One Night Stand With My Ex's Uncle

Oliver’s POV

I drummed my fingers against the polished table, scanning the faces of the five family representatives gathered in this isolated meeting room. Torres sat at the head of the table, his meticulously trimmed beard twitching slightly as he outlined Marcus Murphy’s European business territories.

"Gentlemen, our alliance has flourished under Mr. Murphy’s leadership," Torres declared, his voice echoing off the navy blue walls of our Atlantic coastline hideaway. "The question now is how we proceed given recent... uncertainties."

A chill slithered down my spine. These "uncertainties" were carefully chosen words to describe Marcus’s supposed death. Only Torres and I knew the truth.

The conference room door crashed open with such force that the crystal glasses on the sidebar rattled. Doyle strode in, flanked by armed men with semiautomatic weapons trained on us.

My blood froze when three of our supposed allies immediately stood and crossed to Doyle’s side.

"Gentlemen," Torres said, spreading his hands with remarkable composure, "please explain your position."

The traitors couldn’t even look us in the eye. Rage bubbled up my throat like bile.

"You ungrateful bastards," I spat, pushing back my chair with such force it toppled over. "Murphy helped you secure your European markets, and this is how you repay him?"

Doyle stepped forward, his lips curling into a smug smile that made my stomach turn. "Mr. Torres, if you stand with me against Oliver, I guarantee your safe departure from this island.

Plus, you’ll receive one-third of Marcus Murphy’s Ascend Group."

I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. The sheer audacity was almost impressive.

"You think you can swallow Ascend Group?" I sneered.

Torres fixed the traitors with a piercing stare. "You know who this man is?

You’re certain you want to ally with an internationally wanted criminal?"

All three avoided his gaze. *Good. At least they have enough sense to feel some shame.*

"Most regrettable," Torres sighed, his voice low but unwavering. "I refuse to align myself with international fugitives."

Doyle’s expression darkened instantly.

"That is unfortunate."

A gunshot cracked through the island’s silence. My heart lurched painfully against my ribs-but instead of the end I expected, the sound heralded salvation.

Speedboats suddenly appeared from all directions, surrounding the island.

Helicopters descended from the sky like mechanized angels. Torres had prepared an ambush of his own.

And then-the moment that made this the most satisfying day of my life Marcus Murphy strode through the doorway in a tailored black coat, Peter Reed at his heels.

Doyle’s face drained of all color. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

"You’re... still alive?" he croaked, eyes bulging in disbelief. "Impossible!"

Marcus’s POV

I stared down at Doyle, his body pinned to the polished hardwood floor by two of my men. Blood trickled from his split lip, staining his teeth as he flashed that infuriating smile I’d come to despise. My hands itched to wrap around his throat, but I forced them to remain still at my sides.

"You’re... still alive?" he wheezed, genuine shock breaking through his arrogant facade.

"Disappointed?" I asked, my voice unnervingly calm even to my own ears. Only one question burned inside me, eclipsing even my thirst for revenge: "Where is my son?"

Peter Reed stepped forward, a rare smirk playing at the corners of his usually stoic mouth. "Did you really think you could outsmart Mr. Murphy? We’ve been tracking you since you took the Jones parents’ bodies."

"We needed you to believe I was dead," I added, the memory of that decision still bitter on my tongue.

"When you disappeared, I knew you’d resurface eventually—your greed is too predictable."

Laying that trap had cost me precious weeks away from Anna and the twins.

The thought of my newborn son-a child I’d never even held—in this monster’s hands made my blood boil beneath my carefully controlled exterior.

Doyle’s eyes gleamed with malice despite his precarious position. "Did you consider I might have a surprise waiting for you?"

"Where is my son?" I repeated, each word dropping like ice from my lips.

The child I’d never met but had sacrificed everything to protect.

"Skyview City was quite productive,"

Doyle taunted, deliberately drawing out the words.

My heart constricted at the mention of Anna’s city. The place where my family waited vulnerable because of my enemies.

Oliver couldn’t contain himself any longer. His foot came down hard on Doyle’s spine, drawing a satisfying grunt of pain.

"Tell us where the child is!" Oliver demanded, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. I understood his fury —he’d lost his parents to this man’s cruelty. Now he was fighting for my son with the same desperate intensity.

When Doyle remained silent, Oliver withdrew his gun and fired a single shot into Doyle’s thigh. The sound cracked through the room like thunder.

Doyle’s scream tore through the air.

For one brief moment, savage satisfaction coursed through me. Then reality crashed back—my son’s safety hinged on this bastard’s cooperation.

"Where is my son?" Oliver demanded again, aiming at Doyle’s other leg.

"Three..."

My pulse hammered against my ribs.

"Two..."

Sweat beaded along my hairline.

"I’ll tell you!" Doyle gasped, his face contorted with pain. "I want... a hostage exchange."

Even now, he was calculating. I should have expected nothing less.

"You’ve never met your son, have you?" Doyle’s eyes locked with mine, his bloody smile widening. "I brought him here. Don’t you want to see him?"

*My son.* The confirmation that I had a son—not that I’d doubted Anna— sent an unfamiliar wave of emotion crashing through me. Somewhere in this building was my flesh and blood, my heir, my future.

Oliver yanked Doyle’s head back by his hair. "Enough talk. Where’s the child?"

The conference room door swung open. My attention immediately focused on a small bundle carried by one of Doyle’s men. A sharp pain lanced through my chest. Every muscle in my body tensed with the urge to lunge forward, but I forced myself to remain still. Any rash movement could endanger my son.

Behind the man with my child stood three European business leaders— former allies who had betrayed me along with their frightened relatives.

One immediately dropped to his knees.

"Please, Marcus," he begged, "save my son."

Doyle’s laugh echoed through the room. "A life for a life. Who will you choose, Marcus?"

Before I could respond, Oliver answered for me: "Are you stupid?

What do these traitors have to do with us? Is that even a question?"

Marcus’s POV

My eyes locked on the small bundle in the gunman’s arms. Every heartbeat felt like thunder in my ears as I stared at what Id risked everything for-my son, my blood, the living proof of Anna’s and my love.

"Who knows if this is actually Marcus’s child? We should check," Torres muttered cautiously beside me.

I ignored him, my focus unwavering.

The armed men surrounding us raised their weapons, but they might as well have been holding toy guns for all I surged through me like wildfire.

"Hand him over," I commanded, my voice glacial.

Oliver stood beside me, his eyes blazing with reluctant acquiescence. I understood his frustration—we’d spent two months orchestrating this trap for Doyle, only to let the bastard walk because of my son.

Doyle limped forward, his wounded leg dragging slightly. The smug satisfaction in his eyes made my fingers itch for a trigger.

The weight of my son in my arms sent a rush of emotion through me-joy tangled with fury. Benedict was so small, so vulnerable. While other newborns were kept safely indoors during winter, my son had been dragged across the Atlantic by an international fugitive.

Doyle paused beside me, leaning in with a vulgar gesture. "Shame I couldn’t get my hands on your woman too. She had too many protectors." He ran his tongue across his lips. "She’s quite beautiful. No wonder you rejected all the women we sent."

My pupils contracted sharply. This animal had gone near Anna? Had tried to take her too? The killing intent that surged through me was primal, absolute. Doyle would not leave this island alive.

As he strutted past me, Oliver suddenly screamed, "Look out!"

I pivoted, a gun already in my hand.

Two shots rang out—the first hitting the guard who’d been holding Benedict squarely between the eyes, the second tearing through Doyle’s back and into his heart.

Doyle collapsed into a spreading pool of crimson, his eyes fixed in eternal surprise. His men scattered like cockroaches exposed to light. I dropped the weapon, concerned the gunfire might have frightened Benedict.

Pulling back the blanket, I found my son awake but not crying. He stared up at me with deep, unfocused eyes.

Though newborns can’t see clearly, in that moment I felt our connection— blood calling to blood in silent recognition.

"The little master didn’t even cry with all that commotion. Brave boy," Peter remarked, approaching us.

As if on cue, Benedict’s small mouth turned downward and he erupted into wails. Peter moved to console him but suddenly froze, staring at my shoulder.

"Mr. Murphy, you’ve been shot!" He bolted away to retrieve the medical kit.

I glanced down at my shoulder, already aware of the wound. Bad luck -almost the same spot as years ago, just on the opposite side. Blood was seeping through my dark clothing, barely visible against the fabric.

Benedict’s cries grew stronger, his little face flushing red. I shifted my hold, worried the smell of blood might be disturbing him, but he continued wailing.

I gently patted his back. "Did the noise frighten you?"

His cries continued unabated. My heart softened completely. This was my flesh and blood, born of the woman I loved most in this world. I wished I could sprout wings and fly him straight back to Anna, but the island had no signal. I couldn’t even tell her yet that our son was safe.

"Shhh, it’s just a scratch. Your father isn’t dying," I murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Benedict’s cries tapered off, his tiny mouth quivering before falling silent.

A few more gentle pats and he drifted back to sleep. Relief washed over me.

"Finally have something worth showing your mother," I whispered.

Oliver took the baby while Torres supported my weight. Oliver, still seething, ground his boot into Doyle’s lifeless face. I understood his rage— Doyle had murdered his parents, and Oliver wanted nothing more than to dismember the body and feed it to the fish.

After Peter applied a temporary dressing to my wound, we quickly departed the island. Oliver suggested I take the helicopter, but concerned about the noise affecting Benedict, I insisted on the boat. Torres recommended Oliver take the baby separately, but I refused outright. My son would not leave my sight for even a second.

Back in the city, I underwent surgery —ocal anesthesia, remaining conscious throughout. The moment the antibiotics finished dripping into my veins, I discharged myself against medical advice and returned to the safe house.

In my room, Benedict lay sleeping in the crib I’d prepared weeks ago, freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothes. Watching his peaceful face, the tension I’d carried for months finally began to dissolve.

"I never left the little master’s side except for bathroom breaks," Peter assured me.

"Nothing can happen to this child.

Anna couldn’t bear it," I said gravely.

Peter nodded. "I understand. We’ve upgraded the security system to maximum level. Not even a drone could get past undetected. You should rest too, sir. You haven’t slept properly in days."

"First, I need to make a video call." I went to the closet for a fresh shirt, then examined my reflection. My face looked pale and drawn.

Peter smiled. "Mr. Murphy, phone cameras have filters. Ms. Shaw won’t notice."

I handed him my phone. "Adjust it for me."

Looking at the result, I frowned. "My lips look too red."

"Not really. This setting just improves your complexion. Ms. Shaw won’t suspect you’re injured," Peter explained.

Though I thought I looked absurdly like a Hollywood actor, there was no time to change it. The call had connected.

I positioned the phone to show both myself and the crib, my voice slightly unsteady: "Annie, our son is back with me."