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."

The word "Dad" hung in the humid air of the small living room, echoing louder than a gunshot.

Burt's hand, which was reaching for his own rib, froze in mid-air. Aimee stared at Cameron as if he had just sprouted a second head. Her mouth fell open slightly, her brain completely short-circuiting.

Cameron didn't bat an eye. He brought the rib to his mouth and took a slow, deliberate bite. The thick, dark barbecue sauce smeared against the corner of his perfectly sculpted lips.

Burt was the first to recover. He let out a loud, booming cough to cover his shock, but the deep wrinkles around his eyes crinkled with undeniable pleasure. He muttered, "At least the boy's got some manners," and grabbed a rib for himself.

Aimee scrambled to grab a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table. She shoved it into Cameron's hand, her eyes wide with panic. Under the cover of the low coffee table, she swung her leg and kicked him sharply in the shin, a silent warning to stop overacting.

Cameron's face remained completely stoic. He calmly wiped the sauce from his lip. Then, beneath the table, he shifted his long leg. He hooked his calf around Aimee's ankle and pressed her leg firmly against the sofa frame, trapping her foot completely. The heat of his leg burned through her denim overalls. Aimee gasped softly, her face flushing, but she couldn't pull away without causing a scene.

The dinner progressed. Burt reached under the table and pulled out a six-pack of cheap, generic-brand beer. He popped the cap off a bottle with a loud hiss and shoved it across the table toward Cameron.

Aimee's heart leaped into her throat. "Dad, Cameron only drinks-"

Before she could finish the sentence, Cameron picked up the sweating glass bottle. He clinked it against Burt's bottle, tilted his head back, and took a long, deep swallow.

The cheap, metallic taste of the beer hit the back of Cameron's throat. He suppressed a grimace, forcing his facial muscles to remain relaxed. He lowered the bottle and gave Burt a firm nod. "Crisp."

By the time they finished the ribs, the tension in the room had significantly thawed. Burt wiped his hands on a towel, his expression suddenly turning dead serious. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Now," Burt said, his voice dropping an octave. "About that ten million dollars."

Aimee's stomach plummeted. The blood drained from her face. Her hands began to sweat profusely. She stared at her father, terrified that he had somehow uncovered the truth about the marriage contract.

"I appreciate the generosity," Burt continued, looking directly into Cameron's eyes. "But I need you to understand something. I am not selling my daughter. That money is not a dowry, and it sure as hell isn't charity."

The old mechanic straightened his back. A fierce, unbreakable pride radiated from his posture. "That money is a loan to the Berry Custom Workshop. I will pay back every single cent, with interest. Do we have an understanding?"

Cameron looked at the older man. He saw the fierce dignity that poverty and hardship hadn't been able to crush. He dropped the fake, accommodating son-in-law persona. His eyes sharpened, returning to the calculating, respectful gaze of a true businessman.

He didn't offer empty reassurances. He picked up his beer bottle and held it out.

"I expect to see the workshop's quarterly financial reports by next month, Mr. Berry," Cameron said, his voice ringing with absolute, equal respect.

Burt let out a loud, genuine bark of laughter. He slammed his bottle against Cameron's. "You'll have them on your desk, boss."

Aimee watched the exchange, her chest tight. A massive wave of relief washed over her, followed quickly by a profound sense of gratitude. Cameron had perfectly preserved her father's dignity.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of white light illuminated the living room window. Less than a second later, a deafening crack of thunder shook the entire house. The floorboards vibrated under their feet.

The sky opened up. A torrential, violent summer thunderstorm slammed into Brooklyn without warning. Rain lashed against the glass like bullets.

Aimee's phone, sitting on the table, shrieked with an emergency alert. The screen flashed red: NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE - SEVERE FLASH FLOOD WARNING. BROOKLYN STREETS FLOODING. DO NOT TRAVEL.

Cameron frowned. He pulled his phone from his pocket to call his driver, but the screen showed "No Service." The storm was interfering with the cell towers.

Burt stood up and walked to the window. He peered out at the street, which was already turning into a rushing river of muddy water. He turned back to the room, his face set in stone.

"You're not leaving tonight," Burt announced, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument.

Aimee jumped up from the sofa, her heart hammering wildly. "Dad, no! Cameron has... he has insomnia. He can only sleep in his own bed. We have to go back to Manhattan."

Burt scowled, pointing a stern finger at his daughter. "Don't be ridiculous, Aimee. You want your husband to drown on the expressway? The Maybach won't make it two blocks in this water."

Burt turned to Cameron. "You'll sleep in Aimee's room tonight. It's small, but the sheets are clean."

Aimee whipped her head around to look at Cameron. Her eyes were wide, silently screaming at him to refuse. She needed him to be the ruthless, uncompromising billionaire right now.

Cameron looked at the sheets of rain violently pounding against the window. He looked at Aimee's terrified, pleading face. And then he looked at Burt's stubborn, protective stance.

To Aimee's absolute horror, Cameron gave a short, polite nod.

"Thank you, Dad," Cameron said smoothly. "Sorry for the intrusion."

Burt grinned, clapping Cameron on the shoulder before heading to the hallway closet to find extra towels.

Aimee stood frozen in the middle of the living room. The blood roared in her ears. The reality of the situation crashed down on her. She was going to have to spend the entire night locked in a tiny room, sharing a 1.2-meter-wide single bed with a man who terrified her.

Aimee pushed open the wooden door to her childhood bedroom. The hinges let out a faint, whining creak. She walked in, her movements stiff and robotic, and waited for Cameron to follow.

The moment Cameron's massive frame crossed the threshold, the room instantly shrank. The space was barely ten square meters. There was a small wooden desk, a battered wardrobe, and pushed against the far wall, a tiny 1.2-meter-wide single bed.

Cameron stood in the center of the room. His broad shoulders seemed to take up all the available oxygen. He looked around at the faded pop-star posters on the walls and the worn, slightly warped floorboards. His jaw tightened.

Aimee quickly reached behind him and locked the door with a sharp click. She spun around, rubbing her sweaty palms against her thighs.

"I'm so sorry," Aimee whispered frantically, keeping her voice low so her father wouldn't hear. "I'll take the floor. You can have the bed."

Cameron looked down at the old wooden floorboards. He could practically see the decades of dust trapped in the cracks. His germaphobia violently rejected the idea.

"I am not sleeping on the floor," Cameron stated, his voice flat and uncompromising.

"Then I'll go sleep on the couch in the living room," Aimee countered, taking a step toward the door.

Before she could reach the handle, Cameron's hand shot out. His long fingers wrapped around her wrist like a steel vice. The grip was tight enough to make her gasp, sending a jolt of electricity shooting up her arm.

He pulled her back effortlessly. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. His breath, smelling faintly of the beer he had forced down, brushed against her cheek.

"The walls in this house are paper-thin," Cameron hissed, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "If your father wakes up and finds his newlywed daughter sleeping on the couch, the entire illusion is destroyed. You will stay in this room."

Aimee yanked her wrist out of his grasp, her chest heaving. She looked at the tiny single bed, her stomach twisting into painful knots. There was no escape.

Desperate for a distraction, she dropped to her knees and yanked open the bottom drawer of her wardrobe. She dug around until she found an oversized, faded grey t-shirt and a pair of loose gym shorts that belonged to her father.

She stood up and shoved the clothes into Cameron's chest. "Here. Sleepwear."

Cameron looked down at the cheap, worn cotton as if she had just handed him a dead rat. His upper lip curled in disgust. But without a word, he snatched the clothes and stepped into the cramped, attached half-bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Aimee heard the loud, rattling groan of the old plumbing as the shower turned on. She immediately sprang into action. She stripped off her overalls and pulled on the most conservative pajamas she owned-a thick, long-sleeved flannel set that buttoned all the way up to her neck.

She sat rigidly on the very edge of the bed, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The sound of the water hitting the shower floor was deafening. Her mind raced, conjuring up terrifying scenarios of how she was going to survive the next eight hours.

Suddenly, the water shut off. The bathroom door handle turned.

A cloud of steam rolled out into the bedroom, carrying the scent of cheap bar soap. Aimee instinctively looked up.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her lungs simply stopped working.

Cameron had not put on the t-shirt.

He stepped out of the bathroom wearing only a small, faded white towel wrapped precariously low around his hips. Water droplets clung to his broad, muscular shoulders, tracing slow paths down the deep, defined cut of his chest. His abdomen was a washboard of hard, sculpted muscle, leading down to a sharp V-line that disappeared beneath the terrycloth.

He looked like a Greek god who had accidentally wandered into a Brooklyn slum.

Aimee's face ignited. The heat rushed to her cheeks so fast it made her dizzy. She slapped both hands over her eyes, turning her head violently toward the wall.

"Why aren't you wearing the shirt? !" she squeaked, her voice cracking in panic.

Cameron casually ran a smaller towel through his wet hair. "I do not wear unwashed, second-hand clothing that belongs to another man," he stated, his tone completely unapologetic, almost arrogant. "My skin is highly sensitive to cheap detergent and unknown fabrics."

He took two long strides toward the bed. The intense, radiating heat of his body and the overwhelming scent of male pheromones hit Aimee like a physical wall.

She scrambled backward, crawling across the mattress until her back was pressed flat against the cold plaster wall. She pulled her knees to her chest, looking at him with wide, terrified eyes.

Cameron stopped at the edge of the bed. He looked down at her defensive, shrinking posture. A dark, unreadable emotion flickered in his icy blue eyes. A strange urge to tease her, to break her composure, flared in his chest.

He leaned forward, placing one large hand on the mattress right next to her hip. He lowered his face until they were eye level.

Aimee squeezed her eyes shut, her eyelashes trembling violently. She held her breath, waiting for the impact.

But Cameron simply reached past her. His fingers brushed against the switch of the old desk lamp.

Click.

The room plunged into absolute darkness.

"Go to sleep," Cameron's voice rumbled in the pitch black, low and gravelly.

The mattress dipped drastically as his heavy frame climbed into the bed. He lay on his back on the outer edge.

Aimee lay stiff as a board on the inside edge, pressed against the wall. The bed was so narrow that there was barely two inches of space between them. She could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. Every time he took a breath, his arm brushed against the flannel of her pajamas.

Outside, the storm raged. The wind howled, rattling the old windowpanes.

Inside, the silence was deafening. Aimee was terrified to breathe. She stared into the darkness, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. To stop herself from hyperventilating, she began reciting the preamble to the United States Constitution in her head. We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union...

Minutes dragged into hours. Cameron's breathing eventually slowed, deepening into a steady, rhythmic cadence.

Aimee's exhausted body finally betrayed her anxiety. Her eyelids drooped. She carefully rolled over, turning her back to him, curling into a tight fetal position.

As the sound of the rain lulled her into unconsciousness, she had no idea that in the darkness behind her, Cameron's eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, his jaw clenched tight.