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.

The interior of the limousine was a different world. Cool, dark, smelling of leather and isolation.

The partition slid up the moment the door closed, sealing them off from the driver.

Elliot immediately slumped against the seat. The dangerous predator vanished, replaced by a man who looked exhausted. He rubbed his face with both hands.

"God, your family is loud," he groaned.

Brooke ignored him. She had pulled her phone from the hidden pocket she had sewn into the petticoat of the dress.

Her thumbs flew across the screen.

Accessing offshore accounts... Cayman... Zurich...

She was moving the money. The trust fund, the settlement, everything. She was bouncing it through three different shell companies before landing it in a secure account that even the Blackwells couldn't touch.

"You're fast," Elliot said.

Brooke froze. She hadn't realized he was watching.

She glanced up. Elliot was watching her through his fingers, one eye open.

"Texting my friends," she lied smoothly. "Saying goodbye."

"You don't have friends," Elliot said. "I checked."

Brooke didn't flinch. "I have followers. Same thing."

She locked the phone and slid it away.

"Did you really mean it?" she asked. "About the dowry?"

"Every penny," Elliot said. He reached for a crystal decanter of whiskey built into the side console. He poured two glasses. "Your grandmother is a leech. I figured I'd bleed her a little before I took you away."

He handed her a glass.

"Drink. You're going to need it."

Brooke took the glass. The amber liquid swirled.

"Where are we going?"

"To the wolves," Elliot said. He took a long swallow. "The press is waiting at the end of the driveway. They know Brittny is gone. They smell blood."

"So what's the plan?"

"We run them over," Elliot said simply.

Brooke looked at him. He wasn't joking.

"No," she said. She set the glass down. "That's messy. And it makes us look guilty."

"We are guilty. We're committing fraud."

"We're controlling the narrative," Brooke corrected. She reached up and messed up his hair.

Elliot grabbed her wrist. His grip was iron. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Making you look lovesick," she said. She pulled her hand free and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "You look too perfect. You need to look like you've been... busy."

Elliot stared at her. His eyes darkened.

"You want to play a game, Frederick?"

"I want to survive, Blackwell."

The car slowed. Flashes of light exploded against the tinted windows.

"Showtime," Brooke said. She pinched her cheeks to bring color to her pale face.

"Wait," Elliot said.

He reached into his pocket.

"If we're doing this, we're doing it right."