The doors of the trailing SUVs flew open in unison.

Twelve men poured out. They didn't move like bodyguards; they moved like a strike team. Black tactical suits, earpieces, hands hovering over holstered weapons that were definitely not legal for private security.

They fanned out, forming a perimeter that cut the Graves family off from the outside world.

Grand Dame Graves let out a whimper, clutching her chest. Lord Graves looked like he might vomit on his Italian loafers.

Brooke didn't move. Her eyes were locked on the lead vehicle. The armored beast hissed as its hydraulic suspension lowered.

The rear door clicked.

A boot hit the gravel. Black leather, handmade, dusted with ash.

Elliot Blackwell emerged.

He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was wearing a black dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, or a bar fight, or both.

He stood there, blinking against the sunlight, and ran a hand through his messy dark hair. He looked bored.

Then he looked up.

His eyes were dark, bottomless pits that seemed to absorb the light around him. There was no hangover in those eyes. Only a sharp, terrifying clarity.

He took a drag from a cigarette that shouldn't have been lit, exhaling a plume of grey smoke toward the terrified family.

"Where is she?"

His voice was low, a rumble of gravel and velvet.

The Grand Dame stepped forward, trembling. "Lord Blackwell... we... there has been a... a slight complication."

Elliot dropped the cigarette. He crushed it under his boot, grinding it into the stone.

"I'm not kidding," he said. "I asked where the bride is."

"She's indisposed," Mistress Yun squeaked from behind her husband.

Elliot laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. He snapped his fingers.

Click-clack.

Twelve safety catches disengaged on twelve weapons. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

"I don't have patience today," Elliot said, walking toward the stairs. "I have a hangover, and I have a schedule. Produce the bride, or I start dismantling this gingerbread house brick by brick."

He stopped three steps below Brooke.

He looked up at her.

For the first time, his bored expression flickered. He tilted his head, studying her like a biological specimen that had suddenly grown teeth.

"You're not Brittny," he said.

"Observant," Brooke replied. Her voice didn't shake.

Elliot climbed the last three steps. He invaded her personal space, looming over her. He smelled of expensive scotch, gunpowder, and danger.

The family gasped. Lord Graves took a step forward, then stopped when a laser sight appeared on his chest.

Elliot leaned in close, his face inches from Brooke's.

"You're the sister," he murmured. "The one they hide in the attic. Frederick, right?"

He used her mother's name like a weapon. A test.

"Brooke," she corrected. "And I'm not hiding."

Elliot smirked. It transformed his face from handsome to devilish.

"Aren't you scared, Brooke Frederick?"

"Fear is inefficient," she said.

He stared at her for a long second. Then, lightning fast, his hand shot out.

He grabbed her chin.

It wasn't a caress. It was a grip. He turned her face left, then right, inspecting her.

Brooke didn't pull away. Instead, her eyes dropped to his hand.

She saw the ridge of calluses along his palm. The rough skin on his trigger finger. These weren't the hands of a trust fund playboy who spent his days signing checks. These were hands that broke things.

"Rough hands for a Prince," she whispered.

Elliot froze. His pupils dilated. He released her chin instantly, stepping back as if she had burned him.

He turned to the Grand Dame, his voice booming.

"You have ten minutes."

He sat down on the top step, his back to them, and checked his watch.

"Ten minutes to get her in a dress and in my car. Or I burn the inheritance."

He didn't specify which girl. He didn't care.

Brooke looked at the back of his head. She was playing a game. And for the first time in years, she felt a spark of interest.

The heavy oak doors of the parlor slammed shut, muffling the sound of the idling engines outside.

The silence lasted exactly one second.

Grand Dame Graves spun around, her hand raising.

Brooke didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head. The slap missed her cheek by an inch, the wind of it stirring her hair. The old woman stumbled, her momentum carrying her into the arm of the sofa.

"You ungrateful wretch!" Mistress Yun shrieked. "This is your fault! You drove Brittny away with your... your bad luck!"

"My bad luck?" Brooke walked to the window, peering through the curtains at Elliot Blackwell's back. "I wasn't the one who bet the family fortune on a political campaign for a man with a gambling debt."

Lord Graves paled. "How do you know about that?"

"I know everything," Brooke said calmly. "I know the company is leveraged to the hilt. I know you borrowed against the estate to pay for this wedding. And I know that if that man outside leaves without a bride, the creditors will be here by noon."

"Then you know what you have to do," the Grand Dame hissed, straightening her gown. "Put on the dress. Save your family."

Brooke turned. She leaned against the windowsill, crossing her arms.

"No."

The word hung in the air.

"Excuse me?" Mistress Yun blinked.

"I said no. I won't marry him." Brooke checked her nails. "Unless..."

"Unless what?" Lord Graves asked, desperate.

"Unless you sign over my mother's trust. The full amount. The trust you've been illegally siphoning for a decade. With interest."

"That's extortion!" Mistress Yun screamed. "That so-called 'abandonment clause' is a legal fiction you created to trap that money! It won't hold up in court!"

"It doesn't have to," Brooke said. "By the time your lawyers untangle the fraudulent documents you forged, the Blackwells will have already picked your bones clean. You have eight minutes."

Outside, an engine revved. A deep, guttural roar that vibrated the windowpane against Brooke's back.

The Grand Dame looked at the window, terror warring with greed in her eyes. She looked at Brooke, really looked at her, and saw something she hadn't seen before.

She wasn't looking at a victim. She was looking at a mirror.

"Give it to her," the Grand Dame croaked.

"Mother!" Lord Graves protested.

"Do it! Or we lose everything!"

Lord Graves scrambled to the wall safe. He pulled out a tablet and a thick folder.

"The lawyer is on speed dial," Brooke said helpfully. "I already had him draft the transfer protocol. You just need to authorize it."

She pulled a folded document from her pocket. She had been carrying it for three days.

Mistress Yun stared at the paper. "You... you planned this."

"I prepared for it," Brooke corrected. She tossed the paper onto the coffee table. "Sign."

Lord Graves's hands shook as he pressed his thumb to the biometric scanner on the tablet. The lawyer on the speakerphone droned through the legalese.

Transfer initiating...

Transfer complete.

Brooke's phone buzzed in her pocket. A single, short vibration.

Freedom.

"And one more thing," Brooke said, picking up the signed document.

"What now?" Mistress Yun wept. "We gave you the money!"

"Brittny's apartment in the city. The penthouse. I want the deed."

"That's my daughter's home!"

"She won't need it," Brooke said coldly. "She's going to be living on the run. Consider it a storage fee for my silence."

The Grand Dame waved a dismissive hand. "Give it to her. Just get her out of my sight."

Brooke smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Pleasure doing business with you."

She walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?" Lord Graves asked.

"To get changed," Brooke said. "I can't marry a monster wearing black."

The ten-minute mark arrived with the sound of a boot kicking open the front doors.

Elliot Blackwell walked into the main hall. He didn't look around. He walked straight to the center of the room, his presence sucking the air out of the space.

Brooke was waiting.

She stood at the bottom of the grand staircase. She was wearing Brittny's wedding dress. It was a monstrosity of tulle and lace, designed for someone who wanted to look like a princess. On Brooke, it looked like a shroud.

The bodice was too loose. The hem dragged on the floor.

Elliot stopped. He looked her up and down, his lip curling.

"You look like a child playing dress-up," he said.

"And you look like a groomsman who killed the groom," Brooke replied.

The Grand Dame gasped.

Elliot's eyes narrowed. Then, he laughed. A short, sharp bark of amusement.

"Touché."

He walked up to her. He didn't offer his arm. Instead, he reached out and grabbed a handful of the loose fabric at her waist.

He yanked it tight.

Brooke's breath hitched as the silk pulled taut against her ribs. His knuckles grazed her side. The heat of his hand burned through the layers of fabric.

"It doesn't fit," Elliot muttered, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear. "I hate ill-fitting things. They're sloppy."

"I'm not the one who runs away from her wedding." Brooke whispered back.

Elliot's grip tightened. For a second, she thought he might rip the dress off her.

"Careful, Frederick. You're pushing your luck."

He released her, shoving her slightly. He turned to the Grand Dame.

"The dowry," he said.

"We... we already transferred the agreed amount," Lord Graves stammered.

"Double it," Elliot said.

"What?"

"Double it. Consider it a fee for the... aesthetic distress this dress is causing me."

Brooke bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. He was robbing them. He was kicking them while they were down, and he was enjoying it.

"We can't!" Mistress Yun cried. "We don't have the liquidity!"

Elliot shrugged. He rested his hand on the gun holstered at his hip.

"Then sell a yacht. Or a kidney. I don't care. The money hits the Blackwell accounts before we reach the altar, or I turn this car around."

The Grand Dame looked like she was having a stroke. She nodded weakly at her son.

Elliot turned back to Brooke. He held out his arm.

"Shall we, my dear?"

His tone was mocking, dripping with sarcasm.

Brooke looked at his arm. The muscle beneath the black shirt was tense, hard as rock.

She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Let's go," she said. "Before you decide to triple it."

Elliot smirked. "Don't tempt me."

They walked out of the house together. To any observer, they looked like a couple. But as they stepped into the sunlight, Brooke felt the tremor in his arm.

It wasn't fear. It was restraint. Like a leash on a wild animal.

And she was the one holding the other end.