The low, mechanical hum of the underground garage's ventilation fans vibrated through the floorboards of the Maybach.

Aimee shifted in her sleep. The fabric pressed against her cheek felt unusually scratchy, entirely different from her cheap cotton pillowcases at home. She let out a soft groan and slowly fluttered her eyes open.

As her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a expanse of dark grey, bespoke wool. Then, a sharp, clean scent invaded her senses-cedarwood and expensive bergamot.

Aimee's nervous system violently snapped awake. Panic flooded her veins like ice water. She jerked her head up so fast that her forehead slammed directly into the solid, sharp angle of Cameron's jaw.

A deep, guttural grunt of pain ripped from Cameron's throat. His thick eyebrows crashed together. He brought a hand up to massage his jaw, his icy blue eyes glaring down at the woman who was currently scrambling away from him like a terrified rabbit.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-" Aimee gasped, pressing her back against the opposite car door.

But the apology died in her throat. Her eyes darted to the spot on his shoulder where her head had just been resting.

There, on the shoulder of his Savile Row custom suit jacket-a garment that easily cost more than her car-was a distinct, dark, wet patch.

She had drooled on him.

All the blood in Aimee's body rushed to her face, burning her cheeks with a heat so intense she thought she might spontaneously combust. Her stomach plummeted to her shoes. This was the absolute pinnacle of social death. She wanted to claw a hole through the floor of the Maybach and bury herself in the concrete.

Cameron followed her horrified gaze. He looked down at his shoulder.

When he registered the wet stain, his face turned the color of a thundercloud. His severe germaphobia flared, making his skin crawl. The air pressure inside the cabin seemed to drop to absolute zero.

He clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles ticked. He fought the overwhelming urge to rip the jacket off and hurl it out the window.

"Get out," Cameron commanded. The words were clipped, sharp as broken glass.

Aimee didn't need to be told twice. She fumbled blindly for the door handle, shoved it open, and practically tumbled out onto the freezing concrete floor of the garage. She stood there barefoot, holding her cheap heels, her hands shaking with mortification.

Cameron stepped out of the car with terrifying grace. His face was a mask of pure fury. He shrugged off the ruined suit jacket, not even sparing it a second glance, and tossed it directly into a nearby industrial trash can.

He didn't wait for her. He turned and strode toward the private elevator, his long legs eating up the distance.

Aimee stared at the trash can, her heart aching at the sheer waste of money. She quickly slipped her blistered feet back into her heels and jogged to catch up with him, slipping into the bright, mirrored elevator car just as the doors began to close.

The ride up to the penthouse was agonizingly silent.

The doors slid open to reveal a massive, minimalist foyer. Martha, the head housekeeper, was standing at attention. She stepped forward and respectfully took Cameron's leather briefcase.

Martha's eyes flicked between Cameron, who was now standing in just his crisp white dress shirt and vest, and Aimee, who looked like she had just survived a natural disaster. Martha was far too professional to ask questions.

"Would either of you care for a late-night snack?" Martha asked smoothly.

Aimee hadn't eaten a single bite of food at the Long Island estate. Right on cue, her empty stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl that echoed off the marble walls of the foyer.

Cameron stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned his head and looked at her as if she were an alien species.

Aimee instinctively wrapped her arms around her stomach, her toes curling inside her shoes. She wanted to die.

"Prepare two sandwiches," Cameron ordered Martha, his voice flat. He turned on his heel and marched straight toward his study, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Aimee was sitting on a high stool at the massive, cold marble island in the open-concept kitchen. She was ravenously devouring a gourmet ham and gruyere sandwich, practically swallowing the pieces whole.

The study door clicked open. Cameron walked out. He had changed into a pair of dark grey cashmere sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. He walked to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of iced water, and stood on the opposite side of the island.

He leaned against the counter, silently watching her chaotic eating habits.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare prickling her skin. She forced herself to slow her chewing, picking up a napkin to dab at her mouth, desperately trying to salvage whatever tiny shred of dignity she had left.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone, which was resting on the marble counter, lit up. It buzzed aggressively. Three iMessage notifications popped up in rapid succession.

Aimee glanced at the screen. The sender was "Dad."

Her forced calm shattered. She dropped the half-eaten sandwich onto her plate.

She opened the messages. Burt's texts were furious. He was demanding to meet the "bastard" who had convinced his daughter to elope out of nowhere. He was questioning if she was being scammed or held hostage.

Aimee pressed her fingertips hard against her forehead. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. She knew her father's stubborn, blue-collar pride. If she didn't bring Cameron to Brooklyn, Burt would absolutely take the subway to Manhattan and kick down the doors of the Fox Group.

She took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her head and looked across the marble island at Cameron.

"Mr. Fox," Aimee started, her voice trembling with a desperate, pleading edge. "Are you... are you free this weekend? Could you please come back to Brooklyn with me?"

Cameron paused with the water glass halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. His icy eyes narrowed.

"Clause seven of our contract," Cameron stated, his voice a cold, unyielding wall. "I am obligated to perform for the Fox family. I am not obligated to entertain your relatives."

"My father's health is failing," Aimee pleaded, leaning forward over the counter, her hands clasped together. "He has a bad heart. He can't take the shock of thinking I'm in trouble. Please. Just one dinner. I'll deduct your hourly rate from the hundred thousand you gave me."

The mention of money flashed like a warning light in Cameron's eyes. His jaw tightened. He hated that she constantly reduced everything to a transaction, even though that was exactly what this was.

"Absolutely not," Cameron said coldly. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom corridor.

Aimee slumped against the high stool, the fight completely draining out of her.

Her phone buzzed one last time.

Burt: If I don't see this husband of yours by Saturday, I am calling the NYPD.

Aimee buried her face in her arms against the cold marble counter. Surrounded by tens of millions of dollars worth of luxury, she had never felt more suffocated and entirely alone.

Aimee locked the door to the guest bedroom. The heavy click of the deadbolt echoed in the quiet room. She collapsed onto the edge of the king-sized bed, staring blankly at the glowing screen of her phone.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, then mindlessly tapped the Facebook icon.

She scrolled through her camera roll until she found a faded, digitized photograph. It was a picture of her mother, taken years ago under the Brooklyn Bridge. Her mother was laughing, her hair blowing wildly in the wind.

Today was the anniversary of her mother's death.

Aimee typed out a short caption: Another year without you. I'm trying to be strong for Dad, but everything feels so heavy today. I miss your laugh.

Set the entire line to be visible only to Cameron. She hit post.

The emotional exhaustion finally caught up to her. Her skin felt grimy from the sweat of panic and the lingering smell of the workshop. She needed to wash the day off. She stood up, stripped off her cheap clothes, and walked into the en-suite bathroom.

She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. The scalding water battered against her shoulders, turning her pale skin pink. Thick, heavy steam quickly filled the small space, fogging up the mirrors. Under the roar of the water, Aimee finally let her guard down. Her chest heaved, and she sobbed silently, the tears mixing with the shower water streaming down her face.

Meanwhile, in the study down the hall, Cameron was aggressively flipping through a quarterly earnings report. The numbers on the page were blurring together. His mind kept flashing back to the look of absolute despair in Aimee's eyes when she was sitting at the kitchen island.

He picked up his phone to check an email from Clara. As he unlocked the screen, a Facebook notification popped up.

Cameron tapped the notification. Aimee's post filled his screen.

He stared at the picture of the smiling woman. He read the caption. I'm trying to be strong for Dad, but everything feels so heavy today.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. The cold, impenetrable armor he wore around his heart cracked just a fraction. He remembered the suffocating pressure of his own family trust, the way he had been forced to sacrifice his own freedom for the Fox empire. For the first time, he looked at Aimee not as a greedy opportunist, but as a daughter desperately trying to keep her family afloat.

He needed an excuse to check on her. He grabbed a tax exemption form from his desk that required her signature. He stood up and walked down the long hallway to her guest room.

He knocked twice. There was no answer. Assuming she was asleep, he turned the handle. The door opened.

Cameron stepped into the room, intending to leave the file on the nightstand.

At that exact second, the sound of running water stopped. The bathroom door handle clicked.

The door swung open, unleashing a massive cloud of thick, humid steam into the bedroom.

Aimee stepped out.

She was dripping wet. Her hair was plastered to her collarbones. She was wrapped in a single, stark white hotel-style towel that barely covered her. The hem stopped dangerously high on her thighs. The hot water had flushed her skin a deep, rosy pink, and beads of water traced paths down her bare legs.

Cameron froze. He turned his head, and his eyes collided with the sight of her.

His pupils dilated instantly. The breath was violently knocked out of his lungs.

Aimee looked up. She instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, gripping the edges of the towel in a death grip. The sudden movement caused the bottom of the towel to hike up another inch. She took a panicked step backward, her bare feet slipping slightly on the hardwood floor.

Cameron's Adam's apple bobbed hard. A sudden, intense heat flared in his lower abdomen. He immediately averted his eyes, spinning around so his back was facing her.

"I... I brought the tax forms," Cameron said. His voice was completely unrecognizable-rough, gravelly, and strained with the effort of keeping his physical reactions in check.

"Get out!" Aimee stammered, her face burning so hot she felt dizzy. "Please, just get out!"

Cameron took a long stride toward the bedroom door. His hand grasped the brass handle.

But as he pulled the door open, the reality of her father's threat pierced through Aimee's blinding shame. Logic violently overrode her modesty. If he walked out that door, she lost her only chance.

"Wait!" Aimee cried out. She took two steps forward, her voice cracking with a desperate, raw edge. "Please, Cameron. Just this weekend. Please reconsider and accompany me home to meet my father."

Cameron stopped. He closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the vivid image of her wet, flushed skin out of his mind.

He turned his head slightly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the wall above her head, refusing to look down.

"One time," Cameron said, his voice rigid but lacking its usual cruelty. "I will do this exactly one time. Put some clothes on before you ruin the hardwood floors."

Aimee's eyes widened. The crushing weight on her chest vanished, replaced by a dizzying rush of relief. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes. She nodded frantically, clutching the towel tighter. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Cameron felt that irritating flutter in his chest again at the sight of her tears. He pulled the door open to leave.

He paused in the doorway. He didn't turn around. He kept his broad back to her, his posture stiff.

"What does your father like to eat?" Cameron asked, the words sounding awkward and foreign on his tongue. "I will have Martha prepare something."

Aimee stood frozen in the middle of the room. She stared at his retreating back as the door clicked shut. Her heart, which had been racing from fear, suddenly skipped a beat, fluttering wildly against her ribs at the unexpected, jarring gentleness of his question.

Aimee lay in bed and silently deleted the post that was only visible to Cameron.

If she judgment is correct, did he soften his heart after reading the post?It seems that he is just indifferent on the surface, but actually much better than imagined.

Friday afternoon arrived with a suffocating, humid heat that clung to the streets of Brooklyn.

A sleek, black Maybach rolled slowly down the cracked, pothole-ridden asphalt of the industrial district. It looked like a spaceship that had crash-landed in a junkyard. Pedestrians stopped on the sidewalks, turning their heads to stare at the obscenely expensive vehicle.

Aimee pushed open the heavy metal back door of the Berry Custom Workshop. She was wearing a faded pair of denim overalls and a grey t-shirt, both smeared with faint streaks of grease and sawdust. She looked around frantically, like a thief, praying none of her employees were taking a smoke break in the alley.

She spotted the Maybach, sprinted toward it, and yanked the heavy rear door open. She threw herself into the backseat and slammed the door shut, letting out a massive exhale.

She turned her head and immediately collided with Cameron's gaze.

Cameron was sitting casually against the leather seats. He was wearing a light grey Brunello Cucinelli cashmere polo that hugged his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked at her grease-smudged face and sighed, a sound of profound, aristocratic suffering.

He reached into the center console, pulled out a sanitized wet wipe, and handed it to her.

"Wipe your face," Cameron ordered softly. "You look like a coal miner."

Aimee's cheeks flushed. She snatched the wipe and scrubbed aggressively at her cheek. As she lowered her hand, her eyes caught sight of the massive pile of items stacked on the seat next to him.

There were three wooden boxes of vintage Bordeaux wine, a humidor of Cuban cigars, and several ornate boxes of high-end ginseng and health supplements.

Aimee's jaw dropped. She pointed a trembling finger at the pile. "Are... are those for my dad?"

"The Fox family does not arrive at a home empty-handed," Cameron stated, adjusting the cuffs of his polo. "It is basic etiquette."

The Maybach navigated out of the industrial zone and turned into Aimee's residential neighborhood. The streets here were incredibly narrow, lined with tightly packed, aging red brick rowhouses. The undercarriage of the Maybach scraped agonizingly against a raised manhole cover, producing a horrific screech of metal.

Cameron's jaw clenched so hard a muscle popped in his cheek.

The chauffeur expertly maneuvered the massive car and parked it in front of a slightly run-down house with a small, overgrown front patch of grass.

Aimee took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She grabbed the door handle. "Listen to me," she warned, looking Cameron dead in the eye. "Do not use your Wall Street CEO voice on him. My dad has a temper. He will actually punch you."

Cameron let out a cold scoff. He pushed his door open and stepped out onto the uneven sidewalk. His tall, imposing figure looked entirely out of place against the backdrop of peeling paint and rusty chain-link fences.

The chauffeur quickly unloaded the mountain of expensive gifts, stacking them neatly on the small concrete porch, then retreated to the safety of the car.

Aimee wiped her sweaty palms on her denim overalls. She reached out and pressed the doorbell.

The door was yanked open almost instantly.

Burt Berry stood in the doorway. He was a broad-chested man with greying hair, wearing a plaid flannel shirt and a stained apron. In his right hand, he gripped a pair of long metal barbecue tongs like a weapon.

Burt's eyes completely bypassed Aimee. His gaze locked onto Cameron like a heat-seeking missile. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, scanning the billionaire from his perfectly styled hair down to his custom Italian loafers. The hostility radiating from the older man was a physical force.

The temperature on the porch seemed to drop ten degrees. Aimee swallowed hard. Panic seized her. Without thinking, she stepped closer to Cameron and wrapped her hands tightly around his bicep, clinging to him.

Cameron's body went rigid at the sudden physical contact. His instinct screamed at him to pull away. But he looked down at Aimee's white-knuckled grip on his arm, and then back at the murderous glare of her father.

Slowly, deliberately, Cameron relaxed his arm. He straightened his spine, pushing his chest out slightly, allowing her to lean her weight against him. He played the part of the protective husband flawlessly.

Burt noted the intimate gesture. He glanced down at the absurd pile of luxury gifts at their feet. He let out a loud, derisive snort through his nose.

"Get inside," Burt barked, stepping aside.

The interior of the house was cramped and smelled heavily of smoked paprika and roasting meat. The furniture was old and worn, but the hardwood floors were spotless. It was a space bursting with chaotic, lived-in warmth-the exact opposite of Cameron's sterile, silent penthouse.

Cameron looked around, feeling a strange, tight sensation in his chest.

"Sit anywhere," Burt ordered roughly, pointing the tongs at a faded floral sofa. He turned his back and marched toward the small kitchen.

Aimee pulled Cameron down onto the sofa. She leaned in close, her breath ghosting over his ear. "Please," she whispered frantically. "Just tolerate him. For the gifts."

Burt marched back into the living room carrying a massive platter piled high with glistening, sauce-slathered BBQ ribs. He slammed the platter down on the cheap coffee table. He pulled up a wooden dining chair, sat down directly across from them, and crossed his arms.

The interrogation began.

"So," Burt growled, his voice rumbling like a diesel engine. "What exactly do you do for a living, boy? And what gave you the right to steal my daughter without looking me in the eye first?"

Aimee opened her mouth to run interference, but Burt silenced her with a lethal glare.

Cameron looked at the older man. He saw the calloused hands, the tired lines around his eyes, and the fierce, undeniable love for his daughter burning in his gaze. Something inside Cameron shifted.

He didn't lean back and cross his legs like he did in boardrooms. Instead, Cameron leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, bringing himself closer to Burt's level.

"I manage a family trust, sir," Cameron answered. His voice was stripped of its usual icy arrogance. It was deep, steady, and incredibly respectful. "And I apologize for the suddenness. But I assure you, I have every intention of taking care of Aimee."

Burt stared at him hard, searching for a lie. Finding none, his rigid posture relaxed a fraction. He pointed a thick finger at the platter of messy ribs.

"Eat," Burt commanded. "Don't turn your nose up at Brooklyn food."

Aimee panicked. Cameron was a man who ate Michelin-star meals with specialized silverware. He had severe germaphobia. She quickly reached for a rib, intending to hand it to him with a napkin.

But Cameron reached out first. With his bare hands, he picked up a large, sticky rib.

He looked at the older man, observing the raw, unpolished fierceness of a father trying to protect his only child. A strange, unfamiliar respect hit Cameron. He realized that dealing with a man like Burt Berry required more than just polite, corporate detachment. It required a surrender of ego. He needed to drop a bomb to earn this man's trust. He looked Burt dead in the eye, and with a voice so natural it sent a shockwave through Aimee's entire body, he said, "Thank you, Dad."