The Billionaire's Secret Ten Year Obsession

Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the VIP suite at the private hospital, warming the expensive Persian rug.

Foster sat up against the pillows of the hospital bed. He had changed into a crisp, dark navy shirt. A fresh white bandage covered the stitches on his forehead.

Errol stood at the foot of the bed, holding a leather-bound tablet.

"The interception was successful, sir," Errol reported, swiping across the screen. "Senator Vance's convoy was delayed on the highway. He missed the crucial hearing. The zoning laws for the new energy plant will pass in our favor."

Errol lowered the tablet. His brow was heavily furrowed.

"But sir," Errol continued, his voice tight with disapproval. "Sacrificing a custom Maybach, and putting your own life at risk to stall a politician... the cost was too high. We could have handled Vance another way."

Foster let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached over to the bedside table, picked up a glass of ice water, and took a slow sip.

"Who said it was a sacrifice?" Foster asked, his tone dangerously soft.

Errol blinked. "Sir?"

Foster set the glass down. His dark eyes locked onto Errol, stripping away all pretense.

"I ordered the brake lines cut," Foster said.

Errol's mouth fell open. He stared at his boss, genuine shock radiating from his face. "You... you orchestrated your own crash? That was a suicide mission!"

Foster threw the blankets off and stood up. He walked over to the window, looking down at the sprawling, sun-drenched streets of Los Angeles.

"It was a calculated risk," Foster said, his voice devoid of emotion. "It stalled Vance. It cleared the Pruitt family name of any suspicion regarding the recent port cartel issues, because I am now a documented victim of a 'tragic accident.'"

Foster turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder.

"But most importantly," Foster murmured, his voice dropping an octave, "I knew exactly what time she would be driving down that road."

Errol froze. The pieces clicked together in his brain. The traffic cameras. The rhinestone button. The refusal to take painkillers.

He used his own life as bait just to force an encounter with a woman.

Foster reached into his pocket and pulled out the small rhinestone button. He rolled it between his thumb and index finger. The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated obsession.

"Call off the search on the cameras," Foster commanded. "I already know who she is."

He turned fully to face Errol.

"Brooke Rivers." Foster said her name like a prayer he had been holding in his mouth for a decade. "Confirm her schedule. She is supposed to be at the Holy Trinity Church in Beverly Hills at noon."

Errol swallowed hard and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And Errol," Foster added, his voice dropping to a smooth, lethal register. "Ensure the 'wedding gift' for Miss Rivers is delivered exactly as instructed to her private line. She'll need ammunition for the war she's about to start."

"It has already been sent, sir," Errol confirmed, bowing his head.

Errol quickly left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Foster stood alone in the quiet suite. He looked down at the button in his hand. His chest tightened with a heavy, aching pressure.

"Ten years," Foster whispered to the empty room. "You're finally coming back to me."

Across the city, inside the bridal suite of the Holy Trinity Church, Brooke was sitting alone.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The heavy Vera Wang gown felt like a suit of armor. Outside the thick wooden door, she could hear the muffled chatter of hundreds of wealthy guests taking their seats.

Her private cell phone, sitting on the vanity, suddenly vibrated.

Brooke frowned. She picked it up. The screen displayed a scrambled, virtual number.

She hesitated for a second before swiping to answer. She pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Brooke."

The voice on the other end was distorted, masked by a heavy digital scrambler. It sounded robotic, yet strangely commanding.

Brooke stood up instantly. Her spine went rigid. "Who is this?"

"A friend," the distorted voice replied. "I know what you saw in the penthouse suite last night."

Brooke's breath hitched. Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles turned white. "What do you want?"

A low, dark chuckle came through the speaker. "I want to give you a wedding gift. Check your email. The secure one."

Brooke dropped the phone onto the vanity and snatched up her iPad. She opened her encrypted email account.

There was a new message with a large zip file attached.

She tapped it. The files unzipped, flooding her screen with PDF documents.

Brooke's eyes widened. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

They were bank statements. Offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands. Wire transfers moving millions of dollars out of the Rivers family company directly into accounts controlled by Gaven and Livia.

And at the bottom of the pile were scanned documents with her mother's forged signature.

This wasn't just cheating. This was felony fraud. It was a coordinated, illegal takeover of her mother's legacy.

"Are you looking at them?" the voice asked through the phone speaker.

Brooke picked the phone back up. Her hands were shaking, but this time, it was from pure, blinding rage.

"Are you going to settle for just a sex tape to end this farce?" the voice taunted softly.

Brooke dug her manicured nails into her palm until the skin broke. The pain grounded her.

"This is exactly what I needed," Brooke said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I don't know who you are, but I owe you."

The line went dead.

Brooke didn't waste a second. she plugged a small USB drive into her iPad and transferred every single document onto it.

She pulled the USB out and gripped it tightly in her fist.

A knock sounded at the door.

Her father, Prescott Rivers, walked in. He was wearing a custom tuxedo, his silver hair perfectly styled. He looked at her with cold, calculating eyes.

"It's time, Brooke," Prescott said, checking his Rolex. "Don't keep the investors waiting."

Brooke looked at the man who had sold her out. She slipped the small USB drive into a hidden slit she had cut into the layers of tulle in her skirt.

She pasted on a brilliant, flawless smile.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Father."

She walked over and looped her arm through his. The warmth radiating from his arm made her skin crawl, but she held her head high.

As the heavy church doors swung open and the first massive chords of the organ filled the air, Brooke stepped onto the red carpet.