The moment Damon's car disappeared, the incubator erupted into deafening chatter.

Brook grabbed her phone from the desk and practically ran down the hall.

She pushed through the heavy wooden door of the women's restroom at the far end of the corridor.

She locked herself inside the last stall.

She leaned her back against the freezing ceramic tiles, pulling air into her lungs in ragged gasps.

Her heart was hammering wildly against her ribs.

Her phone started vibrating violently in her pocket.

It was a rapid stream of notifications from the company's internal Slack channel.

Brook pulled the phone out and opened the app.

Talia was spamming the main chat with screenshots of Damon Vaughn's Wikipedia page and his Wall Street Journal interviews.

Then, a new message popped up that made Brook's blood run cold.

Talia sent a shocked emoji followed by a link to a Vanity Fair gossip article.

The headline screamed across the screen.

Vaughn Capital CEO Spotted in Brooklyn: Paving the Way for His Fiancée's Family Business?

Brook's thumb hovered over the screen.

The familiar, sickening wave of nausea hit her stomach again, harder than before.

She clenched her jaw so tight her teeth ached, and she tapped the link.

The page loaded, revealing a long, detailed gossip column.

The article brought up the old rumors of Damon's impending marriage to the Ivy League socialite, Isadora.

But there was a new piece of information that felt like a physical blow.

The article featured a paparazzi photo taken a few days ago outside a Michelin-starred restaurant in Manhattan.

It showed Damon standing next to Aliyah, Brook's half-sister.

In the photo, Aliyah was smiling brightly, leaning close to him.

Damon's face was unreadable, but he had not stepped away from her touch.

The article speculated that the illegitimate daughter of the Velazquez family was trying to hijack the marriage alliance.

Brook stared at Damon's face on her screen.

A freezing chill spread through her veins.

He really was nothing but a heartless corporate machine.

She closed the browser and opened Instagram.

Her fingers moved on their own, typing in Katy Vaughn's handle.

Katy's newest story was a sketch of a ridiculously expensive custom wedding dress.

The text over the image read: Cannot wait to witness the most perfect family wedding!

Every piece of information pointed to the exact same conclusion.

Damon's marriage transaction was moving forward exactly as planned.

His sudden appearance at her incubator was nothing more than a sick power trip to satisfy his control issues.

Brook locked her phone screen.

She pushed the stall door open and walked over to the sinks.

She turned the faucet on high and splashed freezing water onto her face.

She looked at her pale reflection in the mirror.

Her eyes slowly lost their panic, hardening into two chips of solid ice.

She would rather die than let herself become his dirty little secret again.

She would never give Aliyah the satisfaction of seeing her broken.

Brook grabbed a paper towel and dried her face roughly.

She pushed the restroom door open and almost collided with Talia, who was touching up her lipstick.

Talia's eyes lit up with aggressive curiosity.

What did he say to you in there.

Brook adjusted the collar of her shirt, keeping her face completely blank.

He said the rental yield on this floor is garbage.

She walked past Talia and headed straight back to her studio.

She slammed her keycard onto the desk.

She booted up her high-end streaming computer.

Brook needed to drown the noise in her head with complex code.

She started her hardcore programming stream hours earlier than scheduled.

She put on her mask and looked at the viewer list.

The ID Null_Pointer was sitting right at the top of the donor leaderboard, glowing with an arrogant gold badge.

Brook stared at the name, a bitter, mocking smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She moved her mouse, clicked on the backend control panel, and selected his profile.

She hit the ban button and permanently blocked his IP address from her channel.

The chat box exploded instantly.

Her viewers were freaking out, shocked that she had just kicked out her biggest financial backer.

Brook pulled the microphone closer to her mouth.

Her voice was dead calm.

We only talk tech here. I do not welcome garbage who think they can buy relevance with dirty money.

Miles away, sitting in the back of his Maybach, Damon stared at his iPad.

The screen had gone completely black, displaying a bright red ban notification.

His fingers tightened around the expensive cigar in his hand until the tobacco leaves snapped and crumbled into dust.

The next morning, Brook stood on the sidewalk in Brooklyn, holding a cup of black coffee.

The cold air bit at her cheeks.

Before she could take a sip, her phone rang with a specific, grating ringtone.

The name Bernard Velazquez flashed on the screen.

Brook sucked in a sharp breath, her stomach tightening, and pressed answer.

Her father's fake, booming laugh echoed through the speaker.

He asked if her little hobby in Brooklyn was keeping her busy.

I can feed myself just fine. You do not need to worry about it.

Brook replied, her voice dropping to a freezing temperature.

Bernard's tone shifted into something sickeningly generous.

I just transferred one million dollars into your trust fund account.

Brook stopped walking entirely.

Her boots planted firmly on the concrete.

What do you want, Bernard. You never lose money on a deal.

Bernard sighed, playing the role of a wounded parent.

He claimed it was just to make up for lost time.

Then, he casually mentioned the family charity gala happening next week.

He demanded that she attend and dress appropriately.

He needed to show the city that the family was united, especially since the Vaughn family would be there.

The moment she heard the name Vaughn, Brook's fingers clamped down hard on her paper cup.

Hot coffee sloshed over the rim, burning her skin, but she barely felt it.

Bernard kept talking, warning her not to embarrass his current wife, Christina, because Aliyah would be attending too.

A wave of pure disgust washed over Brook.

I have zero interest in your disgusting high-society games.

She cut him off sharply.

Bernard's voice instantly turned cold, carrying a heavy, unspoken threat about her future trust fund disbursements.

Brook pulled the phone away from her ear and hit end call.

She threw the full cup of coffee violently into the metal trash can on the corner.

Her phone pinged.

It was an automated text from her bank, confirming the massive deposit.

The string of zeros on the screen made her eyes burn.

That money, and that specific last name, dragged her violently back to the night she left Damon.

Just a few days ago, she had checked this exact account and seen a massive transfer from Damon.

It was his version of an allowance.

Minutes later, she had seen Katy's Instagram photo.

The image of Isadora standing next to Damon in her couture gown burned in her brain.

It was the ultimate proof that she was just a cheap distraction he kept hidden in the dark.

The humiliation of being bought and paid for was what finally broke her.

Brook stood in the freezing wind and rubbed her hands hard over her face.

She forced the painful memories back down into her chest.

She was not going to that gala.

She was not going to stand in a room and watch Damon parade his perfect fiancée around.

Brook turned and walked quickly toward where she had parked her BMW.

She pulled her keys out of her pocket.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

A massive, aggressive black Maybach was parked diagonally, completely blocking her car in.

The driver's side window rolled down.

Damon Vaughn sat behind the wheel.

He was wearing dark sunglasses, his large hand resting casually on the leather steering wheel.

The air pressure around the car felt dangerously low.

He was driving himself.

M. Black was nowhere to be seen, which meant Damon was operating entirely outside of his controlled routine.

Damon pulled the sunglasses off his face.

His dark eyes were heavily bloodshot, staring at her with a terrifying intensity.

He pushed the heavy car door open and stepped out onto the street.

His long legs closed the distance between them in seconds.

His towering shadow fell over her, blocking out the morning sun.

What the hell did you think you were doing banning my account last night.

His voice was a lethal, low rumble that vibrated in the cold air.

Brook took a step back until her spine hit the cold metal of her BMW's door.

She lifted her chin, refusing to break eye contact.

She braced her body for the hurricane about to hit.

Damon slammed both of his hands onto the roof of the BMW.

The loud bang echoed down the street.

He trapped Brook completely between his arms and the cold metal of the car.

Who gave you the right to humiliate the CEO of Vaughn Capital in a public forum.

He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking dangerously.

Brook looked at the tight lines of his face.

A cruel, mocking smile slowly formed on her lips.

It is my private channel. I have the right to take out the trash whenever it disgusts me.

The word trash hit Damon like a physical blow.

His pupils dilated, a dark, violent storm brewing in his eyes.

His hand shot out and gripped her chin, his fingers pressing hard into her skin.

He forced her head up.

Do not push my limits, Brook.

His voice was freezing, carrying a warning that would terrify any rational person.

Brook did not struggle against his grip.

She just stared back at him with eyes that were completely dead and empty.

She looked at him as if he were nothing more than a pathetic joke.

Her absolute lack of physical reaction stung Damon worse than if she had slapped him.

His fingers twitched, and he subconsciously loosened his grip on her jaw.

Damon dragged in a harsh breath, fighting to push his rage down.

Clear your schedule tonight. We are having dinner.

He issued the command with the arrogance of a man who owned the world.

If you are throwing a tantrum over the building, I will transfer the deed to your name.

The casual way he offered to buy her compliance lit a fire of pure humiliation in Brook's chest.

She slapped his hand away from her face.

Your money does not work on me anymore. The game is over.

Her voice dripped with absolute disgust.

Damon's face turned a dangerous shade of pale.

He stepped closer, reaching out to grab her wrist.

Brook twisted her body, dodging his hand with quick precision.

She smoothed down the front of her jacket.

She opened her mouth and delivered a lie designed to cut him to the bone.

I do not have time to play your stupid corporate games tonight. I have a very important blind date.

Damon froze completely.

His body went rigid, as if a heavy hammer had just smashed into his ribs.

A date.

His voice came out hoarse and broken.

Brook smiled, a cold, ruthless expression.

He is an Ivy League doctor from a medical family. A million times better than a Wall Street bastard covered in the stench of money.

She watched his eyes widen slightly.

My mother set it up. She wants me to settle down into a proper marriage.

The word marriage snapped the last remaining thread of Damon's sanity.

He swung his arm back and slammed his fist directly into the hood of the BMW.

The sickening crunch of denting metal echoed loudly.

A few pedestrians walking by stopped and stared, but the terrifying aura radiating from Damon kept them frozen in place.

Damon's chest heaved violently.

He stared at Brook with eyes that looked ready to commit murder.

If you go to that dinner, I will destroy everything.

He ground the words out, syllable by syllable.

Brook did not flinch.

I am going. And I am going to wear my best dress.

She used the split second of his blind rage to grab the handle of her car door.

She yanked it open, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed it shut.

She hit the lock button immediately.

She started the engine and gave him one final, dead look through the glass.

Damon stood frozen on the pavement.

His hands were curled into fists so tight his knuckles were stark white.

He watched her ordinary BMW scrape past the bumper of his Maybach and speed down the street.

He turned and kicked the heavy metal fire hydrant on the corner.

The impact sent a jolt of pain up his leg, leaving a smudge of dirt on his custom trousers.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed M. Black.

Find every elite matchmaking dinner happening in Manhattan tonight. Find the reservation under Helen Moore.

His voice was colder than the winter air.

He hung up and got back into the Maybach.

The faint smell of Brook's shampoo still lingered in the cabin, making his chest ache.

He slammed his foot on the gas pedal.

The massive engine roared as the car shot forward toward Manhattan.

He was not going to let anyone else touch what belonged to him.