The Billionaire's Secret Ten Year Obsession

The harsh, blinding glare of the surgical lights in the private Los Angeles ER washed out the color of the room.

Foster Pruitt sat on the edge of the examination bed. His tailored suit jacket was gone, his white shirt ruined with blood and rainwater.

The emergency doctor stood in front of him, holding a pair of tweezers and a needle. He was carefully picking shards of safety glass out of the deep laceration on Foster's forehead.

Foster didn't flinch. His face was a mask of cold, unreadable stone. His jaw was clenched so tight that the muscles ticked beneath his skin, but he didn't make a sound.

The heavy double doors of the ER swung open violently.

Errol Gilmore, Foster's executive assistant, marched into the room followed by three massive men in black suits. Errol's face was pale as he took in the sight of his boss covered in blood.

"Get him the strongest local anesthetic you have," Errol snapped at the doctor, his voice tight with panic. "Now."

Foster raised his left hand. The movement was slow, but it carried absolute authority.

"No," Foster said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that instantly silenced the room. "No anesthesia. I need my head clear."

The doctor swallowed hard, his hands trembling slightly under the crushing weight of Foster's presence. He nodded and continued stitching the wound raw.

Foster didn't even blink as the needle pierced his skin.

Errol stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The LAPD has locked down the canyon. They've done a preliminary sweep of the wreckage."

Two uniformed LAPD officers walked into the ER. They removed their hats, looking slightly intimidated by the wall of bodyguards.

"Mr. Pruitt," the older officer said, pulling out a notepad. "Can you tell us what happened?"

Foster leaned back slightly. His dark eyes were calm, calculating.

"The brakes failed," Foster said smoothly. "I pumped the pedal, but there was no resistance. The car hydroplaned on the curve and broke through the barrier."

The officer nodded, scribbling down the statement. "That matches our initial findings. The brake lines show signs of a massive rupture. It looks like a catastrophic mechanical failure."

The officer flipped a page. "We also found tire tracks from a second vehicle near the guardrail. Did someone stop to help you?"

Foster's eyes darkened. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

His mind flashed back to the pouring rain. He remembered the smell of vanilla and rain on her skin. He remembered the desperate strength in her slender arms as she dragged him from the wreckage.

He lowered his eyelashes, hiding the dangerous gleam in his eyes.

"I was unconscious," Foster lied, his tone flat. "I don't remember anyone."

The officers thanked him and left the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Errol stepped forward. "Sir, should I have the security team investigate the garage? Someone tampered with that car."

Foster didn't answer.

Instead, he slowly opened his right hand.

Resting in the center of his broad palm was a small, round rhinestone button. It had been torn from the cuff of a woman's sleeve.

Foster rubbed his thumb over the faceted edge of the stone. He could still feel the phantom heat of her skin.

A slow, chilling smile curved the corners of his mouth. It was a smile of absolute possession.

Errol noticed the shift in his boss's demeanor. He looked down at the button, confusion wrinkling his forehead.

"Pull the traffic cameras," Foster ordered, his voice suddenly sharp. "Every camera on Mulholland Drive from the last two hours. Filter for female drivers. Find her."

Miles away, Brooke walked into the bathroom of her apartment.

She was shivering uncontrollably. She peeled off her wet, muddy clothes and threw them directly into the trash can. She noticed the missing button on her sleeve but didn't care.

She stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it would go.

She stood under the spray, letting the scalding water turn her skin red. She scrubbed her arms, trying to wash away the smell of blood, the smell of the rain, and the sickening memory of Gaven's hands on Livia.

When she finally stepped out, she wrapped a thick towel around her body and sat at her vanity.

Her reflection looked like a ghost. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from the head nurse at her mother's care facility.

Your mother had a peaceful night. Vitals are stable.

Brooke stared at the screen. The trembling in her hands finally stopped.

She couldn't fall apart. If she broke down now, Gaven and her father would take everything. They would take the company her mother had built from the ground up.

Brooke opened her laptop. She transferred the video file from her phone and copied it onto three separate encrypted flash drives.

She opened a new document and began drafting a press release to announce the cancellation of her wedding. She emailed her contacts at two major Los Angeles gossip outlets, securing the front-page slots for tomorrow afternoon.

By the time she finished, the sun was beginning to peek through the blinds.

Brooke stood up and walked over to the corner of her bedroom. Hanging from a silk padded hanger was a custom Vera Wang wedding gown.

It was a masterpiece of white lace and tulle.

Brooke reached out and ran her fingertips over the delicate fabric. There was no joy in her chest. No bridal excitement. Only a cold, hard calculation.

The doorbell rang.

A second later, the front door burst open. The bridal party flooded into the apartment, bringing a chaotic wave of makeup artists, garment bags, and the smell of fresh coffee.

Livia was at the front of the pack. She was wearing a matching silk robe, holding a glass of mimosa.

"Brooke!" Livia squealed, rushing forward to grab Brooke's hands. "You look so tired, sweetie! But don't worry, the glam squad is here. You are going to be the most beautiful bride today."

Brooke looked down at Livia's hands holding hers. Her stomach did a slow, sickening roll.

She forced the corners of her mouth up into a flawless, empty smile. She gently pulled her hands away.

"Thank you, Livia," Brooke said softly. "I can't wait for everyone to see what happens today."

The makeup artist pushed Brooke into the chair and started applying foundation. Brooke stared at Livia through the mirror. The war had officially begun.