Unwanted Wife: Dancing With The Blackwell Devil

The interior of the limousine was a different world. Cool, dark, smelling of leather and isolation.

The partition slid up the moment the door closed, sealing them off from the driver.

Elliot immediately slumped against the seat. The dangerous predator vanished, replaced by a man who looked exhausted. He rubbed his face with both hands.

"God, your family is loud," he groaned.

Brooke ignored him. She had pulled her phone from the hidden pocket she had sewn into the petticoat of the dress.

Her thumbs flew across the screen.

Accessing offshore accounts... Cayman... Zurich...

She was moving the money. The trust fund, the settlement, everything. She was bouncing it through three different shell companies before landing it in a secure account that even the Blackwells couldn't touch.

"You're fast," Elliot said.

Brooke froze. She hadn't realized he was watching.

She glanced up. Elliot was watching her through his fingers, one eye open.

"Texting my friends," she lied smoothly. "Saying goodbye."

"You don't have friends," Elliot said. "I checked."

Brooke didn't flinch. "I have followers. Same thing."

She locked the phone and slid it away.

"Did you really mean it?" she asked. "About the dowry?"

"Every penny," Elliot said. He reached for a crystal decanter of whiskey built into the side console. He poured two glasses. "Your grandmother is a leech. I figured I'd bleed her a little before I took you away."

He handed her a glass.

"Drink. You're going to need it."

Brooke took the glass. The amber liquid swirled.

"Where are we going?"

"To the wolves," Elliot said. He took a long swallow. "The press is waiting at the end of the driveway. They know Brittny is gone. They smell blood."

"So what's the plan?"

"We run them over," Elliot said simply.

Brooke looked at him. He wasn't joking.

"No," she said. She set the glass down. "That's messy. And it makes us look guilty."

"We are guilty. We're committing fraud."

"We're controlling the narrative," Brooke corrected. She reached up and messed up his hair.

Elliot grabbed her wrist. His grip was iron. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Making you look lovesick," she said. She pulled her hand free and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "You look too perfect. You need to look like you've been... busy."

Elliot stared at her. His eyes darkened.

"You want to play a game, Frederick?"

"I want to survive, Blackwell."

The car slowed. Flashes of light exploded against the tinted windows.

"Showtime," Brooke said. She pinched her cheeks to bring color to her pale face.

"Wait," Elliot said.

He reached into his pocket.

"If we're doing this, we're doing it right."