The Billionaire's Secret Ten Year Obsession

The heavy oak door of the top-floor suite felt like a slab of solid ice against Brooke's palm. The corridor of the Beverly Hills hotel was dimly lit by crystal wall sconces, but the lack of light didn't stop her heart from hammering against her ribs. The sound of her own pulse was deafening in her ears. She looked down at the glowing screen of her phone. Her fingers were trembling so violently that the text message blurred. There was no sender. Just a room number and a single sentence. He isn't picking up his suit. Brooke swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, like someone had wrapped a hand around her windpipe. She took a deep, jagged breath and pushed her weight against the double doors at the end of the hall. The door wasn't fully latched. It gave way with a soft click, opening just a crack. A sound slipped through the narrow gap. It was a wet, breathless moan, followed by the unmistakable slap of skin against skin. Brooke froze. Her entire body went rigid. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin cold and clammy. She leaned closer to the gap, her stomach twisting into a violent knot. Through the dim light of the suite, she saw him. Gaven. Her fiancé. The man she was supposed to marry in less than twenty-four hours. He was pressing a woman against the back of the velvet sofa. His hands, the same hands that had slipped a diamond ring onto Brooke's finger, were gripping the woman's hips. The woman threw her head back, letting out a loud, high-pitched laugh. Brooke's vision swam. The room tilted. It was Livia. Her older, half-sister. "When are you going to get the Rivers shares?" Livia gasped out, her fingers digging into Gaven's shoulders. Gaven didn't even pause. His voice was rough, completely devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for Brooke. "Right after the wedding. Once the papers are signed, I'll make the move." Brooke bit down on her lower lip. She bit down so hard that the metallic taste of copper flooded her mouth. Bile rose in the back of her throat. She had to press her free hand against her stomach to keep from throwing up right there on the carpet. She didn't scream. She didn't kick the door open. Instead, a chilling numbness spread through her veins. She raised her trembling phone and switched it to video mode. She hit record. Through the crack in the door, she captured every thrust, every moan, and every disgusting word of their conspiracy. Her chest burned with the effort of holding her breath, but she kept the camera steady. When she had enough, she stopped the recording. Her thumb was shaking so violently that she almost dropped the device. She quickly hit the share button, sending the video file directly to her private, encrypted email server. It was a desperate, instinctive act of preservation, a digital lifeline thrown into the dark. Then, she turned around and walked away. She didn't run until she hit the lobby. Her heels clicked frantically against the marble floor as she sprinted toward the underground parking garage. She threw herself into the driver's seat of her car, slammed the door, and hit the lock button. The silence of the car was suffocating. Brooke dropped her head onto the steering wheel. A single, ragged sob tore from her throat. But only one. She lifted her head. She wiped the stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her eyes, staring at her reflection in the rearview mirror, were dead and cold. She turned the key. The engine roared to life. Brooke slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The car shot out of the garage and straight into the sudden, violent Los Angeles downpour. The rain was a solid sheet of gray. The windshield wipers thrashed back and forth, struggling to clear the glass. She drove up the winding, treacherous curves of Mulholland Drive. She needed speed. She needed the physical sensation of danger to drown out the image of Gaven and Livia burned into her brain. As she rounded a sharp bend, a flash of black metal caught her headlights. A massive Maybach was swerving wildly across the wet asphalt. It was moving too fast. Brooke slammed on her brakes. Her tires shrieked against the slick road, the smell of burning rubber filling her car as she fought to keep from spinning out. Ahead of her, the Maybach smashed through the metal guardrail. The sound of crunching steel echoed over the thunder. The heavy car teetered on the edge of the cliff, half of its chassis hanging over the black abyss below. Brooke sat paralyzed for three seconds. Her lungs seized. Then, instinct took over. She shoved her door open and stepped out into the storm. The freezing rain instantly soaked through her clothes, plastering her hair to her face. She ran toward the ruined Maybach, her shoes slipping on the muddy pavement. "Hey!" she screamed over the wind, slamming her palms against the shattered driver's side window. The airbags had deployed, deflating into white, powdery heaps. Through the broken glass, she saw a man slumped over the steering wheel. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit. Blood poured from a gash on his forehead, staining his white collar crimson. She grabbed the door handle and pulled. It wouldn't budge. The metal frame was warped. Brooke looked around frantically. She spotted a jagged piece of metal debris from the guardrail lying in the road. She grabbed it, her fingers scraping against the sharp edges, and wedged it into the gap of the door. She threw her entire body weight backward. The metal groaned, screeching in protest, until the door finally popped open. A strong scent hit her immediately. It was the sharp, metallic tang of blood mixed with an expensive, clean cedar cologne. Brooke leaned into the car. She reached across the man's broad chest, her hands shaking as she fumbled with the seatbelt release. It clicked. She grabbed him by the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled. He was incredibly heavy, dead weight against her arms. Suddenly, the man's eyes snapped open. Brooke gasped, freezing in place. His eyes were a deep, pitch black. Even through the blood and the freezing rain, his gaze locked onto hers with a terrifying intensity that sent a violent, involuntary shiver down her spine. It wasn't the vacant, fading look of a victim succumbing to his injuries; it felt overwhelmingly heavy, intensely... possessive. It pinned her to the spot, making her breath catch in her throat. She gritted her teeth, grabbed him under the arms, and hauled him backward with everything she had. They tumbled out of the car together, crashing onto the muddy asphalt. A second later, the Maybach shifted. The metal groaned one final time before the heavy car slid off the edge, disappearing into the dark canyon below with a distant, sickening thud. Brooke scrambled backward, her chest heaving as she stared at the empty space where the car had just been. She turned her attention back to the man. He was lying on his back, the rain washing the blood down the side of his face. He slowly lifted his right hand. His fingers, warm and coated in red, brushed against her wet cheek. He murmured something. The words were too low, lost completely to the howling wind. Then, his hand dropped, hitting the pavement with a splash. His eyes rolled back, and he lost consciousness. Brooke scrambled for her phone in her wet pocket. She dialed 911, her fingers slipping on the wet screen. She gave the dispatcher the location and hung up. In the distance, the faint, high-pitched wail of sirens began to cut through the storm. Flashing red and blue lights reflected off the low clouds. Brooke looked down at the man one last time. She couldn't afford to be here. She couldn't afford police questions or delays. She had a war to fight tomorrow. She stood up, backed away into the shadows, and ran to her car.