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.

Brook pulled her BMW into the underground parking garage of her midtown apartment building.

Her shoulders ached with exhaustion.

She turned the steering wheel, preparing to back into her usual spot.

She slammed her foot on the brake pedal so hard the tires screeched against the concrete.

A heavy metal sign was bolted directly into the center of her parking space.

It read: Vaughn Capital Reserved. Unauthorized Vehicles Will Be Towed.

Right next to the sign sat a brand-new, silver Aston Martin, taking up the space she paid for.

Brook's hands started shaking with rage.

This was Damon's pathetic, aggressive way of punishing her for the lie she told that morning.

She threw the car into drive and parked in a dark visitor spot at the far end of the garage.

She stomped toward the elevator, her heels clicking angrily against the floor.

The elevator doors opened on her floor.

She stepped out and immediately saw a black velvet garment bag hanging from the handle of her apartment door.

Brook assumed it was another sick gift from Damon.

She reached out to rip it off the handle and throw it down the trash chute.

Her phone started ringing loudly in her purse.

The caller ID showed her mother, Helen Moore.

Brook answered the call, her voice still tight with anger.

Helen did not say hello.

Put on the Dior dress hanging on your door immediately.

Her mother's voice was a sharp, commanding whip.

Brook froze, her hand hovering over the velvet bag.

What are you talking about.

Helen let out a dry, calculating laugh.

I am not letting Bernard parade his new family around at that gala tomorrow without a fight.

Helen explained that she had pulled massive strings to get Brook a seat at a highly exclusive matchmaking dinner tonight.

She was set up with Dr. Julian Croft, the heir to New York's most prestigious medical family.

Brook felt the blood drain from her face.

The room spun slightly.

The lie she had thrown at Damon this morning to piss him off had just become a terrifying reality. Brook felt a wave of cosmic absurdity wash over her. The very lie she had crafted to wound Damon had, by some cruel twist of fate, been made real by her own mother. It was not just a trap; it was a sick joke, and she was the punchline, standing alone in her dim hallway.

I am not going. I am not a pawn for your divorce wars.

Brook snapped, her stomach churning with anxiety.

Helen did not miss a beat.

If you do not walk into that restaurant tonight, I will pull every cent of shadow funding from your tech incubator tomorrow morning.

Brook clamped her teeth together.

She knew her mother was a ruthless tech titan who never made empty threats.

Her startup would die in a day.

Fine.

Brook whispered, the word tasting like ash in her mouth.

She hung up the phone, ripped the garment bag off the door handle, and walked inside.

At that exact moment, in the penthouse office of Vaughn Capital, Damon was staring at M. Black.

M. Black handed over a printed guest list for a private room at a three-star Michelin restaurant.

Brook's name was printed clearly next to Julian Croft's.

The heavy crystal glass in Damon's hand cracked under the pressure of his grip.

Amber whiskey spilled over his fingers and dripped onto the expensive rug.

He had thought she was just lying to hurt him.

He never imagined she was actually going to sit across from another man.

Get the car ready. Cancel every video conference I have tonight.

Damon ordered, his voice dangerously quiet.

Back in her apartment, Brook pulled the black Dior gown over her head.

The deep V-neck cut low against her chest, the fabric clinging tight to her waist.

She looked at herself in the mirror and felt a wave of disgust.

She applied a dark, aggressive red lipstick and pulled her hair up.

She built a wall of cold indifference over her features.

At seven o'clock, Brook walked out of the lobby doors, her red-soled heels clicking on the pavement.

She pulled out her phone to call an Uber.

A massive, black bulletproof SUV rolled silently to a stop right in front of her.

The heavy tinted window in the back rolled down slowly.

Damon's face appeared in the shadows of the backseat.

His eyes were completely black, sweeping over the exposed skin of her chest and neck.

Get in. I am taking you.

His voice was a rough, gravelly demand that sent a violent shiver down her spine.