Marrying My Fiancé's Uncle

The digital waves of Flicker were, as they had been for the last three years, a roaring, untamed bonfire of pure, unadulterated adoration.

Inside the designated space of the super-community, the hashtag #WynnTheWynn pulsed at the very top of the trending charts. Today marked the 965th consecutive day of the dedicated morning check-in for the internet’s most passionately single queen.

—"Serving up roasted love-struck fools for breakfast, and braised codependent brains for dinner! Our queen Noelle stays single, stays rich, and keeps her crown! 55555!"

—"Another day, another morning of our golden girl securing the bag! Let all the clout-chasers and forced showmance parasites eat dirt!"

—"Noelle rises, and she never falls! The most beautiful, the most badass, the most fiercely independent woman in the industry!"

—"Smart girls don't drown in love—unless they own the pool! Noelle, you are our religion!"

Inside the smoothly gliding, custom-fitted cabin of her luxury white Mercedes Sprinter van, Noelle Wynn blinked away the last remnants of sleep, her thumb scrolling lazily through the screen of her phone. A warm, genuine smile touched her lips as she looked at the thousands of messages from "The Thermals"—the highly possessive, intensely loyal name her solo fanbase had chosen for themselves.

She tapped the screen, her fingers flying over the keyboard to send back a burst of warmth.

“Good morning, my lovely Thermals! Noelle is currently on her way to the set. Today is another beautiful day to love this crazy world with all of you. Let's go get this bread together! Sending you all the biggest, warmest hugs! Mwah, mwah, mwah!”

The response was instantaneous. Within seconds, the comment section exploded into a cascade of colorful heart emojis and frantic retweets. Noelle watched the numbers climb with a quiet sense of marvel.

This was her third year in the entertainment industry. Unlike her peers, she hadn’t entered Hollywood with an inheritance of old-money connections, nor did she have a shadow syndicate of wealthy investors pulling strings behind the scenes. She had climbed her way into the absolute upper echelon of the A-list on nothing but sheer, relentless charisma, a ridiculous work ethic, and what the trades commonly referred to as "the golden Wynn touch."

Even Vince, her veteran agent, hadn't anticipated just how explosive her rise would be.

Currently, Noelle had over twenty high-fashion global endorsements, four prime-time S-tier network dramas secured, three major motion picture leads lined up, and six high-rating late-night variety shows where she was the permanent, beloved co-host. To the studio executives, Noelle was more than just an actress—she was the ultimate golden ticket. In an industry built on risk, Noelle Wynn was the only guaranteed return on investment.

But Noelle’s most lucrative asset wasn't her talent—it was her brand.

Three years ago, as an underpaid extra, she had been invited to fill an empty seat on a live Saturday night game show. The host, attempting to play intellectual, had asked the panel to complete a famous old proverb: “A wise man never falls in love.”

Noelle, utterly exhausted after a twenty-hour shoot, had been half-asleep in her chair. When the producer nudged her and the spotlight swung her way, she panicked. Unable to remember the actual continuation, she blurted out the first thing that came to her sleep-deprived brain:

"Unless she's a millionaire!"

The studio audience had roared with laughter, and the clip went viral on TikTok before the broadcast even ended. Her agency, recognizing a goldmine when they saw one, immediately built an entire empire around that single, cynical quote.

While other young actresses fabricated scandals, got caught in messy love triangles, or leaked fake engagement rumors to stay in the headlines, Noelle did the exact opposite. She became the ultimate, unbothered, cash-chasing single bachelorette.

It worked flawlessly. The world was full of exhausted single people who were tired of watching artificial couples sell fake happiness. Supporting a girl boss who only cared about her paycheck was far more satisfying. Noelle Wynn was their champion.

"Noelle," Vince grunted, not looking up from his tablet as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "Henry Ward's team invited you to dinner last night. Why did you ignore the invite?"

"Because I value my digestion," Noelle replied, her tone dry as she locked her phone. "And because dinner with Henry always comes with three paparazzi photographers conveniently hiding in the bushes."

"His manager says they want to negotiate a joint promotional deal for the release of Mist-Shrouded Lovers," Vince explained, shifting his heavy frame in the leather captain's chair. "They're willing to pay a massive premium if we agree to some 'light off-screen chemistry' during the press tour."

"Henry Ward couldn't generate chemistry with a periodic table, Vince," Noelle countered, leaning her head back against the headrest. "Have you seen him act? I am already sacrificing my sanity sharing a frame with him on this shoot. I’m not a glutton for punishment. I won't do a sequel."

Noelle was thoroughly exhausted by Henry's high-maintenance drama. Mist-Shrouded Lovers was supposed to be a tight, efficient shoot, but Henry’s constant demands to rewrite the script to make his character look "cooler" had dragged the production out by weeks, leaving the poor screenwriters caught in a miserable crossfire between the original novel's fans and Henry's massive ego.

Vince held up three fingers, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "We are talking seven figures, Noelle. Seven. For just three public dinners."

Noelle paused, her eyes widening slightly as she processed the number. The single girl-boss in her immediately sat up straight. "Well... did they send over a contract? Maybe I should at least look at the terms."

Vince let out a rich, hearty laugh. "I knew it. You’re the richest girl under twenty-five in Charlotte, and you still chase a dollar like you’re dodging a landlord. You’re a Wynn, for god's sake. Your father owns a shipping line. Why are you so obsessed with money?"

"Don't call me a Wynn," Noelle warned, her playful demeanor instantly vanishing. "My family made it very clear where I stood when they tried to sell me off to Sebastian Beaufort to bail out their failing cargo docks. The day I climbed out of that engagement dinner's bathroom window was the day the Wynns ceased to exist to me. My only family is the one printed on legal tender."

"Right, right. My bad," Vince backtracked quickly, knowing the bitter history of her escape. "Just keep your head down. Henry’s family is funding seventy percent of this production. Just don't freeze him out completely on set. If he tries to make nice during the behind-the-scenes interviews, just give the press a little tease. It keeps the investors happy."

"I am not breaking my brand, Vince," Noelle said firmly. "My fans expect a single queen, not a puppet in a rich boy’s vanity project. If I start playing girlfriend, my Flicker community will riot. We promised each other we’d stay single and rich together."

"Ugh, Noelle," Vince muttered, rubbing his temples in exasperation. "I really want to know what they fed you growing up. You’re twenty-four, at the peak of your youth, and you guard your virtue like you’re a nun in a high-security convent. It’s almost unnatural."

"I have my secret weapons," Noelle grinned, reaching down to pull a bright, matte-pink motorcycle helmet from the bag beside her feet. She held it up proudly. "If Henry tries to corner me in my dressing room after we wrap, I’m putting this on."

Vince stared at her, completely defeated by her logic. "You are going to wear a helmet on a closed studio lot?"

"Absolutely," Noelle said, her eyes shining with mischief. "Can't play showmance with a girl who looks like a Power Ranger."

From the back row of the van, Misty, her young assistant, let out a loud, snorting laugh. "Noelle, you are an absolute legend. Please let me film that for TikTok."

Vince let out a long, heavy sigh, shaking his head at his star client's antics. He rubbed his face, pulling up her schedule on his tablet to get them back on track. "Fine. Wear the helmet. But remember your schedule: we are shooting the final block of Mist-Shrouded Lovers this week. On Thursday, I've cleared you from the set because you have to shoot the guest-host segment for the late-night comedy show. Next Monday, you’re in the recording studio to finish the album vocals. And next month, we have the cover shoot for Vogue. They want to know if we’re using their house stylists or bringing our own."

Noelle let her left ear listen while her right ear let the words drift away. She opened her phone again, scrolling through the local trending topics. To her surprise, she wasn't the number one search today.

"Well, that's new," Noelle murmured, her brow furrowing. "Who managed to kick me off the top spot? Is it Henry? Did someone get cancelled? Wait... it's not even an entertainment story."

Her fingers tapped the screen. The entire top ten trending list was dominated by one name: Beaufort.

William Beaufort, the iron-fisted patriarch of the ancient, powerful Beaufort dynasty, had passed away.

The Beauforts were Charlotte’s oldest and most formidable family, possessing a massive, intricate network of influence that stretched across both the political and financial sectors of the country. With the old patriarch’s sudden death, the city was in a frenzy of speculation. Who would inherit the massive, multi-billion-dollar empire? Which of the heirs would emerge victorious in what promised to be a brutal, under-the-table war for the crown?

To the general public, the cutthroat politics of Charlotte's elite were far more entertaining than any Hollywood drama.

"Wow," Noelle muttered, scrolling through the speculative articles about the Beaufort inheritance. "I wonder who's going to end up running that monster of a company now."

Vince reached over and snatched her phone away, his face stern. "Focus, Noelle. I am only going over this schedule once. We are on a tight timeline. If we’re late to the set because you were gossiping about billionaires, the tabloids will have a field day accusing you of being a diva, and I am not spending my weekend writing press releases to clean up your mess."

Noelle groaned, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. "I know, I know! It’s the ultimate Hollywood pipeline: from Set A to Set B, then straight to Set C. Keep grinding, keep earning, keep securing the bag!"

Vince stared at her, utterly speechless. "You make being an A-list actress sound like working on a construction site."

"It is a construction site, Vince," Noelle said solemnly. "Except instead of concrete, we’re pouring industrial-grade sugar to make these terrible romantic dramas."

Vince shook his head, but his lips twitched into a smile. Noelle was a force of nature. On the red carpet, she was a breathtaking, ethereal beauty who could command the attention of every camera in the world with a single glance. But the moment the cameras stopped rolling, she reverted right back to her default state: a deeply pragmatic, slightly eccentric, money-obsessed girl from Charlotte who preferred a pink motorcycle helmet to a diamond necklace.

The Sprinter van pulled up to the security checkpoint of Greenwood Studios, the designated filming base for Mist-Shrouded Lovers.

The crew was already waiting, their faces tense as they prepped for the morning's shoot.

Henry Ward was currently the golden boy of the network. He had started his career in a mediocre boyband before landing a role in a massively popular drama that had made him an overnight sensation. Armed with his family’s immense wealth and a relentless PR machine, he had quickly established himself as a prominent star.

But compared to Noelle, who had built her massive fanbase on sheer, authentic charm, Henry was a manufactured product. His acting was stiff, his line delivery was wooden, and he relied heavily on close-up shots and flattering lighting to look convincing. He had personally requested Noelle as his co-star, hoping her legendary "golden touch" would elevate his reputation as a serious actor.

"Morning, Noelle!" the head of the hair-and-makeup department greeted her as she stepped out of the van.

"Morning, Clara! I brought those pastries you like," Noelle smiled warmly, handing over a box of fresh croissants she had Vince pick up on the way.

"You are an angel!" Clara beamed, immediately herding Noelle toward the dressing rooms.

Henry was already standing outside his massive, triple-wide trailer, surrounded by three assistants. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, his dark hair styled into a meticulously messy look that was supposed to scream "tortured billionaire."

When he saw Noelle, his eyes brightened, and he walked over, his stride practiced and dramatic.

"Noelle, darling, you're finally here," Henry said, his voice dropping to a low, husky register that he clearly used to impress women. "I was beginning to think I'd have to rehearse with your stand-in."

Noelle offered him a sweet, vacant smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Good morning, Henry. I did my makeup in the van. I didn't want to keep the crew waiting while I sat in a chair for three hours."

Henry’s smile faltered slightly, his gaze lingering on her flawless, glowing skin. It was a well-known fact on set that Noelle required almost no airbrushing, while Henry’s team spent hours applying high-definition foundation to hide his late-night party habits.

"You look... beautiful," Henry muttered, clearing his throat to regain his composure. "Have you looked at the revised script for the afternoon scene? I had the writers add a small moment where my character holds you in his arms. It really emphasizes his protective nature."

Noelle’s smile remained perfectly intact, though her inner voice was screaming. Protective nature? More like another excuse to make me look like a fragile little bird while you pose for the cameras.

"Henry, darling," Noelle said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Don't you think your character is a bit too thin to carry me? I wouldn't want you to throw out your back before the big confrontation scene."

Before Henry could process the subtle dig at his slender frame, Noelle turned to her assistant.

"Misty, let's go get changed. We have a lot of sugar to pour today."

The red indicator light on the camera body glowed like a miniature, malevolent eye, staring directly at Noelle Wynn. Under normal circumstances, she was a professional—a master of staying in character regardless of the chaos surrounding her. But today, her professionalism was being tested by the violent laws of physics.

"Action!" the director shouted.

Instantly, Henry Ward lunged. His fingers dug into the silk of Noelle’s costume shoulders with the force of a desperate climber clawing at a cliffside. He didn't just grab her; he seized her. And then, he began to shake.

He shook her with a rhythmic, violent frenzy, his eyes wide and bulging as his facial muscles contorted into what he clearly believed was a portrait of deep, psychological torment. He threw his head back, his voice rising to a strained, theatrical screech that echoed off the high corrugated ceiling of the soundstage.

"Do you have any idea what they did to me, Noelle? They ruined me! They threw m