Breaking The Billionaire's Golden Cage

The next morning, Brook stood on the sidewalk in Brooklyn, holding a cup of black coffee.

The cold air bit at her cheeks.

Before she could take a sip, her phone rang with a specific, grating ringtone.

The name Bernard Velazquez flashed on the screen.

Brook sucked in a sharp breath, her stomach tightening, and pressed answer.

Her father's fake, booming laugh echoed through the speaker.

He asked if her little hobby in Brooklyn was keeping her busy.

I can feed myself just fine. You do not need to worry about it.

Brook replied, her voice dropping to a freezing temperature.

Bernard's tone shifted into something sickeningly generous.

I just transferred one million dollars into your trust fund account.

Brook stopped walking entirely.

Her boots planted firmly on the concrete.

What do you want, Bernard. You never lose money on a deal.

Bernard sighed, playing the role of a wounded parent.

He claimed it was just to make up for lost time.

Then, he casually mentioned the family charity gala happening next week.

He demanded that she attend and dress appropriately.

He needed to show the city that the family was united, especially since the Vaughn family would be there.

The moment she heard the name Vaughn, Brook's fingers clamped down hard on her paper cup.

Hot coffee sloshed over the rim, burning her skin, but she barely felt it.

Bernard kept talking, warning her not to embarrass his current wife, Christina, because Aliyah would be attending too.

A wave of pure disgust washed over Brook.

I have zero interest in your disgusting high-society games.

She cut him off sharply.

Bernard's voice instantly turned cold, carrying a heavy, unspoken threat about her future trust fund disbursements.

Brook pulled the phone away from her ear and hit end call.

She threw the full cup of coffee violently into the metal trash can on the corner.

Her phone pinged.

It was an automated text from her bank, confirming the massive deposit.

The string of zeros on the screen made her eyes burn.

That money, and that specific last name, dragged her violently back to the night she left Damon.

Just a few days ago, she had checked this exact account and seen a massive transfer from Damon.

It was his version of an allowance.

Minutes later, she had seen Katy's Instagram photo.

The image of Isadora standing next to Damon in her couture gown burned in her brain.

It was the ultimate proof that she was just a cheap distraction he kept hidden in the dark.

The humiliation of being bought and paid for was what finally broke her.

Brook stood in the freezing wind and rubbed her hands hard over her face.

She forced the painful memories back down into her chest.

She was not going to that gala.

She was not going to stand in a room and watch Damon parade his perfect fiancée around.

Brook turned and walked quickly toward where she had parked her BMW.

She pulled her keys out of her pocket.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

A massive, aggressive black Maybach was parked diagonally, completely blocking her car in.

The driver's side window rolled down.

Damon Vaughn sat behind the wheel.

He was wearing dark sunglasses, his large hand resting casually on the leather steering wheel.

The air pressure around the car felt dangerously low.

He was driving himself.

M. Black was nowhere to be seen, which meant Damon was operating entirely outside of his controlled routine.

Damon pulled the sunglasses off his face.

His dark eyes were heavily bloodshot, staring at her with a terrifying intensity.

He pushed the heavy car door open and stepped out onto the street.

His long legs closed the distance between them in seconds.

His towering shadow fell over her, blocking out the morning sun.

What the hell did you think you were doing banning my account last night.

His voice was a lethal, low rumble that vibrated in the cold air.

Brook took a step back until her spine hit the cold metal of her BMW's door.

She lifted her chin, refusing to break eye contact.

She braced her body for the hurricane about to hit.