Saving My Billionaire Uncles From Romance

My mother passed away early, leaving me in the care of my three billionaire uncles. The oldest, Charles, is an AI tech mogul. The middle, Alistair, runs the largest fine art and antique auction house in the country. The youngest, Brody, is a culinary empire giant. These three powerhouse bachelors have spoiled me rotten, single-handedly raising me to be a thoroughly useless heiress. I fully expected to spend the rest of my life coasting as a luxury-class slacker. Until last night, right before bed, when I was dragged into a bizarre group chat titled The Underworld Cannon Fodder Support Group. The pinned announcement flashed my name in dripping, neon-red numbers: [Member: Maeve Callahan. Time remaining until forced offline: 30 days.] [Cause of Death: Fatal car crash plunge into the ocean, orchestrated by three Destined Heroines.] I thought it was a spam bot or some elaborate prank. But then, three candid photos popped up in the chat. The first was taken in Charles’s office. The timestamp read 11:40 PM. A woman in a cream trench coat carrying two coffees was smiling as she pushed the door open. Below it was a line of text: Victoria, 31, Stanford PhD, Lead Algorithm Engineer at Callahan Tech. Transferred three weeks ago. Note: The girl on page three of Charles’s high school yearbook. My heart skipped a beat. Sleep vanished instantly. The second photo was Alistair’s private appraisal room. A woman in an elegant, deep-emerald silk dress was leaning in close to whisper in Alistair’s ear, their faces mere inches apart. Isabel, Alistair’s high school sweetheart. Recently left her post at the British Museum to become the auction house’s chief appraiser. The third was even more direct. Outside Brody’s townhouse, a woman with a high ponytail was hauling two large duffel bags, smiling brighter than the morning sun. Note: Cassidy, the "tomboy best friend" Brody swore was like a sister. Just moved in next door under the guise of starting a joint restaurant venture. The group announcement scrolled on mercilessly: [These three women will collaborate to eliminate the host within a month to secure their hold on the Callahan fortune and affection. Meanwhile, your love-struck uncles, blinded by nostalgia, remain entirely oblivious.] [Once the host is dead, they will divide the Callahan estate, and their personal influence will skyrocket.] I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the dial button to call Charles. But I hesitated. … What would I even say? "Hey Uncle Charles, it’s 1:00 AM, and a ghost chat told me the girl from your yearbook is going to murder me"? With his hyper-rational, tech-CEO brain, he’d have me booked for a full brain CT scan and a mandatory mental health retreat by morning. Alistair would laugh and ask if I’d been watching too many psychological thrillers. Brody would call Cassidy over to cook me a warm meal and tell me to stop drinking iced energy drinks before bed. I tossed the phone onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t fight them directly. I had to outsmart them. They wanted to play a game? Fine. I would simply turn my three starry-eyed uncles into spinning tops that only rotated around me. The next morning at ten, wearing deep dark circles under my eyes, I stormed into the Callahan Tech high-rise. As the elevator let me out on the penthouse suite, Charles’s secretary, Frank, greeted me with a warm smile. "Morning, Miss Maeve. Mr. Callahan just finished his morning brief—" "Frank," I interrupted, "what's in the empty suite right next to my uncle’s office?" Frank blinked, startled. "That’s reserved for incoming executives. It’s currently vacant. Why?" "I'm leasing it. Actually, I'm buying it." Frank froze as if someone had hit pause on his life. "Buying it? For what?" "A studio," I said, entirely serious. "Music production. Heavy metal." His mouth opened, but no words came out. I didn't wait for him to recover. I pushed past him and opened the double doors to Charles’s office. Charles sat in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, reviewing a stack of data sheets. His gold wire-rimmed glasses caught the morning light, giving him a clean, untouchable look. At thirty-six, he easily carried the effortless grace of someone ten years younger. Hearing the door, he looked up. When he saw it was me, he set his pen down. "What are you doing here at this hour? Have you eaten?" "Yes," I said, hopping onto the corner of his desk and swinging my legs. "Uncle Charles, I’m getting into music." "Alright." He looked back down at his documents. "What kind?" "Heavy metal." The tip of his pen paused on the paper. "Where?" "Right next door." Before Charles could reply, there was a soft knock, and the office door opened. "Mr. Callahan, I have the revised system architecture report—" Victoria walked in, wearing a crisp cream silk blouse, her dark hair draped over her shoulder. She held a folder in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other. Her gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second before she offered a warm, polished smile. "And who is this?" "My niece, Maeve," Charles said without looking up. "Maeve, say hello to Victoria." Victoria’s smile widened slightly, savoring the polite distance of the introduction. "Hi, Victoria," I said, beaming. Then I turned right back to my uncle. "So, about the room next door..." "Go see Frank for the paperwork," Charles said, taking the folder from Victoria. "Make a list of whatever equipment you need. Run the invoice through company procurement." Victoria’s grip on the coffee cups tightened ever so slightly. I slid off the desk, blew my uncle a kiss, and headed for the exit. As I passed Victoria, I caught her eye. Her smile remained perfectly composed, but beneath the surface, a tiny crack of irritation had opened. I didn't miss it. The drum kit arrived three days later. Along with it came two electric guitars, a bass, and a pair of professional studio monitors standing nearly six feet tall. I timed my practice sessions to start exactly during Charles’s "deep focus hours"—two to four in the afternoon. When the first bass kick echoed, the entire floor’s glass partitions began to hum. The leaves of the potted plants in the corridor visibly trembled. In less than four minutes, the sharp click of high heels sounded outside. Victoria stood in my doorway, her smile still intact but looking distinctly strained. "Maeve, your uncle is running a critical algorithmic simulation right now. The noise is a bit..." "What?" I pulled one ear of my headphones off, tilting my head. "Victoria, what did you say? I can't hear you over the track." She took a slow, controlled breath. "I asked if you could turn it down." "Turn it down?" I pointed at the massive monitors. "Have you ever heard quiet heavy metal? That’s not metal, Victoria. That’s a lullaby." Her jaw tightened. Right then, the door to the executive office swung open. Charles stepped out, his suit immaculate, holding a sheet of messy scribbles. Victoria turned immediately, her voice softening. "Mr. Callahan, I was just trying to work things out with Maeve—" Charles ignored her, walking straight up to me. He took the drumsticks from my hands. Then, he sat down and played a flawless, driving four-four metal rhythm. Clean, precise, and heavy. I stared at him, my eyes wide. "You actually know how to play?" "College band," he said, handing the sticks back and straightening his sleeves. "I’ll move my focus hours to the evenings. Practice whenever you want during the day." He turned and went back inside his office, shutting the door behind him. Victoria stood frozen in the hallway, looking like a statue that had suddenly lost power. I spun the drumstick in my hand, caught it, and gave her a polite nod. "Sorry to disrupt your work, Victoria. Take care." That evening, my phone buzzed. [28 Days Remaining. Threat levels updated: Target Victoria's status toward the host has changed from 'irrelevant bystander' to 'active threat'. Please exercise caution.] I rested the phone against my chest, staring at the ceiling as a slow smile spread across my face. An active threat. That was much better. If I didn't get in her way, I’d never break her game. Just as I finished adjusting the cymbals, another notification popped up. [27 Days Remaining. Target Isabel will have lunch with Alistair in the VIP Appraisal Room today at 12:00 PM. Agenda: Establishing a joint valuation studio.] I stared at the screen for three seconds, grabbed my keys, and headed straight to the garage. It was time to pay Alistair a visit. Alistair’s auction house occupied the top floors of a sleek glass tower downtown. As I walked down the quiet, carpeted gallery hall, I caught sight of Isabel. She was carrying two small gourmet dessert bowls toward Alistair’s private appraisal room, wearing a tailored emerald-green dress, her hair swept up elegantly. "Maeve?" She stopped, looking surprised before offering a soft smile. "What brings you here?" "Looking for Uncle Alistair," I replied, flashing a bright, innocent grin. "Hello, Aunt Isabel." The word Aunt made Isabel’s hand stiffen visibly on the dessert tray. She was thirty-four, only two years younger than Alistair. Calling her "Aunt" was mathematically reasonable, but socially devastating. She kept her composure, though her smile slipped a fraction of a millimeter. "You can just call me Isabel, dear." "Of course, Aunt Isabel," I said earnestly, nodding. "He’s inside, right? I'll let myself in. Don't let me keep you." With a quick step, I slipped past her, leaving her and her desserts out in the hallway. Inside, Alistair was leaning over a delicate blue-and-white porcelain vase with intricate lotus scrolls. He was a man of quiet, vintage elegance—equally comfortable in a tailored three-piece suit or a relaxed silk smoking jacket. Hearing the door, he didn't look up. "Just set it down, Isabel." "Uncle Alistair, it’s me." He raised his head, his eyes warming instantly. "Maeve. What are you doing here?" I sat down on the antique rosewood chair across from his work table. "I’ve decided to get into metal sculpting." "Oh?" "Industrial style," I said, leaning forward. "Welding, scrap metal, blowtorches. The whole thing." He set his magnifying glass down. "And where is this studio going to be?" "Right here." His eyebrows rose. "This is a climate-controlled secure vault, Maeve." "I know," I said, entirely reasonable. "But I need inspiration. This room is practically dripping with history. If I stay here for a month, I’ll produce ten masterpieces." Alistair stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a low laugh. "Fine." "Fine?" "Yes," he said, picking up his glass again. "The east wing storage is empty. I’ll have the staff move some welding equipment in. But there’s one rule." "What?" "Touch a vase, and I lock you out." "Deal." Just then, the door pushed open. Isabel entered, carrying the now slightly cooled desserts, her expression soft and accommodating. "Alistair, I brought these up from the cafe downstairs—" Her eyes fell on the desk, landing on the joint-appraisal proposal she had spent two weeks drafting. It was currently buried under a messy, hand-drawn sketch of "Maeve’s Industrial Art Lab" taking up the entire east wing. "Alistair," Isabel said, her voice dropping to a gentle, pleading register, "I thought we discussed using the east wing for our joint-venture office?" Alistair didn't look up from his ancient text. "I changed my mind." "Changed your mind?" "Maeve needs the space," he said simply. "We can delay your project, or find another location." Isabel’s fingers turned white against the edge of the dessert tray. I leaned over the table, looking helpful. "Aunt Isabel, those desserts look delicious. Can I have one?" She handed a bowl over with a stiff, mechanical movement. I took a bite and sighed happily. "Wow, so sweet. Uncle Alistair, do you want a taste?" Alistair took the spoon from my hand, sampled a tiny bit, and frowned. "Too sweet. Isabel, you know I don't eat sugar." Isabel’s face went pale. They had spent years together in high school, yet she had forgotten his basic aversion to sweets. Or perhaps she was still holding onto the memory of a seventeen-year-old boy who would eat sugar just to please her. But people change. Only those blinded by nostalgia stay in the past. As I left the auction house, my phone buzzed again. [26 Days Remaining. Target Isabel's status updated: Alert. Host has successfully intervened in the second territory.] I slipped the phone into my pocket, intending to call a car, when Brody’s name flashed on the screen. "Maeve!" his booming voice echoed through the speaker. "The soft opening for the new restaurant is tomorrow. Come get some food! Oh, and Cassidy’s here. You two need to get to know each other—she’s my absolute ride-or-die." I stared at the screen and smiled. Perfect timing. It was time to meet the third player. Brody’s new restaurant occupied a massive three-story corner space in the city's trendiest culinary district. I arrived at four in the afternoon, an hour before the private soft opening. As my car pulled up, I saw Cassidy standing by the entrance, directing workers hanging a massive custom sign. She was wearing a white chef’s coat, her sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms, her high ponytail swinging as she laughed. She spotted me immediately and walked over. "Well, look who it is! Maeve, right? Brody’s little princess!" She reached out to hug me, but I took a step back, smoothly avoiding the contact. "Hello, Aunt Cassidy," I said, offering a polite smile. "Is Uncle Brody inside?" Her hand remained suspended in the air for a second before she drew it back, her smile tightening. "Just call me Cassidy, sweetie. 'Aunt' sounds so formal. Your uncle and I grew up together. If we're talking about seniority—" "But respect is important," I interrupted, keeping my voice sweet. "I lost my parents young, so Uncle Brody has basically been a father to me. Since you're his childhood friend, that makes you family. Like an aunt." The corner of Cassidy’s mouth twitched. She was thirty-two, a year younger than Brody. Being labeled an aunt clearly wasn't part of her plan. Inside, Brody was behind the open kitchen counter, tossing a heavy copper wok. When he saw me, he nearly dropped his spatula. "Maeve! You're here! Are you hungry? Let me make you some garlic ribs!" Brody was the most rugged of my uncles—standing six-foot-three with athletic shoulders—but the moment he stepped into a kitchen, he became a gentle giant. I sat at the counter. "Uncle Brody, I have an idea." "Let's hear it." "I want to study molecular gastronomy." "Sure, sounds fun." "I want to take over your kitchen." Brody’s wok came to a halt. "Take over?" "Just for a week," I said, putting on my best pleading look. "I want to set up an experimental lab. Liquid nitrogen ice cream, reverse-spherification caviar, things like that. I'll give it back to you in perfect condition." "But the soft opening—" "Can we delay it for a week?" I leaned in. "Please, Uncle Brody?" Brody sighed, waving his spatula in defeat. "Fine, fine. Whatever you want." "Brody." Cassidy’s voice cut through from behind us. She walked over, holding a tray of prepped ingredients, her expression strained. "We’ve been planning this opening for three months. The food critics are already booked. A delay is going to look highly unprofessional." "Then we'll reschedule them," Brody said without looking up from his stove. "My niece wants the kitchen. Everything else can wait." Cassidy’s grip on the tray turned her knuckles white. I turned to her with a helpful smile. "Don't worry, Aunt Cassidy. I'll have Uncle Charles's secretary handle the critics. We'll pay them triple their appearance fees and give them VIP passes to the Callahan hotels. They’ll be happy to wait." She forced a laugh. "There's no need to go to such trouble—" "It's no trouble at all," I said warmly. "After all, it’s your hard work we're talking about." I made sure to emphasize the "Aunt" once more. By seven that evening, I was in the kitchen directing a crew installing liquid nitrogen tanks when Cassidy walked in carrying a covered bowl. "Maeve," she said softly, "your uncle simmered some chicken broth earlier. I brought a bowl over for you. Drink it while it's hot." I took the bowl and set it down on the stainless steel counter without tasting it. "Aunt Cassidy," I said, looking up at her. "Can I ask you something?" "Of course." "You and my uncle grew up together, right?" "We did." "Then you must know about his severe peanut allergy." Cassidy’s expression froze. She didn't know. Brody’s allergy had developed during his college years, a period when she had been living abroad and they had lost touch for nearly six years. Her entire "ride-or-die" dynamic was built on childhood memories that no longer matched reality. "I—" "And," I continued, pointing to the bowl, "you didn't ask about his dietary restrictions before bringing this, did you? There are green onions in this broth." "Yes... just a few." "Brody hasn't touched green onions in twenty years," I said gently. Cassidy stood there, her face flushing red, then pale. Before she could speak, the kitchen doors swung open. Brody walked in, his expression uncharacteristically dark. Behind him stood Charles and Alistair. Three of the city's most powerful men stood lined up at the kitchen entrance. Charles, looking cold behind his gold-rimmed glasses, fixed his gaze on Cassidy. "Who authorized that broth?" Alistair adjusted his cuffs, his voice deceptively calm. "I was just told downstairs that someone was calling my niece a 'little princess'?" Brody untied his apron, tossing it onto the counter, his voice flat. "Cassidy, the three of us need to talk."