The ten-minute mark arrived with the sound of a boot kicking open the front doors.
Elliot Blackwell walked into the main hall. He didn't look around. He walked straight to the center of the room, his presence sucking the air out of the space.
Brooke was waiting.
She stood at the bottom of the grand staircase. She was wearing Brittny's wedding dress. It was a monstrosity of tulle and lace, designed for someone who wanted to look like a princess. On Brooke, it looked like a shroud.
The bodice was too loose. The hem dragged on the floor.
Elliot stopped. He looked her up and down, his lip curling.
"You look like a child playing dress-up," he said.
"And you look like a groomsman who killed the groom," Brooke replied.
The Grand Dame gasped.
Elliot's eyes narrowed. Then, he laughed. A short, sharp bark of amusement.
"Touché."
He walked up to her. He didn't offer his arm. Instead, he reached out and grabbed a handful of the loose fabric at her waist.
He yanked it tight.
Brooke's breath hitched as the silk pulled taut against her ribs. His knuckles grazed her side. The heat of his hand burned through the layers of fabric.
"It doesn't fit," Elliot muttered, his voice dropping to a whisper only she could hear. "I hate ill-fitting things. They're sloppy."
"I'm not the one who runs away from her wedding." Brooke whispered back.
Elliot's grip tightened. For a second, she thought he might rip the dress off her.
"Careful, Frederick. You're pushing your luck."
He released her, shoving her slightly. He turned to the Grand Dame.
"The dowry," he said.
"We... we already transferred the agreed amount," Lord Graves stammered.
"Double it," Elliot said.
"What?"
"Double it. Consider it a fee for the... aesthetic distress this dress is causing me."
Brooke bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. He was robbing them. He was kicking them while they were down, and he was enjoying it.
"We can't!" Mistress Yun cried. "We don't have the liquidity!"
Elliot shrugged. He rested his hand on the gun holstered at his hip.
"Then sell a yacht. Or a kidney. I don't care. The money hits the Blackwell accounts before we reach the altar, or I turn this car around."
The Grand Dame looked like she was having a stroke. She nodded weakly at her son.
Elliot turned back to Brooke. He held out his arm.
"Shall we, my dear?"
His tone was mocking, dripping with sarcasm.
Brooke looked at his arm. The muscle beneath the black shirt was tense, hard as rock.
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.
"Let's go," she said. "Before you decide to triple it."
Elliot smirked. "Don't tempt me."
They walked out of the house together. To any observer, they looked like a couple. But as they stepped into the sunlight, Brooke felt the tremor in his arm.
It wasn't fear. It was restraint. Like a leash on a wild animal.
And she was the one holding the other end.
