The Billionaire's Secret Ten Year Obsession

Brooke ignored the murderous glare burning into her from her father. She turned her back on him and locked eyes with her maid of honor, Chloe, who was standing in the front row.

Brooke threw the USB drive.

Chloe caught it perfectly. Without a second of hesitation, Chloe turned and sprinted down the side aisle toward the church's multimedia control booth.

Gaven realized what was happening. Panic flared in his eyes.

"Security!" Gaven screamed, his voice cracking. "Stop her! Get that drive!"

Two large men in suits rushed down the aisle, but they were too late. Chloe slammed the heavy door of the control booth shut and locked it from the inside.

A loud, mechanical hum echoed through the church.

Behind the altar, a massive, motorized projection screen slowly descended from the ceiling, covering the golden cross.

The screen flickered to life.

The first image was crystal clear, high-definition video. It was the interior of the penthouse suite from last night.

The moans echoed through the church's surround-sound speakers.

The video showed Gaven, fully recognizable, pressing Livia against the sofa. Their crude, explicit conversation about stealing the Rivers shares blasted at maximum volume.

The congregation gasped in unison. Several older women shrieked and covered their eyes.

Livia let out a blood-curdling scream. All the color vanished from her face. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the marble floor, desperately trying to shield her face from the flashing cameras.

Gaven stood frozen, his mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. The perfect, wealthy facade he had built was being ripped apart in real-time.

The video ended, but the screen didn't go dark.

It immediately switched to a slideshow of documents. Bank statements. Wire transfer receipts. Offshore account numbers in the Cayman Islands.

The wealthy businessmen in the pews immediately recognized what they were looking at. The whispers turned into loud, angry accusations of fraud and embezzlement.

Prescott Rivers stared at the screen, his chest heaving. He pointed a trembling finger at Gaven and Livia, his mouth working, but no sound coming out.

Brooke gripped the microphone tightly.

"This wedding is canceled," Brooke announced, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "And as of an hour ago, these documents have been submitted to the FBI."

At the mention of the FBI, Gaven lost his mind. He lunged at Brooke, his hands reaching for her throat to grab the microphone.

Brooke didn't flinch. She planted her foot and kicked him squarely in the knee.

Gaven stumbled with a cry of pain, falling hard onto the steps of the altar.

Brooke looked down at him with absolute disgust. "You are officially fired from Rivers Enterprises. I suggest you find a good lawyer for the federal charges."

She turned her gaze to Livia, who was sobbing on the floor.

"And you," Brooke sneered. "You can keep the trash. You deserve each other."

Brooke reached up and yanked the heavy, diamond-encrusted tiara from her hair. She threw it directly at Gaven's chest. It bounced off him and clattered onto the floor.

She grabbed handfuls of her heavy skirt and turned away.

She walked down the center aisle. The guests instinctively parted for her, clearing a path. The flashbulbs followed her every step, capturing the image of a woman walking away from a burning bridge.

Brooke pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the church.

The sky outside had turned black. A torrential downpour was hammering the streets of Beverly Hills.

She didn't stop. She walked straight out into the storm.

The freezing rain hit her instantly, plastering her hair to her face and soaking the heavy layers of her dress. The cold was a shock to her system, but it felt like absolute freedom.

She reached the curb and pulled out her phone, frantically opening the Uber app. The screen spun. She tried to call a premium car, but the wait time flashed an agonizing forty-five minutes. She could see Gaven storming out of the heavy church doors in her peripheral vision. She didn't have that kind of time. The storm and the isolated Beverly Hills location were working against her.

Behind her, the church doors burst open.

"Brooke!" Gaven roared, running out into the rain. His face was twisted in rage.

Brooke panicked. She turned to run down the sidewalk, but her high heel caught in a deep puddle. Her ankle twisted sharply.

A sharp pain shot up her leg. She stumbled, nearly falling to her knees.

Gaven was closing the distance, his heavy footsteps splashing in the water.

Just as his hand reached out to grab her shoulder, a massive, pitch-black Maybach sliced through the rain like a shark. It pulled up directly in front of her, its tires splashing water onto Gaven's shoes.

The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly.

Brooke looked up.

Sitting in the backseat was a man with a face carved from marble. His jaw was sharp, his dark eyes deep and piercing. A small white bandage was taped to his forehead.

Foster Pruitt tilted his head slightly. His gaze locked onto her wet, shivering form.

The front passenger door opened. Errol stepped out into the storm, popping open a massive black umbrella and holding it directly over Brooke's head.

The rear door swung open from the inside.

Foster's voice cut through the sound of the rain. It was low, magnetic, and carried an absolute command.

"Get in."

Brooke looked at the man. She looked at the car. She heard Gaven screaming her name right behind her.

She didn't think. She grabbed her wet dress, ducked under the umbrella, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.