Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the VIP suite at the private hospital, warming the expensive Persian rug.

Foster sat up against the pillows of the hospital bed. He had changed into a crisp, dark navy shirt. A fresh white bandage covered the stitches on his forehead.

Errol stood at the foot of the bed, holding a leather-bound tablet.

"The interception was successful, sir," Errol reported, swiping across the screen. "Senator Vance's convoy was delayed on the highway. He missed the crucial hearing. The zoning laws for the new energy plant will pass in our favor."

Errol lowered the tablet. His brow was heavily furrowed.

"But sir," Errol continued, his voice tight with disapproval. "Sacrificing a custom Maybach, and putting your own life at risk to stall a politician... the cost was too high. We could have handled Vance another way."

Foster let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached over to the bedside table, picked up a glass of ice water, and took a slow sip.

"Who said it was a sacrifice?" Foster asked, his tone dangerously soft.

Errol blinked. "Sir?"

Foster set the glass down. His dark eyes locked onto Errol, stripping away all pretense.

"I ordered the brake lines cut," Foster said.

Errol's mouth fell open. He stared at his boss, genuine shock radiating from his face. "You... you orchestrated your own crash? That was a suicide mission!"

Foster threw the blankets off and stood up. He walked over to the window, looking down at the sprawling, sun-drenched streets of Los Angeles.

"It was a calculated risk," Foster said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It stalled Vance. It cleared the Pruitt family name of any suspicion regarding the recent port cartel issues, because I am now a documented victim of a 'tragic accident.'"

Foster turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder.

"But most importantly," Foster murmured, his voice dropping an octave, "I knew exactly what time she would be driving down that road."

Errol froze. The pieces clicked together in his brain. The traffic cameras. The rhinestone button. The refusal to take painkillers.

He used his own life as bait just to force an encounter with a woman.

Foster reached into his pocket and pulled out the small rhinestone button. He rolled it between his thumb and index finger. The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated obsession.

"Call off the search on the cameras," Foster commanded. "I already know who she is."

He turned fully to face Errol.

"Brooke Rivers." Foster said her name like a prayer he had been holding in his mouth for a decade. "Confirm her schedule. She is supposed to be at the Holy Trinity Church in Beverly Hills at noon."

Errol swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And Errol," Foster added, his voice dropping to a smooth, lethal register. "Ensure the 'wedding gift' for Miss Rivers is delivered exactly as instructed to her private line. She'll need ammunition for the war she's about to start."

"It has already been sent, sir," Errol confirmed, bowing his head.

Errol quickly left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Foster stood alone in the quiet suite. He looked down at the button in his hand. His chest tightened with a heavy, aching pressure.

"Ten years," Foster whispered to the empty room. "You're finally coming back to me."

Across the city, inside the bridal suite of the Holy Trinity Church, Brooke was sitting alone.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The heavy Vera Wang gown felt like a suit of armor. Outside the thick wooden door, she could hear the muffled chatter of hundreds of wealthy guests taking their seats.

Her private cell phone, sitting on the vanity, suddenly vibrated.

Brooke frowned. She picked it up. The screen displayed a scrambled, virtual number.

She hesitated for a second before swiping to answer. She pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Brooke."

The voice on the other end was distorted, masked by a heavy digital scrambler. It sounded robotic, yet strangely commanding.

Brooke stood up instantly. Her spine went rigid. "Who is this?"

"A friend," the distorted voice replied. "I know what you saw in the penthouse suite last night."

Brooke's breath hitched. Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned white. "What do you want?"

A low, dark chuckle came through the speaker. "I want to give you a wedding gift. Check your email. The secure one."

Brooke dropped the phone onto the vanity and snatched up her iPad. She opened her encrypted email account.

There was a new message with a large zip file attached.

She tapped it. The files unzipped, flooding her screen with PDF documents.

Brooke's eyes widened. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

They were bank statements. Offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. Wire transfers moving millions of dollars out of the Rivers family company directly into accounts controlled by Gaven and Livia.

And at the bottom of the pile were scanned documents with her mother's forged signature.

This wasn't just cheating. This was felony fraud. It was a coordinated, illegal takeover of her mother's legacy.

"Are you looking at them?" the voice asked through the phone speaker.

Brooke picked the phone back up. Her hands were shaking, but this time, it was from pure, blinding rage.

"Are you going to settle for just a sex tape to end this farce?" the voice taunted softly.

Brooke dug her manicured nails into her palm until the skin broke. The pain grounded her.

"This is exactly what I needed," Brooke said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I don't know who you are, but I owe you."

The line went dead.

Brooke didn't waste a second. she plugged a small USB drive into her iPad and transferred every single document onto it.

She pulled the USB out and gripped it tightly in her fist.

A knock sounded at the door.

Her father, Prescott Rivers, walked in. He was wearing a custom tuxedo, his silver hair perfectly styled. He looked at her with cold, calculating eyes.

"It's time, Brooke," Prescott said, checking his Rolex. "Don't keep the investors waiting."

Brooke looked at the man who had sold her out. She slipped the small USB drive into a hidden slit she had cut into the layers of tulle in her skirt.

She pasted on a brilliant, flawless smile.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Father."

She walked over and looped her arm through his. The warmth radiating from his arm made her skin crawl, but she held her head high.

As the heavy church doors swung open and the first massive chords of the organ filled the air, Brooke stepped onto the red carpet.

Sunlight streamed through the massive stained-glass windows of the Holy Trinity Church, casting vibrant pools of red and blue light across the center aisle.

As Brooke stepped forward, the entire congregation rose to their feet. Hundreds of eyes locked onto her.

Brooke kept her chin perfectly level. The thick lace veil covered her face, hiding the absolute zero temperature of her eyes. She walked with a slow, measured pace, her arm linked with her father's.

To her right, standing near the altar, was the bridal party. Livia was wearing a blush-pink silk dress. She had a tissue pressed to the corner of her eye, playing the role of the emotional, supportive sister to perfection.

Brooke felt her stomach churn with disgust.

At the end of the aisle stood Gaven. He looked like a prince in his tailored black tuxedo. As Brooke approached, he offered her a smile so full of fake devotion it made Brooke's teeth ache.

Prescott stopped at the altar. He took Brooke's hand and placed it into Gaven's.

"Take care of her," Prescott murmured, playing his part for the cameras flashing in the back rows.

Gaven's fingers closed around Brooke's. His palm was slightly sweaty. The physical contact sent a violent shudder of revulsion up Brooke's arm. She had to use every ounce of her willpower not to rip her hand away.

They turned to face the priest.

The church fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the solemn, echoing voice of the priest reading the traditional vows.

Brooke stared straight ahead at the golden cross on the wall. She was counting the seconds in her head.

The priest turned to Gaven. "Do you, Gaven Cunningham, take Brooke Rivers to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health?"

Gaven didn't even blink. He projected his voice so the entire church could hear his devotion.

"I do."

A soft murmur of approval rippled through the pews.

The priest turned to Brooke.

"And do you, Brooke Rivers, take Gaven Cunningham to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

The silence stretched.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

The air in the church grew thick and heavy. Guests began to shift uncomfortably in their seats. The silence became deafening.

Gaven squeezed her hand tightly. He leaned in slightly, his voice a harsh whisper meant only for her ears. "Brooke. Speak."

Brooke slowly turned her head. She looked at him through the white mesh of her veil.

The corner of her mouth curled upward into a sharp, mocking smirk.

She pulled her hand out of his grip with a violent jerk. She took a step back. Before anyone could react or reach out to stop her, she lunged sideways, snatching the microphone from the secondary stand that had been set up specifically for the couple's vows. She gripped the cold metal tightly and brought it to her lips.

She took a deep breath. Her voice rang out, crystal clear and hard as diamonds.

"I don't."

The two words echoed off the vaulted ceilings.

The church erupted. Gasps of shock tore through the crowd. Whispers exploded into loud murmurs.

Gaven's face drained of all color. His perfect mask shattered. He reached out to grab her arm. "Brooke, what the hell are you doing?"

Brooke slapped his hand away.

Livia gasped loudly from the sidelines, covering her mouth with both hands, though her eyes gleamed with a sick, triumphant thrill.

In the front row, Prescott Rivers shot up from his seat. His face was purple with rage. He stormed up the steps of the altar.

"Brooke!" Prescott roared, his voice booming over the crowd. "Stop this nonsense right now!"

Brooke didn't back down. She turned to face her father, her chest heaving.

"Is this a wedding, or a corporate merger?" Brooke shouted into the microphone. "You're selling me to a man who is actively trying to bankrupt my mother's company!"

The reporters in the back of the church went wild. The rapid-fire clicking of camera shutters sounded like a swarm of locusts. Flashbulbs strobed continuously, lighting up the altar.

Prescott's eyes narrowed into furious slits. The family reputation was being slaughtered on live television.

He lunged forward. He raised his right hand and swung it with brutal force.

The sharp crack of his palm connecting with Brooke's cheek echoed unnaturally in the sudden, horrified silence of the church. Through the microphone she still clutched, her sharp intake of breath was the only sound heard, a stark, painful hiss that magnified the brutality of the blow.

The force of the blow snapped Brooke's head to the side. Her veil was ripped from her hair, fluttering to the marble floor.

A sharp, stinging pain exploded across her left cheek. She tasted fresh blood pooling in her mouth from where her teeth had cut into her inner lip.

She didn't cry. She didn't fall.

Brooke slowly turned her face back to her father. She ran her tongue over her bleeding lip, her eyes burning with a terrifying, icy fire.

Gaven stepped forward, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "Prescott, please, let's just calm down-"

Brooke shot Gaven a glare so lethal he actually took a step back.

"That slap," Brooke said, her voice dropping to a chillingly calm register, "just severed the last tie I had to the Rivers family."

She reached into the hidden slit in her heavy tulle skirt. Her fingers closed around the cold plastic of the USB drive.

She pulled it out and held it high in the air, the small device catching the light of the flashbulbs.

"You want to know why I won't marry him?" Brooke asked the silent, staring crowd. "The show is just getting started."

Brooke ignored the murderous glare burning into her from her father. She turned her back on him and locked eyes with her maid of honor, Chloe, who was standing in the front row.

Brooke threw the USB drive.

Chloe caught it perfectly. Without a second of hesitation, Chloe turned and sprinted down the side aisle toward the church's multimedia control booth.

Gaven realized what was happening. Panic flared in his eyes.

"Security!" Gaven screamed, his voice cracking. "Stop her! Get that drive!"

Two large men in suits rushed down the aisle, but they were too late. Chloe slammed the heavy door of the control booth shut and locked it from the inside.

A loud, mechanical hum echoed through the church.

Behind the altar, a massive, motorized projection screen slowly descended from the ceiling, covering the golden cross.

The screen flickered to life.

The first image was crystal clear, high-definition video. It was the interior of the penthouse suite from last night.

The moans echoed through the church's surround-sound speakers.

The video showed Gaven, fully recognizable, pressing Livia against the sofa. Their crude, explicit conversation about stealing the Rivers shares blasted at maximum volume.

The congregation gasped in unison. Several older women shrieked and covered their eyes.

Livia let out a blood-curdling scream. All the color vanished from her face. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the marble floor, desperately trying to shield her face from the flashing cameras.

Gaven stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. The perfect, wealthy facade he had built was being ripped apart in real-time.

The video ended, but the screen didn't go dark.

It immediately switched to a slideshow of documents. Bank statements. Wire transfer receipts. Offshore account numbers in the Cayman Islands.

The wealthy businessmen in the pews immediately recognized what they were looking at. The whispers turned into loud, angry accusations of fraud and embezzlement.

Prescott Rivers stared at the screen, his chest heaving. He pointed a trembling finger at Gaven and Livia, his mouth working, but no sound coming out.

Brooke gripped the microphone tightly.

"This wedding is canceled," Brooke announced, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "And as of an hour ago, these documents have been submitted to the FBI."

At the mention of the FBI, Gaven lost his mind. He lunged at Brooke, his hands reaching for her throat to grab the microphone.

Brooke didn't flinch. She planted her foot and kicked him squarely in the knee.

Gaven stumbled with a cry of pain, falling hard onto the steps of the altar.

Brooke looked down at him with absolute disgust. "You are officially fired from Rivers Enterprises. I suggest you find a good lawyer for the federal charges."

She turned her gaze to Livia, who was sobbing on the floor.

"And you," Brooke sneered. "You can keep the trash. You deserve each other."

Brooke reached up and yanked the heavy, diamond-encrusted tiara from her hair. She threw it directly at Gaven's chest. It bounced off him and clattered onto the floor.

She grabbed handfuls of her heavy skirt and turned away.

She walked down the center aisle. The guests instinctively parted for her, clearing a path. The flashbulbs followed her every step, capturing the image of a woman walking away from a burning bridge.

Brooke pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the church.

The sky outside had turned black. A torrential downpour was hammering the streets of Beverly Hills.

She didn't stop. She walked straight out into the storm.

The freezing rain hit her instantly, plastering her hair to her face and soaking the heavy layers of her dress. The cold was a shock to her system, but it felt like absolute freedom.

She reached the curb and pulled out her phone, frantically opening the Uber app. The screen spun. She tried to call a premium car, but the wait time flashed an agonizing forty-five minutes. She could see Gaven storming out of the heavy church doors in her peripheral vision. She didn't have that kind of time. The storm and the isolated Beverly Hills location were working against her.

Behind her, the church doors burst open.

"Brooke!" Gaven roared, running out into the rain. His face was twisted in rage.

Brooke panicked. She turned to run down the sidewalk, but her high heel caught in a deep puddle. Her ankle twisted sharply.

A sharp pain shot up her leg. She stumbled, nearly falling to her knees.

Gaven was closing the distance, his heavy footsteps splashing in the water.

Just as his hand reached out to grab her shoulder, a massive, pitch-black Maybach sliced through the rain like a shark. It pulled up directly in front of her, its tires splashing water onto Gaven's shoes.

The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly.

Brooke looked up.

Sitting in the backseat was a man with a face carved from marble. His jaw was sharp, his dark eyes deep and piercing. A small white bandage was taped to his forehead.

Foster Pruitt tilted his head slightly. His gaze locked onto her wet, shivering form.

The front passenger door opened. Errol stepped out into the storm, popping open a massive black umbrella and holding it directly over Brooke's head.

The rear door swung open from the inside.

Foster's voice cut through the sound of the rain. It was low, magnetic, and carried an absolute command.

"Get in."

Brooke looked at the man. She looked at the car. She heard Gaven screaming her name right behind her.

She didn't think. She grabbed her wet dress, ducked under the umbrella, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.