The Billionaire's Secret Ten Year Obsession

The name hit Brooke like a physical blow to the chest.

Foster Pruitt.

Her eyes widened in absolute shock. She stared at the man sitting inches away from her, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

The Pruitt family wasn't just wealthy. They were royalty. They controlled the energy grids and telecommunications networks across the entire country. And Foster Pruitt was the ruthless, cold-blooded tyrant who sat at the top of the empire.

Brooke instinctively pressed herself against the car door, pulling the trench coat tighter around her neck. Her survival instincts screamed at her. She had just jumped from a snake pit directly into a lion's den.

Foster noticed her shrinking away. A flicker of irritation crossed his dark eyes, but he didn't say anything. He simply picked up his laptop and opened it again.

The silence in the car was heavy, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.

Suddenly, Brooke's phone began to vibrate violently in her hand.

The screen lit up with a barrage of text messages.

Prescott: You little bitch. You ruined the family. I will make sure you never work in this state again.

Gaven: You're dead, Brooke. I'm going to destroy you.

Brooke stared at the hateful words. The blood drained from her face. Her fingers gripped the edges of the phone so tightly her knuckles ached. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

Foster's peripheral vision caught the glow of the screen. He saw the messages.

His jaw locked. Without a word, he reached across the seat and snatched the phone right out of her hands.

"Hey!" Brooke gasped, reaching for it.

Foster pressed the power button, holding it down until the screen went black. He tossed the phone into the center console and snapped the lid shut.

"You are off the clock," Foster said coldly, his eyes fixed on his laptop.

Brooke sat frozen. His sheer dominance left her speechless, but deep down, a strange, warm knot of relief loosened in her chest.

The Maybach smoothly descended into a private, brightly lit underground garage. It was the parking vault for one of the most exclusive penthouses in Century City, Los Angeles.

As the car rolled to a stop, Foster's private cell phone rang. The sharp, abrasive ringtone shattered the quiet of the cabin.

Foster glanced at the caller ID. The muscles in his neck tightened. He answered the call and put it on speaker, making no effort to hide the conversation from Brooke.

"Foster," an elderly, booming voice barked through the phone. It was Harrison Pruitt, the patriarch of the family. "I am losing my patience. The board is demanding stability. You will return to New York and marry the Sinclair girl by the end of the month."

"My marriage is not a board decision," Foster replied, his voice dangerously low.

"If you don't secure a wife and project a stable image, I will transfer control of the European energy sector to your brothers," Harrison threatened. "Are you still waiting for that ghost? That woman from ten years ago? She's gone, Foster. Wake up."

At the mention of the woman from ten years ago, Foster's eyes turned pitch black. A terrifying aura of violence radiated from his body.

He hit the end call button with enough force to crack the screen.

The temperature in the car plummeted. Brooke held her breath, terrified to make a sound.

But as she sat there in the freezing silence, a wild, reckless idea ignited in her brain.

She had just declared war on her father and Gaven. They were going to come for her mother's company with everything they had. She needed armor. She needed a weapon they couldn't touch.

And Foster Pruitt desperately needed a wife to get his grandfather off his back.

It was insane. It was suicidal. But it was perfect.

Brooke took a deep breath. She forced her shaking hands to relax. She turned her head and looked directly into Foster's furious, dark eyes.

"Mr. Pruitt," Brooke said. Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced the words out. "We need to talk."

Foster slowly turned his head. The lethal anger in his eyes faded into a look of dark amusement. He raised a single eyebrow.

"Talk about what?" he asked softly.

Brooke swallowed the lump in her throat. She pushed herself up slightly, refusing to break eye contact.

"You need a wife to secure your company," Brooke said, her words coming out in a rush. "And I need a shield to protect mine."

She paused, her heart beating so fast she felt dizzy. She dropped the bomb.

"I am willing to marry you. We sign a contract. We help each other, and we stay out of each other's way."

The air in the car evaporated.

Foster didn't blink. He didn't move. He just stared at her, his dark eyes stripping her down to her soul, assessing her like a predator looking at its willing prey.