The Ruined Heiress Plans Her Vicious Revenge

The reporter let out a loud gasp. He shoved his cameraman, pointing frantically. The heavy camera swung around, the red recording light fixing directly on Farah.

The crowd of journalists turned. Like water hitting a rock, the mass of bodies naturally parted, creating a clear, narrow path straight to the front of the building.

Brook heard the sudden shift in the crowd's noise. He turned his head. For a fraction of a second, the perfect, sorrowful mask on his face slipped, revealing a flash of genuine shock.

Farah reached up and pulled the sunglasses off her face. She let her shoulders slump slightly, allowing her pale skin and red-rimmed eyes to catch the harsh morning light.

Brook recovered instantly. He took three large strides forward, his arms opening wide to project the image of a desperate, protective shield.

"Farah, sweetheart," Brook said, his voice thick with fake worry. "What are you doing out of bed? You need to rest."

He reached out to pull her against his chest. Farah stopped exactly half a step out of his reach. She shifted her weight slightly to the right, letting his hands grasp empty air.

Brook's arms froze suspended in the space between them. The muscles in his jaw locked. A dark, vicious shadow passed through his blue eyes.

A reporter from the New York Times shoved a digital recorder forward. "Miss Sterling! Given the bankruptcy, will your wedding to Mr. Tyler be postponed?"

The entire plaza went dead silent. Every single lens, microphone, and pair of eyes locked onto the ruined heiress.

Farah lifted her chin. She looked straight into Brook's eyes, holding his gaze without blinking.

She took a deep breath, letting her chest rise visibly. She opened her mouth and spoke clearly into the wall of microphones.

"Given the absolute tragedy that has destroyed my family," Farah said, her voice shaking just enough to sound devastated, "I have absolutely no mood to plan a wedding."

A loud murmur erupted from the press pool. A woman in the front row shouted over the noise, "Does that mean the engagement is off?"

Farah let a single tear spill over her lower lash line. She kept her eyes locked on Brook. "It means I have no intention of marrying him. Ever."

The plaza exploded. The noise was deafening. Camera flashes fired in a continuous, blinding sheet of white light.

Brook's jaw tightened so hard the bone looked ready to snap through his skin. The corners of his mouth twitched as his fake smile completely disintegrated.

Evan Gaines, the head of Tyler Enterprise's public relations, sprinted out of the revolving doors. He waved his hands frantically, signaling the security team to push forward.

"Please, everyone, step back!" Evan yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "Miss Sterling is under immense psychological distress due to her father's failing health! She is not thinking clearly!"

Brook used the sudden surge of the security guards as cover. He lunged forward and clamped his hand around Farah's left wrist. His fingers dug into her flesh, pressing so hard against her bones she felt a sharp spike of pain shoot up her arm.

He yanked her forward, slamming her body against his chest. To the cameras, it looked like a desperate, passionate embrace to comfort a hysterical woman.

Brook lowered his head, pressing his mouth directly against her ear. "Stop acting like a crazy bitch," he whispered, his voice a razor-thin blade of ice.

Farah did not flinch. She tilted her head slightly, looking at the side of his face. The corner of her mouth pulled up into a microscopic, chilling smile.

The security guards formed a human wall, physically shoving the reporters backward to clear a path to the glass doors.

Brook kept his arm wrapped tightly around Farah's waist, his fingers digging into her ribs. He practically dragged her forward, forcing her to walk in step with him.

"Is this a breakup? Is the merger hostile?" the reporters screamed at their backs.

Brook stopped at the door. He turned his head and gave the cameras a tight, helpless smile, playing the role of a patient man dealing with a difficult lover.

He pushed Farah through the revolving door. The thick glass spun, cutting off the shouting and the flashing lights.

The cold air conditioning of the lobby hit them. The second they were out of sight of the cameras, Brook's smile vanished. His face turned into a mask of pure rage.

He kept his brutal grip on her arm and marched her straight toward the private executive elevator, his eyes fixed dead ahead.