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.

The heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut, sealing with a solid, expensive thud.

Instantly, the roaring storm, the flashing cameras, and Gaven's furious screaming were completely severed.

The interior of the car was a different world. The temperature was perfectly controlled, warm and dry. A soft cello sonata played through the hidden speakers. The air smelled intoxicatingly of rich leather and sharp, clean cedar.

Brooke collapsed back against the plush leather seat. Her chest he heave violently as she fought to catch her breath. Freezing rainwater dripped from her hair, soaking into the pristine floor mats.

She slowly turned her head to look at the man sitting next to her.

He was sitting with his long legs crossed at the knee, a sleek laptop resting on his thighs. He was wearing a dark suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly.

Foster closed the laptop with a soft click. He turned his head, his dark, fathomless eyes slowly dragging over her ruined appearance.

Brooke stared at the white bandage on his forehead. Her breath hitched.

It was him. The man from the canyon last night. The man she had pulled from the wreckage.

"I..." Brooke started, her teeth chattering from the cold. She awkwardly gathered the soaked, heavy layers of tulle around her legs. "I'm sorry. I'm ruining your car."

Foster didn't say a word.

He reached into the custom storage compartment between the seats and pulled out a thick, folded cashmere towel. He held it out to her.

Brooke took it, her fingers brushing against his. His skin was burning hot.

"Thank you," she whispered, wrapping the towel around her dripping hair.

The wet wedding dress was clinging to her skin like a second layer of ice. The heavy fabric had become semi-transparent, tightly outlining the curve of her waist and the swell of her breasts. It was suffocating her.

Foster's gaze dropped. His eyes tracked the line of her collarbone, dipping lower to where the wet lace clung to her skin.

His jaw tightened. His Adam's apple bobbed sharply as he swallowed. A dark, dangerous fire flared in the depths of his eyes.

He abruptly looked away. He reached out and pressed a silver button on the armrest.

With a soft mechanical whir, a thick, soundproof privacy partition rose between the front and rear seats, locking into place.

The back of the Maybach instantly became a sealed, intimate vault. The air grew thick, heavy with an undeniable, suffocating tension.

Foster shrugged off his heavy, custom-tailored trench coat. He tossed it onto Brooke's lap.

"Change," Foster ordered. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in Brooke's chest. "You'll catch pneumonia."

Brooke stared at the massive coat on her lap. Her ears burned hot, a stark contrast to her freezing skin.

She hesitated, then turned her back to him. She reached behind her neck, her freezing, numb fingers fumbling blindly for the hidden zipper of the dress.

The delicate lace had snagged in the metal teeth. The water made it impossible to grip. She pulled, but it wouldn't budge.

She let out a frustrated sigh, her shoulders slumping.

Foster watched her struggle. He let out a quiet breath.

He leaned forward.

Suddenly, the massive, overwhelming heat of his body was right behind her. Brooke's spine snapped straight. Her breath caught in her throat.

"Stop moving," he murmured.

His warm breath brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape. A violent shiver racked her body, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

Foster's large, rough fingers brushed against her bare shoulder blades. His touch was electric. Brooke squeezed her eyes shut, her hands gripping her knees.

With a deft, precise movement, Foster untangled the wet lace. The zipper gave way with a soft hiss.

He slowly pulled the zipper down. The metal teeth parted, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her back to the cool air of the cabin.

Foster's eyes darkened as he stared at her exposed skin. His knuckles turned white as he forced himself to stop at the base of her spine.

He immediately pulled his hands back, retreating to his side of the car. He leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath.

Brooke quickly shimmied out of the heavy, wet dress. She grabbed his trench coat and wrapped it tightly around herself, burying her face in the collar. It smelled intensely of him-cedar and raw masculinity. It felt incredibly safe.

She curled her legs up onto the seat, pulling the coat tighter.

She looked at him, studying his sharp profile.

"Why did you help me?" she asked softly.

Foster opened his eyes. He turned his head, his dark gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk that was equal parts dangerous and devastatingly handsome.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, possessive whisper.

"You saved my life last night. And I, Foster Pruitt, never leave a debt unpaid."