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."

The limousine door opened, and the noise hit them like a physical wave. Shouts, camera shutters, the frenzied roar of a mob.

"Mr. Blackwell! Where is Brittny?"

"Is the wedding off?"

"Who is that?"

Elliot stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to Brooke.

She took it. She stepped out into the blinding light.

A collective gasp rippled through the press corps. The reporters lowered their cameras for a split second, their faces a mixture of confusion and awe. The woman before them was not the sallow, awkward figure from the few blurry photos that existed of the 'other' Graves daughter.

"It's the sister! The ugly one!" a lone voice shouted from the back, clearly a planted heckler.

Elliot's jaw tightened. He started to move toward the voice, violence radiating off him.

Brooke squeezed his hand. Stop.

She smiled. It was a shy, radiant smile that she had practiced in the mirror for years.

"Please," she said, her voice soft but carrying perfectly over the microphones. "Don't be mean to Brittny. She... she stepped aside."

The reporters went silent, scrambling to recover.

"Stepped aside?" a CNN reporter asked, his professional skepticism warring with the unbelievable story unfolding.

Brooke looked up at Elliot with adoring eyes. "We tried to fight it," she lied. "But... love is a difficult thing to hide."

Elliot looked down at her. He looked stunned. Then, he saw the glint in her eye. The challenge.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him.

"We couldn't lie to ourselves anymore," Elliot rasped. He played along, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. "Brittny understood. Eventually."

The reporters were scribbling furiously. Scandal. Betrayal. True Love. It was gold.

"But the ring!" a reporter shouted. "Where is the ring?"

Brooke froze. She didn't have a ring.

Elliot didn't miss a beat.

"A ring is too common for her," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brooch.

It was a black diamond, raw and uncut, set in dark titanium. It was jagged, aggressive, and utterly beautiful.

He pinned it to the strap of her dress.

"There," he said. His fingers lingered on her skin, brushing her collarbone.

Brooke felt a strange heat emanating from the stone. A low-frequency hum that vibrated against her chest.

It's active, she realized. It's electronic.

She looked at Elliot. He was smiling, a wolfish grin.

"Seal it," a photographer yelled. "Kiss her!"

Elliot hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.

Then he leaned down.

Brooke went up on her toes.

Their lips met.

It wasn't soft. It was a collision. His lips were rough, tasting of whiskey. He kissed her like he was trying to prove a point, possessive and hard.

Brooke kissed him back, matching his pressure.

The cameras went wild.

Elliot broke the kiss. He looked a little dazed.

"Get in the car," he growled.

He practically threw her into the backseat and slammed the door.

The car sped off, leaving the chaos behind.

Inside, the silence was deafening.

Elliot wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You're a good liar," he said.

Brooke touched the black diamond brooch. It was still humming.

"I learned from the best," she said.

The city faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the dense, brooding forests of the north.

The Blackwell estate wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

Brooke sat in silence, her finger tapping a rhythm on the black diamond brooch.

Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

Elliot, who had been staring out the window, stiffened.

He turned his head slowly.

"Stop fidgeting," he said.

"I'm anxious," Brooke said innocently. She tapped again. A coded sequence. Phase one complete. Infiltration successful. Stand by.

Elliot's eyes narrowed. He knew. He recognized the cadence wasn't random.

"It's an antique," he said, his voice tight. "Don't scratch it."

"It's warm," Brooke noted. "For a rock."

"It's your body heat," Elliot lied.

Brooke looked at her phone. No Service.

"My phone is dead," she said. "Must be the trees."

"Must be," Elliot agreed.

He knew she knew. She knew he knew. The air between them crackled with unsaid accusations.

The car turned off the main road onto a gravel track. The suspension groaned.

"Why do you live in the middle of nowhere?" Brooke asked.

"So no one can hear the screaming," Elliot said.

He watched her face, waiting for the fear.

Brooke didn't blink. "Whose screaming? Yours or theirs?"

Elliot chuckled darkly. "Depends on the night."

The car hit a pothole. Brooke was thrown sideways.

Elliot's arm shot out. He caught her by the waist, steadying her before she hit the door.

His reflexes were inhuman. Too fast.

Brooke looked at his arm. The muscle was rock hard.

"You have good reflexes," she said. "For a drunk."

Elliot released her instantly. "I played varsity lacrosse."

"Lacrosse doesn't teach you to block a body check in a moving vehicle," Brooke said.

"You ask too many questions," Elliot snapped. He pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

The trees cleared.

Blackwell Manor loomed ahead. It was a gothic nightmare of grey stone and turrets, surrounded by a twelve-foot wall topped with razor wire.

Guards with assault rifles patrolled the perimeter.

"Welcome home," Elliot said dryly. "Try not to get shot."