Farah threw the heavy duvet off her body. She had rolled to Brook's side of the bed during the night. Her bare feet hit the freezing hardwood floor beyond the edge of the thick carpet.

She practically ran across the room and shoved the bathroom door open. She stepped inside and slammed the heavy frosted glass door shut, twisting the metal lock until it clicked.

She lunged toward the marble vanity. She turned the chrome faucet handle as far as it would go. Ice-cold water blasted into the porcelain basin. She shoved her hands under the stream, letting the freezing temperature shock her system.

The violent churning in her stomach peaked. She leaned over the sink and dry-heaved, her throat burning as her body tried to expel the sheer disgust pooling inside her.

She gripped the edges of the marble counter and forced herself to look up. The woman staring back at her in the wide mirror had skin the color of chalk. Mascara from the night before smeared under her red, watery eyes.

She looked down at her left hand. The five-carat diamond engagement ring sat heavy on her ring finger.

She grabbed the diamond. She yanked the metal band over her knuckle, scraping her skin. She threw the ring as hard as she could at the mirror. The heavy stone hit the glass with a sharp, violent crack, leaving a tiny spiderweb fracture on the surface before dropping onto the counter.

Farah stared at the fracture. She forced air into her lungs. One breath. Two breaths. Three breaths. She reached down, picked up the cold metal ring, and slid it back onto her finger.

Her brain began to process the last three years. The sudden, inexplicable cash flow problems at the Sterling Group. The delayed building permits.

Brook had stepped in every single time with emergency capital. She realized now that every check he wrote was a calculated move to dilute her father's equity until Brook held the controlling vote.

She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed the freezing water onto her face. She rubbed her skin raw, washing away the tears, the weakness, and the naive girl who went to sleep last night.

She grabbed a towel, dried her face. She gripped the edges of the marble counter, the cold stone grounding her. The shock receded, replaced by a glacial calm. Tears were a luxury she could no longer afford. Revenge was not. She walked out of the bathroom, bypassed her casual clothes and pulled a sharp, tailored black business suit from the rack.

Ten minutes later, she walked out of the penthouse. She stepped into the private elevator and pressed the button for the underground parking garage.

She unlocked her black Porsche. She got in, gripped the leather steering wheel, and drove straight toward the financial district, heading for the Tyler Enterprise headquarters.

Farah pulled the Porsche into the visitors' underground parking garage of the Tyler Enterprise building. She killed the engine, stepped out, and took the elevator up to the street level lobby. She walked out through the revolving doors, crossed the street, and positioned herself at the far corner, directly across from the massive glass skyscraper.

Through the windshield—no, through her own eyes now, standing in the cold morning air—she saw the plaza in front of the building. It was packed with news vans, camera crews, and dozens of financial reporters holding microphones.

The revolving glass doors spun. Brook walked out, flanked by a wall of men in dark suits.

A reporter from Bloomberg shoved a microphone past the security guards, shouting a question about the finalization of the Sterling Group acquisition.

Brook stopped. He looked directly into the camera lenses. He offered a tight, perfectly measured smile that conveyed deep sorrow and heavy responsibility.

"I will do everything in my power to preserve the legacy of the Sterling family," Brook said, his voice projecting clearly across the plaza. "This is a tragedy, but I will not let their life's work vanish."

He paused, lowering his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking back up. "My love for my fiancée, Farah, is the only thing keeping me going through this dark time. I am doing this for her."

A collective murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd of reporters. Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights, capturing the face of the tragic hero.

Farah stood at the street corner. A short, harsh laugh scraped its way out of her throat.

She picked up her phone from her pocket. She opened Twitter. The trending topics were already flooded. The top hashtag was praising Brook as the ultimate "Wall Street lover boy."

She tapped on Chelsey's profile. Right at the top of her feed, Chelsey had liked the Bloomberg live stream just sixty seconds ago.

Farah dropped her phone back into her pocket. She gripped the strap of her designer bag so hard her knuckles turned completely white against her pale skin.

She stepped off the curb. Her black stiletto heels hit the rough asphalt of the Manhattan street with a solid thud.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of oversized black sunglasses. She slid them over her face, hiding the absolute zero temperature of her eyes.

She walked across the street, stepping directly into the path of oncoming traffic, forcing a yellow cab to slam on its brakes. She walked straight toward the center of the media circus.

A reporter on the outer edge of the crowd turned his head to check his phone. He looked up, blinked, and recognized the woman in the black suit.

The reporter let out a loud gasp. He shoved his cameraman, pointing frantically. The heavy camera swung around, the red recording light fixing directly on Farah.

The crowd of journalists turned. Like water hitting a rock, the mass of bodies naturally parted, creating a clear, narrow path straight to the front of the building.

Brook heard the sudden shift in the crowd's noise. He turned his head. For a fraction of a second, the perfect, sorrowful mask on his face slipped, revealing a flash of genuine shock.

Farah reached up and pulled the sunglasses off her face. She let her shoulders slump slightly, allowing her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes to catch the harsh morning light.

Brook recovered instantly. He took three large strides forward, his arms opening wide to project the image of a desperate, protective shield.

"Farah, sweetheart," Brook said, his voice thick with fake worry. "What are you doing out of bed? You need to rest."

He reached out to pull her against his chest. Farah stopped exactly half a step out of his reach. She shifted her weight slightly to the right, letting his hands grasp empty air.

Brook's arms froze suspended in the space between them. The muscles in his jaw locked. A dark, vicious shadow passed through his blue eyes.

A reporter from the New York Times shoved a digital recorder forward. "Miss Sterling! Given the bankruptcy, will your wedding to Mr. Tyler be postponed?"

The entire plaza went dead silent. Every single lens, microphone, and pair of eyes locked onto the ruined heiress.

Farah lifted her chin. She looked straight into Brook's eyes, holding his gaze without blinking.

She took a deep breath, letting her chest rise visibly. She opened her mouth and spoke clearly into the wall of microphones.

"Given the absolute tragedy that has destroyed my family," Farah said, her voice shaking just enough to sound devastated, "I have absolutely no mood to plan a wedding."

A loud murmur erupted from the press pool. A woman in the front row shouted over the noise, "Does that mean the engagement is off?"

Farah let a single tear spill over her lower lash line. She kept her eyes locked on Brook. "It means I have no intention of marrying him. Ever."

The plaza exploded. The noise was deafening. Camera flashes fired in a continuous, blinding sheet of white light.

Brook's jaw tightened so hard the bone looked ready to snap through his skin. The corners of his mouth twitched as his fake smile completely disintegrated.

Evan Gaines, the head of Tyler Enterprise's public relations, sprinted out of the revolving doors. He waved his hands frantically, signaling the security team to push forward.

"Please, everyone, step back!" Evan yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "Miss Sterling is under immense psychological distress due to her father's failing health! She is not thinking clearly!"

Brook used the sudden surge of the security guards as cover. He lunged forward and clamped his hand around Farah's left wrist. His fingers dug into her flesh, pressing so hard against her bones she felt a sharp spike of pain shoot up her arm.

He yanked her forward, slamming her body against his chest. To the cameras, it looked like a desperate, passionate embrace to comfort a hysterical woman.

Brook lowered his head, pressing his mouth directly against her ear. "Stop acting like a crazy bitch," he whispered, his voice a razor-thin blade of ice.

Farah did not flinch. She tilted her head slightly, looking at the side of his face. The corner of her mouth pulled up into a microscopic, chilling smile.

The security guards formed a human wall, physically shoving the reporters backward to clear a path to the glass doors.

Brook kept his arm wrapped tightly around Farah's waist, his fingers digging into her ribs. He practically dragged her forward, forcing her to walk in step with him.

"Is this a breakup? Is the merger hostile?" the reporters screamed at their backs.

Brook stopped at the door. He turned his head and gave the cameras a tight, helpless smile, playing the role of a patient man dealing with a difficult lover.

He pushed Farah through the revolving door. The thick glass spun, cutting off the shouting and the flashing lights.

The cold air conditioning of the lobby hit them. The second they were out of sight of the cameras, Brook's smile vanished. His face turned into a mask of pure rage.

He kept his brutal grip on her arm and marched her straight toward the private executive elevator, his eyes fixed dead ahead.

Brook shoved Farah forward. Her shoulder hit the velvet-lined wall of the private elevator car.

The heavy steel doors slid shut, cutting off the nervous stares of the lobby receptionists. The small space was completely sealed off from the rest of the world.

Brook reached up and grabbed the knot of his silk tie. He yanked it down violently, completely abandoning his calm, corporate persona.

He stepped toward Farah, backing her into the corner. He slammed both of his hands flat against the cold metal wall, trapping her head between his arms.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Brook hissed, his breath hitting her face. "Do you have any idea what that little stunt just did to my stock price?"

Farah forced her breathing to turn shallow and erratic. She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the moisture out to create a steady stream of tears. She let her knees buckle slightly, projecting total emotional collapse.

She raised her fists and began hitting his chest. "My family is gone!" she screamed, letting her voice crack. "My brother is in a cage! And you won't even let me see my father!"

She hit him again, harder this time. "You only care about the acquisition! You don't care about me!"

Brook caught both of her wrists in one massive hand. He twisted her arms, pinning them firmly against the small of her back.

He leaned in close, his lips pulling back into a cruel sneer. "Let me remind you of something, Farah. That private facility in the Hamptons where your father is breathing through a tube? I pay for it."

He tightened his grip on her wrists, making her gasp. "It is a closed psychiatric and medical ward. I am his legal sponsor. Without my signature on the visitor log, the guards will not even let you into the parking lot."

Farah stopped fighting. She let her body go completely limp against the wall. She widened her eyes, letting a look of absolute, crushing defeat wash over her features.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to reveal the top-floor executive suite.

Brook dragged her out of the elevator by her arm. He pulled her across the thick carpet and threw her into the center of his massive office.

Farah stumbled and collapsed onto the Italian leather sofa. She brought her hands up to cover her face, letting out loud, pathetic sobs.

Brook stood over her. He adjusted his cuffs, his breathing slowing down as he regained his sense of absolute control.

He walked over to the crystal decanter on his wet bar. He poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a glass and walked back to the sofa. He held it out to her.

"If you behave," Brook said, his tone shifting to a sickeningly sweet, patronizing hum, "and you smile for the PR cameras tomorrow to fix this mess..."

He tapped the rim of the glass against her knee. "I will authorize a thirty-minute visit for you to see your father next month."

Farah bit down hard on the inside of her lower lip. Her teeth broke the skin. The sharp, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth, grounding her. She forced herself to swallow her pride.

She reached out with shaking fingers. She took the heavy glass. The ice cubes clinked loudly against the crystal, betraying her trembling hands.

She looked up at him. Her face was a mess of tears and smeared makeup. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice rough and broken. "I was just so scared."

Brook smiled. It was a genuine smile of victory. He reached out and stroked the top of her head, running his fingers through her blonde hair like he was petting a dog.

The intercom on his massive mahogany desk buzzed. Evan's voice came through, frantic. "Mr. Tyler, the board is demanding an emergency PR meeting right now."

Brook pulled his hand away. He walked to the mirror on the wall, straightened his collar, and tightened his tie, instantly becoming the untouchable CEO again.

He looked back at her. "Stay here. Rest. Do not leave this office."

Brook walked out. The heavy walnut door swung shut behind him.

The metal lock clicked into place. Farah set the whiskey glass down on the glass coffee table. The tears on her face dried instantly.

She stood up. She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the tiny cars moving through Manhattan.

She knew she couldn't win a direct fight. She needed to find her leverage.