Katelyn let out a sharp cry as her hip slammed into the polished marble floor. She lay sprawled in front of Brion’s custom-made oxfords, her dress tangled around her legs like a snared animal.

The ballroom was dead silent, save for the frantic, mechanical clicking of camera shutters.

Brion stared down at the woman on the floor. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes looked at her the way one might look at a diseased rat.

Katelyn looked up, tears streaming down her face, mascara streaking black tracks through her foundation. She reached out a trembling hand, trying to grab the hem of Brion’s trousers to pull herself up.

Brion took a deliberate half-step backward. The movement was small, but it radiated an overwhelming aura of disgust and absolute dominance.

“Get out.” Brion’s voice was low, smooth, terrifyingly calm.

Alfonso immediately stepped between his boss and the woman on the floor, blocking Katelyn’s path.

Gemma walked down the final steps. Her posture was flawless. She didn’t spare Katelyn a single glance.

She walked straight up to Brion and tilted her head back to meet his gaze.

Brion’s eyes narrowed slightly, bracing for her to run, bracing for the inevitable rejection he had endured a thousand times before.

Instead, Gemma lifted her hand and slid it through the crook of his arm, pressing her side against his solid chest.

Brion’s entire body went rigid. The muscles in his arm turned to stone. For a split second, he stopped breathing. Then his large hand clamped down over her wrist, pinning her arm to his side with a bruising, desperate force.

Gemma ignored the pain. She turned to face the wall of flashing cameras and offered a bright, perfectly composed smile.

“My maid of honor was just a little too excited for the champagne toast,” Gemma announced, her voice carrying clearly across the room. “She missed a step.”

A flawless execution. She reduced Katelyn’s malicious sabotage to a clumsy, embarrassing drunken mistake.

Katelyn slumped against the floor, lips trembling uncontrollably, but not a single coherent word escaped her throat. She stared up at Gemma clinging to Brion, her eyes swimming with a toxic mix of venom and absolute terror. All that came out was a pathetic, meaningless whimper. She looked exactly like a stray dog with a broken spine.

A collective murmur rippled through the crowd at the bizarre, pathetic display. Reporters surged forward, shoving microphones over the velvet ropes, eager to capture the bridesmaid’s humiliating breakdown.

Brion moved instantly. He shifted his broad shoulders, physically blocking Gemma from the cameras, shielding her entirely with his own body.

He turned his head and glared at the media pit. The sheer, suffocating menace in his eyes made the front row of reporters physically step back.

“If a single picture of this pathetic display makes it to print,” Brion said, his voice echoing in the silent room, “your parent companies will be delisted from the exchange by noon tomorrow.”

No one breathed. No one doubted him.

Brion looked at the head of security. “Throw her on the street.”

Two massive guards grabbed Katelyn by the armpits and hauled her off the ground. She kicked and screamed, her one remaining shoe abandoned on the marble.

Gemma leaned her head against Brion’s shoulder, watching with cold satisfaction as the heavy oak doors slammed shut, cutting off Katelyn’s wails.

The silence in the room was deafening.

Brion looked down at Gemma. His grip on her wrist tightened further.

“What game are you playing?” he whispered, his voice vibrating with dangerous suspicion.

Keyshawn Vargas practically sprinted onto the main stage, dabbing his sweating forehead with a silk handkerchief.

He forced a booming laugh into the microphone. “Well, what an exciting start to the evening! Now, let us officially announce the Hubbard Group’s capital injection into Vargas Holdings.”

The crowd erupted into polite, enthusiastic applause. The power of billions of dollars instantly erased the memory of the screaming woman.

Gemma stood beside Brion, forced to endure the endless line of well-wishers.

Brion’s hand had migrated from her wrist to her waist. His long fingers dug into the soft fabric of her dress, gripping her hip bone with a possessive, almost painful pressure. It was the physical manifestation of his deep-seated paranoia that she would vanish if he let go.

Instead of pulling away, Gemma shifted her weight, leaning her body entirely against his side.

Brion flinched. His breath hitched audibly. He pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her back like an iron band.

As soon as the final toast was poured, Brion cut off a rambling hedge fund manager mid-sentence and dragged Gemma toward the exit.

A black, armored Maybach idled at the bottom of the driveway. Alfonso held the door open.

Brion shoved Gemma into the backseat and climbed in after her, slamming the heavy door shut.

The privacy partition between the front and back seats glided up, sealing them in a soundproof vault.

The car accelerated smoothly into the rain-slick Manhattan night.

Brion reached up and violently yanked his tie loose. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, his chest heaving.

He turned to her, eyes burning with a dark, predatory intensity.

“Why didn’t you run?” he demanded. “Was it the ten percent? Did you think staying would give you more leverage?”

Gemma’s chest ached. He was so used to her hatred that he could only process her presence as a calculated financial move.

She didn’t defend herself. She uncrossed her legs and leaned closer, invading his space.

She looked straight into his dark eyes. “Because I realized you are infinitely more valuable than a starving artist.”

The words hit him like a physical strike. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle popped in his cheek.

He reached out and grabbed her chin, his thumb pressing hard into her jawline.

“If you stay,” he warned, his voice a low, lethal growl, “you don’t ever get to leave. You belong to me.”

Gemma didn’t pull away from the pain. She lifted her hand and placed her palm directly over the back of his hand.

Her skin was warm. Brion’s fingers twitched, a reflexive urge to pull away from the burn of her touch, but she held him there.

“Deal, Mr. Hubbard.” A soft smile touched her lips.

Brion ripped his hand away as if he’d been burned. He turned his head sharply, staring out the tinted window.

His reflection in the glass betrayed him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his composure entirely shattered by her compliance.

The Maybach descended into the private underground garage of his Manhattan penthouse.

They rode the private elevator up in total silence.

The penthouse was a sprawling expanse of cold marble, black steel, and glass. It looked exactly like him: beautiful, expensive, and utterly devoid of warmth.

Brion shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the leather sofa.

“Go take a shower,” he ordered harshly, not looking at her.

Gemma watched his broad back as he walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She turned and walked straight toward the massive open-concept kitchen.