone. The air in the room was thick with the scent of his body wash-a sharp, intoxicating mix of cedarwood and dark tobacco. Anissa stood frozen on the rug. She stared at the massive bed, unsure of where to go. Harding didn't look up from his screen. He tapped the right side of the mattress. "That side is yours. I have mild insomnia. I won't touch you." Anissa walked over stiffly. She pulled back the heavy duvet and lay down. Her muscles were coiled tight as springs. Harding reached over and ki**ed the main lights. Only a dim, amber reading lamp remained. He lay down on the far left side. A massive gap of empty space separated them. But the room was so quiet she could hear the slow, rhythmic sound of his breathing. She thought the anxiety would keep her awake. But the heavy scent of cedarwood wrapped around her like a heavy blanket. It grounded her. She closed her eyes. The freezing memories of her past life melted away. Within ten minutes, her breathing deepened into sl**p. In the dark, Harding opened his eyes. He turned his head and stared at her sl**ping face. He lifted his hand. He traced the curve of her cheek in the empty air, inches from her skin. "Welcome home, Anissa," he whispered to the shadows. &2&