Claimed by My Fake Fiancé's Cousin

"Fine.

The second you walk out that door, we are nothing but strangers." Four years ago, Alistair tossed a highvalue check onto the table, his voice devoid of any warmth as he coldly agreed to our breakup.

My nails dug into the plastic of the positive pregnancy test hidden deep in my pocket. I turned and fled without looking back.

Expecting a ruthless, billionaire heir to abandon his strict antimarriage principles for a pregnant girl from the working class? That was pure insanity.

Four years later, under the blinding lights of a lavish ballroom, my new fiancé wrapped an affectionate arm around my shoulders. "Come on, I want you to meet my cousin." The moment I looked up and saw the man sitting there, the air was ripped from my lungs.

Alistair lounged deep in the dark leather sofa. His glacial gaze locked straight onto my face.

Those dark eyes dragged down, inch by agonizing inch, before stopping dead on the hand resting intimately against my waist. Crack.

The crystal tumbler splintered inside his clenched fist. The silence that crashed down on us was suffocating. Chapter 1 I met Alistair when I was studying in Southern California.

He was hanging out with a group of guys down by the Pacific Coast Highway, watching the surf. I was sitting on the sand, bored out of my mind, when my eyes locked onto him.

Alistair was ridiculously gorgeous. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and the dark sweep of his lashes over his eyes was entirely too distracting.

The ocean breeze caught the hem of his shirt, exposing a flash of a sculpted torso. It was a raw, effortless kind of hot, and I could not tear my gaze away.

If love at first sight was a real thing, this was it.

Running on pure, reckless impulse, I jogged over and planted myself right in front of him. "Any interest in making a new friend?" Alistair turned his head.

One dark eyebrow arched up, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stoic expression. "For what?" he asked. Being miles away from my strict hometown made me bold.

I gave it to him straight. "To see if there is a chance we could be more than friends." A chorus of hoots and catcalls erupted from his friends.

Alistair cleared his throat, his posture stiffening slightly. Staring at the Instagram profile pulled up on the phone screen I handed him, a muscle ticked in his tight jaw.

After a heavy beat of hesitation, he tapped the follow button. "Let us start with just knowing each other," he murmured. Alistair was an impossible target.

After that day on the beach, he ghosted me. Even when I threw out lame excuses to slide into his DMs, I was left on read. Reality finally hit me: he was not interested.

Following me back was just a polite brushoff to save me from total humiliation in front of his friends. Message received. I swallowed my pride and stopped trying.

The next time I saw Alistair was at a Greek row mixer on campus.

He was leaning casually against a wall in a crisp, unbuttoned white shirt, exuding a cold, untouchable kind of energy. Honestly, I spotted him the second I walked in.

He stood out in the crowded room like an untouchable king holding court.

But since we were practically strangers, I made the rational choice to steer clear of his highly dangerous blast radius.

I spent the entire night sticking close to a senior guy from my study group. Yet, the entire time, my skin prickled. Like someone was watching me from the shadows.

When the senior from my club accidentally spilled a cocktail on the hem of my dress and anxiously reached out to touch me and wipe it off, I felt a glacial, piercing stare bore into me.

It was Alistair. His lips were pressed into a grim line, his dark eyes locked onto mine without a single blink. The look on his face was pure warning.

Halfway down the dimly lit hallway to the restroom, a massive hand suddenly clamped around my wrist. Before I could even gasp, I was yanked roughly into a dark alcove.

Alistair crowded into my space. He leaned down, his towering frame boxing me in.

His dark, sharp eyes stared me down, and his voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "I thought you wanted to be more than friends.

So why the hell are you acting like you don't know me tonight?" The possessive bite in his tone was unmistakable. Even pissed off, the man was ruinously handsome.

As he spoke, his Adam's apple bobbed in the shadows, radiating a raw, undeniable heat that made my breath hitch. I tilted my chin up, refusing to back down. "Alistair.

Are you actually jealous right now?" He froze. His jaw locked up tight, but he did not deny it. A breathless laugh escaped me. "You cannot be jealous if you do not have a claim.

What right do you have to be mad?" His features tightened into a mask of restrained tension.

He glared down at me, the grip of his fingers wrapping around my wrist growing dangerously tight.

I pushed up onto my toes until our noses brushed, my voice dropping to a teasing whisper against his lips. "I will give you one more chance.

Alistair, are you interested in being my boyfriend?" "You have three seconds to decide. Three.

Two…" Chapter 2 Before I even reached "one," staring at his lips hovering inches from mine, my pulse spiked.

Running on pure impulse, I tilted my head up and crashed my mouth against his. It was supposed to be a careless brush of the lips.

But the second we connected, the last thread of restraint snapped. I do not know who broke first, but suddenly it was a war. He slammed me back against the wall.

A massive hand tangled in the hair at the back of my neck, holding me in place as his mouth devoured mine. The kiss was punishing, raw, and desperate.

Even his surrender was swallowed by our heavy, ragged breaths. "Hazel," he rasped against my lips. "You are mine." My obsession with Alistair felt entirely biological.

Every time he entered a room, a gravitational pull dragged me toward him. I constantly craved more—more of his heat, more of his scent. But Alistair was built differently.

He was terrifyingly disciplined. Even when we took weekend trips, he rigidly booked two separate hotel rooms.

If I had not felt the hard, undeniable evidence pressing against my thigh during our makeout sessions, I would have seriously questioned if his plumbing worked.

The breaking point finally arrived on his birthday. I booked an oceanfront suite and curled up against his chest while a movie played in the background.

Halfway through the film, I carelessly shrugged off my oversized cardigan. Underneath, I wore nothing but a plunging, black lace slip that barely covered the tops of my thighs.

Boldly shifting my weight, I straddled his lap. I grabbed his large, sculpted hand and dragged his knuckles down to rest against my bare waist.

I felt the breath punch out of his lungs. His chest went entirely rigid beneath me. But he did not push me away.

His dark eyes dropped, heavily tracking my every movement, letting me take control. Adrenaline flooded my veins.

I twisted my fingers into the collar of his shirt and dragged my teeth over the hard jut of his Adam's apple.

Then, I shoved his shirt up, my fingertips mapping the deep, rigid cuts of his abdomen. Alistair's body was a lethal weapon.

Thick, carved pectorals fed into tight, shredded abs, tapering down into heavy Vlines that disappeared beneath his waistband. But the man had the selfcontrol of a monk.

Even pinned under me, his chest heaving, his skin burning up like a furnace, he kept his hands locked at his sides.

I tilted my head back, meeting his dark, smoldering gaze. "If you do not like this, I can just leave." I dragged my teeth one last time over the hard ridge of his stomach, then deliberately started to slide off his lap.

My fingers barely brushed the cold metal of the doorknob before the illusion of his control shattered. Heavy footsteps crossed the floor in two massive strides.

Irontight arms clamped around my waist from behind, yanking me flush against his hard chest.

He buried his face in my neck, his teeth scraping over my shoulder. "Hazel," he rasped, his voice raw and ragged. "You did that on purpose, did you not?

Pushing me to the edge just to walk away. You are absolutely ruthless." That night, Alistair tore off his mask of cold restraint.

We did not leave that bed until the sun came up, consumed by a feral, desperate need. We stayed together for six months after that.

We traveled down the coast to Big Sur, walked through Central Park in the freezing cold, and hid away in luxury cabins in Aspen, shaking in each other's arms between tangled sheets.

I honestly thought I had found the perfect partner. But that illusion shattered the day I posted a selfie of us on Instagram.

A single comment left me frozen, the blood draining from my face. [Hazel, you have got some serious skills.

How the hell did you hook the second heir to the elite Sinclair dynasty?] Being away at college created a false bubble that masked our massive class divide.

Sure, Alistair wore limitededition Rolexes and customtailored clothes, but I just assumed he came from a comfortably uppermiddleclass family.

It never crossed my mind that his family was not just wealthy—they possessed a terrifying level of ruthless power. They were old money, topofthepyramid billionaires.

The kind of untouchable dynasty you only read about in twisted gothic romance novels. But the crushing wealth was not even the worst part.

Alistair was notoriously, fiercely antimarriage within his elite circle.

And I learned all of this while sitting on cold bathroom tiles, my trembling fingers clutching a plastic pregnancy test. Staring back at me were two stark, undeniable pink lines.

Over a month ago, during one of his rougher, more feral nights, the condom had torn. I had swallowed a Plan B pill the very next morning.

But against all odds, a life was now growing inside me. Chapter 3 I needed to know if the rumors about his violently antimarriage stance were true.

That night, I tested the waters. "Alistair, I walked past a bridal boutique on Fifth Avenue today.

The dress in the window was stunning." I paused, watching his profile. "Speaking of dresses… when do you actually plan on settling down?" The temperature in the room instantly dropped.

A harsh crease formed between his dark brows. "Never." "What about kids?" I pushed, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You do not want heirs?" His jaw locked tight. "No kids.

Ever." A rational person would have dropped the subject immediately. But I was backed into a corner. I took one last, desperate swing. "What if it was an accident?

What if someone got pregnant with your child right now?" A heavy beat of silence stretched between us.

Then, his dark eyes met mine with chilling, absolute certainty. "I would never let that happen. But if she did, she would get rid of it." He was done with the interrogation.

Closing the distance between us, his massive hands clamped around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He brushed his lips against mine, once, twice.

When he pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, swallowing the irises. It was the predatory look he always got right before he dragged me to bed.

Our physical chemistry had always been explosive. But this time, as his powerful arms swept me off my feet, I shoved my hands against his solid chest. "Not tonight.

I can't." It was not that I couldn't. I just felt sick to my stomach. My OBGYN's words from years ago echoed in my head: "You have a severe uterine anomaly.

Conceiving naturally will be nearly impossible." If I terminated this pregnancy, my chances of ever having a biological child dropped to absolute zero.

I had grown up entirely alone in the foster system. I spent my whole life craving a real family, craving blood ties.

Alistair was genetically flawless—terrifyingly intelligent, physically imposing, and ruthlessly composed. He was the perfect donor.

After hours of agonizing in the dark, I had made my choice. I was keeping the baby. Which meant my time with Alistair was over. If I wanted this child, I had to cut the cord.

I would have the baby and raise it myself, thousands of miles away from his pristine, childfree empire.

The execution date arrived the day before we were supposed to fly back to the East Coast.

Alistair tossed his bespoke suits into his leather duffel, laying out our itinerary for Manhattan. "The city is an oven in July. We will stay in the penthouse until dusk.

Then I will take you down to Greenwich Village.

We can walk the High Line, grab dinner in SoHo, and hit that underground jazz lounge you like…" I stared at the clean lines of his broad back.

I opened my mouth and shattered the illusion. "Alistair. We are done." His broad shoulders went rigid.

The expensive watch in his hand slipped, hitting the suitcase with a dull thud. "Excuse me?" "I booked a oneway flight to Portland for tomorrow morning.

I am not going to New York with you. It is over." A man with a billiondollar net worth and a face carved by angels had never been dumped a day in his life.

The rejection simply did not process. He spun around, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits, demanding a logical explanation. I had a million reasons.

Like the fact that his child was currently growing inside me, and he viewed offspring as a parasite.

Like the fact that I wanted a wedding ring, and he viewed marriage as a corporate merger he had no interest in signing.

Or the blaring reality that his family owned skyscrapers, while I was clipping coupons, making us genetically and socially incompatible.

But I could not hand him any of that ammunition.

As he stalked toward me, his oppressive aura suffocating the room, I dug my nails into my palms and lied through my teeth. "What if I told you I just got bored?

Does that work for you?" "Bored?" The word ripped from his throat, sharp and lethal. I forced a nonchalant shrug, my face a mask of complete apathy. "Yeah, I got bored.

You are like a piece of exquisite French raspberry mousse. That first bite is stunning. But once you eat too much of it, it just gets sickeningly sweet. Honestly?

It makes me nauseous." A dark fury ignited in his eyes.

His massive hands shot out, clamping onto my shoulders like iron vises. "Hazel." His voice dropped to a lethal, deadly whisper. "Say that again." I tilted my chin up, forcing myself to hold his furious gaze without flinching. "What?

After sleeping together this many times, are you seriously telling me you aren't sick of it too?" I coldly pried his fingers off my shoulders, one by one.

Chapter 4 Alistair stared at me for a long, suffocating time, as if trying to rip through my skin and read my soul.

When the first gray light of dawn finally crept through the penthouse windows, he asked me one last time. "Are you serious?" "I am." He did not say another word.

He just stood there in the dead silence, watching as I shouldered my backpack and grabbed the handle of my suitcase.

The moment I stepped into the foyer, a harsh, bitter laugh ripped from his throat. "Hazel. Are you dead inside? You were the one who claimed you wanted this.

Now you are the one throwing it away because you are bored? Am I just some cheap toy for you to play with and discard?" His eyes were bloodshot.

His massive hands gripped the edge of the console table, his knuckles turning bonewhite. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a total psychological collapse.

A sharp, visceral ache punched through my chest, restricting my airways.

But before I could even force a breath to reply, his voice dropped, lethal, deliberate, and absolute. "I wish to God I had never met you.

The second you walk out that door, we are nothing but strangers." He did not offer a single word to make me stay.

I pressed my lips into a thin line and gave a single, mechanical nod. "Fine." I dragged my suitcase out the heavy oak door. I boarded the oneway flight back to Portland.

We severed the connection with surgical precision. Every number blocked, every social media account wiped clean.

We were separated by thousands of miles, opposite coasts, entirely different worlds. I never heard another whisper of Alistair's name. He vanished from my life.

Eight months later, I gave birth to Finn. Finn inherited his biological father's terrifyingly high IQ and extreme cold composure.

He was an incredibly precocious, independent prodigy of a child, requiring almost zero effort from me to raise.

He had the shape of my face, but his features were a carbon copy of Alistair, especially those dark, piercing eyes. I kept my head down and raised him in complete anonymity.

In my perfectly constructed reality, Alistair would go to his grave never knowing this boy existed. But I miscalculated. When Finn turned three, his two worlds collided.

Over the past few years in Portland, I had made a close friend named Sebastian.

He spoke with an arrogant Upper East Side trustfund drawl, threw cash around like it was Monopoly money, and was notoriously gay, strictly a bottom.

His elite, oldmoney family had been relentlessly breathing down his neck to produce an heir.

They finally dropped the guillotine: if he did not bring a woman home this year, he was being cut out of the family trust. Terrified of losing his black card, Sebastian panicked.

And then, he came knocking on my door. He begged me to play his fake fiancée and have Finn pose as his biological son.

One trip back to his family estate, and he could kill two birds with one stone: the marriage pressure and the heir problem. "Handsome guys always share a vibe, right?

If you squint, the kid actually looks a bit like me. Especially the eyes.

If I claim him as my own blood, no one will bat an eyelash." Sebastian practically vibrated with nervous energy. "We will just tell them I moved to Portland for you, and we already made a kid.

You were terrified of my intimidating, snobby parents, so I respected your boundaries and kept you hidden.

It is foolproof!" Sebastian had originally moved to Portland specifically to hunt for hot tops. It had absolutely nothing to do with me.

Naturally, I wanted zero part in this psychotic reality show. But then he wired three hundred thousand dollars directly into my checking account as a retainer.

My moral high ground instantly evaporated. Pride is a luxury for college kids; surviving in the real world is a blood sport. Especially when you are a single mother.

Staring at the astronomical number on my banking app, I literally could not afford to say no.

I silently apologized to Sebastian's unsuspecting parents, packed Finn's bags, and boarded a flight to New York. Sebastian promised the entire charade was lowstakes.

Make an appearance, endure one excruciatingly tense family dinner, stay in the city for a week, and the contract was fulfilled. It sounded simple enough.

I nodded and signed the deal. Chapter 5 Boarding the flight to New York, I thought of him. I was terrified of running into him in the city. But then I forced myself to be rational.

New York had over eight million people. The mathematical odds of colliding with him were practically zero. People simply did not have a gravitational pull like that.

Finn sat quietly beside me. After listening to my instructions, he gave a firm nod. "Do not worry, Mom.

I got it." I told him we were just playing a game of pretend for Uncle Sebastian. Finn was terrifyingly smart; tell him something once, and it was locked in his vault forever.

I was not worried about him blowing our cover.

It was not until we landed at JFK that Sebastian casually mentioned his parents were throwing a welcome reception with a few relatives.

I assumed he meant a private room at a nice restaurant. I severely underestimated the sheer scale of the elite family tree. They had rented out an entire ballroom.

The moment I stepped through the double doors, my feet welded to the floor. The space was dripping in opulence.

Massive crystal chandeliers threw blinding light over a sea of designer gowns and champagne flutes.

Sebastian lowered his voice, leaning close to my ear. "Forgot to mention, my family is kind of topofthepyramid elite. But do not stress.

My parents only care about whether I can produce a legitimate heir for the trust. Just improvise.

They are incredibly easy to fool." It was too late to strangle him, and definitely too late to bolt. I braced myself and walked into the lion's den.

The second Finn and I appeared, we were swarmed. People fired questions at me from every direction, especially Sebastian's parents.

Thank God Sebastian and I had rehearsed our backstory on the plane. I deflected every interrogation flawlessly.

By the end of the onslaught, Sebastian's mother was holding Finn, absolutely enamored. "The moment I saw this boy, I knew he carried our bloodline. Just look at his eyes.

He is the spitting image of Sebastian." Finn, playing his part perfectly, kept calling them Grandma and Grandpa in his sweet, polite voice.

He had the two billionaires eating out of the palm of his tiny hand. The hardest part was over.

I exhaled a massive breath of relief and slipped away to the powder room to fix my makeup.

That was when the bomb dropped. [Sebastian: My older cousin actually graced us with his presence tonight.

He is the absolute head of the family trust, basically taking over the entire empire.] [He holds the keys to everything. Get out here and say hi.

Do NOT keep him waiting.] I quickly dusted a layer of setting powder over my face and rushed back to the ballroom. When I returned, his cousin was already there.

He wore a masterfully tailored charcoal suit, his incredibly broad back to me as he spoke with Sebastian. One glance. That was all it took. My blood turned to ice. It was Alistair.

Never in my wildest nightmares did I connect Sebastian's almighty cousin to Alistair. The moment I saw him, a deafening ringing exploded in my ears.

But before I could even rip my eyes away and rebuild my shattered mask, Finn spotted me. He excitedly waved his little hand. "Mom! Mom is back!" Alistair stopped talking.

He slowly turned his head. His glacial gaze sliced through the crowd and landed dead on me. Time froze. As our eyes locked, the oxygen evaporated from the room.

Sebastian hurriedly walked over, wrapping an arm around my stiff shoulders. "Alistair, this is my fiancée, Hazel. She is incredibly shy. Terrified of the city.

It took me forever to convince her to fly out here." Then, the idiot tugged on the hem of my dress, practically shoving me toward the firing line. "Hazel, what are you freezing up for?

Say hi to my cousin." Chapter 6 Four years. And this is how we finally cross paths again