The limousine door opened, and the noise hit them like a physical wave. Shouts, camera shutters, the frenzied roar of a mob.
"Mr. Blackwell! Where is Brittny?"
"Is the wedding off?"
"Who is that?"
Elliot stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to Brooke.
She took it. She stepped out into the blinding light.
A collective gasp rippled through the press corps. The reporters lowered their cameras for a split second, their faces a mixture of confusion and awe. The woman before them was not the sallow, awkward figure from the few blurry photos that existed of the 'other' Graves daughter.
"It's the sister! The ugly one!" a lone voice shouted from the back, clearly a planted heckler.
Elliot's jaw tightened. He started to move toward the voice, violence radiating off him.
Brooke squeezed his hand. Stop.
She smiled. It was a shy, radiant smile that she had practiced in the mirror for years.
"Please," she said, her voice soft but carrying perfectly over the microphones. "Don't be mean to Brittny. She... she stepped aside."
The reporters went silent, scrambling to recover.
"Stepped aside?" a CNN reporter asked, his professional skepticism warring with the unbelievable story unfolding.
Brooke looked up at Elliot with adoring eyes. "We tried to fight it," she lied. "But... love is a difficult thing to hide."
Elliot looked down at her. He looked stunned. Then, he saw the glint in her eye. The challenge.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"We couldn't lie to ourselves anymore," Elliot rasped. He played along, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. "Brittny understood. Eventually."
The reporters were scribbling furiously. Scandal. Betrayal. True Love. It was gold.
"But the ring!" a reporter shouted. "Where is the ring?"
Brooke froze. She didn't have a ring.
Elliot didn't miss a beat.
"A ring is too common for her," he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a brooch.
It was a black diamond, raw and uncut, set in dark titanium. It was jagged, aggressive, and utterly beautiful.
He pinned it to the strap of her dress.
"There," he said. His fingers lingered on her skin, brushing her collarbone.
Brooke felt a strange heat emanating from the stone. A low-frequency hum that vibrated against her chest.
It's active, she realized. It's electronic.
She looked at Elliot. He was smiling, a wolfish grin.
"Seal it," a photographer yelled. "Kiss her!"
Elliot hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.
Then he leaned down.
Brooke went up on her toes.
Their lips met.
It wasn't soft. It was a collision. His lips were rough, tasting of whiskey. He kissed her like he was trying to prove a point, possessive and hard.
Brooke kissed him back, matching his pressure.
The cameras went wild.
Elliot broke the kiss. He looked a little dazed.
"Get in the car," he growled.
He practically threw her into the backseat and slammed the door.
The car sped off, leaving the chaos behind.
Inside, the silence was deafening.
Elliot wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You're a good liar," he said.
Brooke touched the black diamond brooch. It was still humming.
"I learned from the best," she said.
