My Best Friend’s Uncle… and My Baby Daddy

I stared at the intricate designs of the soaring ceilings, my eyes tracing the gold leaf molding until they hit the massive crystal chandelier that anchored the foyer of the Kingston estate. Every single inch of this place screamed luxury—the kind of old-money power that didn't just talk; it roared. It was a world I was never meant to be a part of, a world that had chewed me up and spat me out five years ago.

Standing here now, my cheap heels clicking against the polished marble, I felt like an inkblot on a white silk sheet. Out of place.

When the digital invite had first hit my inbox, I was shell-shocked. I hadn't expected to hear from the Kingstons ever again, let alone be invited to the inner sanctum of their family legacy.

You are hereby invited to the solemnization of Chloe Kingston and Alexander Hawthorne.

I had been dumbstruck, staring at the glowing screen of my cracked phone for hours. Chloe and I hadn’t spoken since the night I fled London with a single suitcase and a secret growing inside me that terrified me to my core. My conscience was a heavy, rotting thing in my chest. I had abandoned my best friend without a word, and the guilt of that silence had finally driven me back. If it were up to me, I would have arrived in a clearance dress from Costco, something nondescript to help me blend into the shadows. But Chloe had caught wind of my arrival and wouldn't have it.

“Omg, you actually made it!”

A whirlwind of white silk and expensive perfume collided with me before I could even find the coat check. Chloe beamed, her joy so radiant it felt like a physical burn against my skin. She looked dazzling, her flowy gown making her look youthful and ethereal, like a princess in a kingdom I had betrayed.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world, Loe,” I said, the old nickname slipping out before I could stop it. My heart twisted. Who gave me the right to call her that? I was a fraud. I was the girl who had vanished, leaving her to wonder what she’d done wrong for half a decade.

“I hope you are enjoying yourself,” she said, her fingers caressing my hand with genuine affection. I looked down at her manicured nails against my own bare ones. “I have really missed you, Tummy.”

My stomach felt hot. That old nickname—Tummy—it felt like a brand. I felt like a monster standing in the middle of her happiness, carrying a secret that would shatter her world if it ever came to light.

“Your party is lovely, Chloe. Everything is so beautiful,” I said, desperately trying to pivot the conversation away from my missing years. I had seen this estate in architecture magazines, segments dedicated to the "Crown Jewel of London," but standing in it was different. The air felt heavy, charged with a predatory energy, as if the walls themselves were waiting for me to slip up.

“Thanks, I designed the layout and the floral arrangements myself,” she said, her chest swelling with pride. She looked so happy, so oblivious. Then, her tone shifted slightly, a playful glint in her eyes. “Uncle Eric helped pay for everything, of course. You know how he is. If his name is on the invite, it has to be the most expensive event of the century.”

The name ran a jagged chill down my spine. Eric.

Of course, he paid. He was the sun this entire family orbited, the gravity that kept their gilded world from spinning into space. Even without seeing him, I could feel his presence pressing down on the back of my neck, heavy and demanding, like he was already watching me from some hidden corner of the room.

“He actually asked about you,” Chloe continued, giggling as she sipped her champagne. “Specifically asked me to invite you. He wouldn't stop nagging me about it for weeks. He said he always admired your smarts—said you were the only friend I had that he actually approved of.”

My breath hitched. My lungs felt like they were filling with lead. “He… he really said that?”

“Honestly, I used to think my uncle had a secret crush on you, the way he used to watch you when we were studying,” she said, making a mock vomiting motion with her fingers. “But don’t worry, the man is obsessed with someone else now. It’s the talk of the town.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that threatened to choke me. “How do you know this?”

“Everyone knows!” Chloe leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made my skin crawl. “The great Eric Kingston has been searching for a ‘mysterious woman’ for years. He even cancelled his wedding to the Valentine heiress last spring. It caused a massive uproar in the papers. He compensated her family with millions just to get out of the contract, but he refused to say why. Many thought the scandal would destroy his reputation, but he just became more powerful. More ruthless. Like he’s driven by something none of us can see.”

I felt faint. The room began to spin. He hadn't married the heiress? I had spent five years in a tiny apartment, picturing him in a perfect, high-society marriage while I struggled to buy milk and diapers. I thought I was the only one haunted by that time.

“Oh, Uncle! You’re finally here!” Chloe waved to someone standing behind me.

I prayed to a God I hadn't spoken to in years that it was another relative—a cousin, an aunt, anyone. But the air in the room suddenly changed. The ambient noise of the party seemed to dull, replaced by an electric current that made the hair on my arms stand up. I knew that gaze. I knew that silence.

It was Him. Eric Kingston.

“Chloe,” his deep, baritone voice rumbled. It was lower than I remembered, richer, and far more dangerous. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his body, pressing against my back like a physical weight. He smelled of sandalwood, expensive rain, and the kind of absolute power that didn't need to raise its voice to be heard.

“Ms. Martins,” he said, addressing me.

The title felt like a jab, a reminder of the life he assumed I had built without him. I felt absolutely devastated, my body wanting to crawl into itself even as it leaned toward his warmth. The memories of the nights we spent together—the forbidden heat, the way his hands felt on my skin—flooded my mind until I felt lightheaded.

“It’s been a long time.”

I turned slowly, forced to look at him. He hadn't changed; he had only matured into his lethal features. His jawline was like granite, his dark hair combed back in a way that screamed "aristocrat." Dressed in a black tux that accentuated his broad shoulders and powerful frame, he looked like a predator who had finally tracked his prey to its lair.

“Uncle, I’m so glad you remembered Tummy,” Chloe said, trying to defrost the sudden, suffocating tension between us.

“How could I forget her, Chloe?” Eric’s dark gray eyes locked onto mine, stripping away my defenses until I felt naked in the middle of the ballroom. “She left a… lasting impression on me. One I’ve found impossible to erase.”

The subtext was a blade at my throat. My phone vibrated in my clutch, a sudden, jarring rhythm.

Subconsciously, I reached for it, needing a distraction before I collapsed under the weight of his stare. It was a text from the nanny.

We just had dinner. Fin is asleep now.

Attached was a photo of my son, Fin, curled up in his travel crib. His dark hair was messy, his jawline already showing the same stubborn set as the man standing two inches away from me. I couldn't help it; a soft, maternal smile broke across my face, my guard dropping for one fatal second.

Suddenly, Eric leaned over my shoulder, his face so close his stubble nearly brushed my cheek. He stared at the screen, his entire body going rigid.

“Autumn,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with a terrifying, low-frequency anger that made the champagne glass in my hand tremble. “Whose child is that?”