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."

The name hit Brooke like a physical blow to the chest.

Foster Pruitt.

Her eyes widened in absolute shock. She stared at the man sitting inches away from her, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

The Pruitt family wasn't just wealthy. They were royalty. They controlled the energy grids and telecommunications networks across the entire country. And Foster Pruitt was the ruthless, cold-blooded tyrant who sat at the top of the empire.

Brooke instinctively pressed herself against the car door, pulling the trench coat tighter around her neck. Her survival instincts screamed at her. She had just jumped from a snake pit directly into a lion's den.

Foster noticed her shrinking away. A flicker of irritation crossed his dark eyes, but he didn't say anything. He simply picked up his laptop and opened it again.

The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.

Suddenly, Brooke's phone began to vibrate violently in her hand.

The screen lit up with a barrage of text messages.

Prescott: You little bitch. You ruined the family. I will make sure you never work in this state again.

Gaven: You're dead, Brooke. I'm going to destroy you.

Brooke stared at the hateful words. The blood drained from her face. Her fingers gripped the edges of the phone so tightly her knuckles ached. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

Foster's peripheral vision caught the glow of the screen. He saw the messages.

His jaw locked. Without a word, he reached across the seat and snatched the phone right out of her hands.

"Hey!" Brooke gasped, reaching for it.

Foster pressed the power button, holding it down until the screen went black. He tossed the phone into the center console and snapped the lid shut.

"You are off the clock," Foster said coldly, his eyes fixed on his laptop.

Brooke sat frozen. His sheer dominance left her speechless, but deep down, a strange, warm knot of relief loosened in her chest.

The Maybach smoothly descended into a private, brightly lit underground garage. It was the parking vault for one of the most exclusive penthouses in Century City, Los Angeles.

As the car rolled to a stop, Foster's private cell phone rang. The sharp, abrasive ringtone shattered the quiet of the cabin.

Foster glanced at the caller ID. The muscles in his neck tightened. He answered the call and put it on speaker, making no effort to hide the conversation from Brooke.

"Foster," an elderly, booming voice barked through the phone. It was Harrison Pruitt, the patriarch of the family. "I am losing my patience. The board is demanding stability. You will return to New York and marry the Sinclair girl by the end of the month."

"My marriage is not a board decision," Foster replied, his voice dangerously low.

"If you don't secure a wife and project a stable image, I will transfer control of the European energy sector to your brothers," Harrison threatened. "Are you still waiting for that ghost? That woman from ten years ago? She's gone, Foster. Wake up."

At the mention of the woman from ten years ago, Foster's eyes turned pitch black. A terrifying aura of violence radiated from his body.

He hit the end call button with enough force to crack the screen.

The temperature in the car plummeted. Brooke held her breath, terrified to make a sound.

But as she sat there in the freezing silence, a wild, reckless idea ignited in her brain.

She had just declared war on her father and Gaven. They were going to come for her mother's company with everything they had. She needed armor. She needed a weapon they couldn't touch.

And Foster Pruitt desperately needed a wife to get his grandfather off his back.

It was insane. It was suicidal. But it was perfect.

Brooke took a deep breath. She forced her shaking hands to relax. She turned her head and looked directly into Foster's furious, dark eyes.

"Mr. Pruitt," Brooke said. Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced the words out. "We need to talk."

Foster slowly turned his head. The lethal anger in his eyes faded into a look of dark amusement. He raised a single eyebrow.

"Talk about what?" he asked softly.

Brooke swallowed the lump in her throat. She pushed herself up slightly, refusing to break eye contact.

"You need a wife to secure your company," Brooke said, her words coming out in a rush. "And I need a shield to protect mine."

She paused, her heart beating so fast she felt dizzy. She dropped the bomb.

"I am willing to marry you. We sign a contract. We help each other, and we stay out of each other's way."

The air in the car evaporated.

Foster didn't blink. He didn't move. He just stared at her, his dark eyes stripping her down to her soul, assessing her like a predator looking at its willing prey.