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.

The silence in the Maybach was suffocating.

Seconds ticked by like hours. Brooke felt the sweat prickling at her hairline. Foster's intense, unblinking stare made her skin burn. She felt like she was sitting on a bomb waiting for it to detonate.

She dug her fingernails into her palms, forcing herself to hold his gaze.

"I will play the perfect Mrs. Pruitt," Brooke added, her voice tight. "I won't ask questions. I won't demand your time. And when you don't need me anymore, I'll walk away quietly."

Foster watched her chest rise and fall with her rapid breathing.

Deep inside his chest, the beast that had been starving for ten years let out a dark, satisfied purr. She was walking right into the cage and locking the door behind her.

He kept his face perfectly blank. He tapped his index finger against the leather armrest, a slow, rhythmic beat that sounded like a countdown.

Suddenly, his finger stopped.

The corner of his mouth curled into a sharp, lethal smile.

"Deal."

The single word hit Brooke like a physical shockwave. She blinked, her mouth falling open slightly. She had prepared a dozen arguments, expecting him to laugh in her face. She hadn't expected him to agree instantly.

Foster didn't give her a second to process it. He pushed the car door open and stepped out into the brightly lit garage.

He walked around the back of the Maybach and opened her door. He reached his hand out to her. His long, thick fingers were steady and demanding.

Brooke took a shaky breath. She slid her small, freezing hand into his massive palm.

His skin was burning hot. The moment their hands connected, a jolt of electricity shot up Brooke's arm, making her gasp softly. His fingers immediately curled around hers, locking her in a crushing, possessive grip.

He pulled her out of the car, adjusting his trench coat around her shoulders so it covered her completely. He led her toward a private, stainless-steel elevator.

Foster pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner and leaned in for the retinal scan. The heavy doors slid open silently.

The elevator shot upward at a dizzying speed, making Brooke's stomach drop.

When the doors opened, Brooke stepped into a world of cold, absolute luxury. The penthouse was massive, decorated entirely in stark black, white, and gray. There were no pictures, no plants, no signs of life. It looked like a high-end museum.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a dizzying, panoramic view of the city below.

Foster let go of her hand. He walked over to a sleek console and pressed a button, connecting to his assistant.

"Errol," Foster commanded into the speaker. "Get two sets of women's clothes delivered here immediately. Then, call Judge Miller. Tell him to expect us at his private estate in Bel Air. We are getting the paperwork signed tonight."

Brooke's head snapped up. "Tonight? Right now?"

Foster turned to face her. His tall frame blocked out the city lights behind him.

"The Pruitt family doesn't wait," Foster said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "When a decision is made, it is executed."

He pointed down the long, dark hallway. "Guest room is at the end. Go take a hot shower."

Brooke swallowed hard. The sheer force of his personality was overwhelming. She nodded numbly and walked down the hall.

The guest bathroom was a sanctuary of dark marble and glass, easily as spacious as the master suite in her own luxury apartment. She dropped the heavy trench coat onto the floor and stepped into the massive glass shower.

She stood under the scalding water, scrubbing the last traces of the disastrous wedding day from her skin. Her mind was spinning. She was actually going to marry Foster Pruitt.

When she stepped out and dried off, she realized a massive problem. Errol hadn't arrived with the clothes yet.

She opened the guest room closet. It was filled entirely with men's clothing. Crisp suits, dark ties, and rows of pristine white dress shirts.

Having no other choice, Brooke pulled a custom-tailored white dress shirt from a hanger and slipped it on.

The shirt was massive on her. The hem fell to her mid-thigh, barely covering her. She rolled the sleeves up past her elbows, leaving the top three buttons undone.

She towel-dried her hair and walked back out into the living room.

Foster was sitting on the dark gray sofa. He had changed into a fresh, perfectly tailored black suit. He was reading a file, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

He heard her bare feet on the hardwood floor and looked up.

His eyes locked onto her.

Brooke was wearing his shirt. The thin white cotton clung to her damp skin. Her long, bare legs were completely exposed, pale and smooth in the dim lighting.

Foster's breath hitched. A violent surge of pure, primal heat punched him in the gut.

He slammed the file shut. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, and his Adam's apple rolled heavily as he forced himself to look away from her legs.