Chapter 1 #2
"She paid for the wedding?" he repeats, his voice quieter.
"Yes. You weren't saving Mark from a gold digger. You were being a snob."
He closes his eyes. He lets out a long, ragged breath that seems to deflate him against the pillows. "I'm an idiot."
"Yes," I agree. "You are. And now you're an idiot with a concussion."
He opens his eyes again. The confusion is gone, replaced by a cold, brittle defensiveness. He realizes he has been bested, body and mind, by a woman in a ruined silk dress. He hates it.
He needs to regain the upper hand. Immediately.
He tries to sit up again, and this time he manages to prop himself up on one elbow, though his face goes pale with the effort.
"Where is my phone?" he demands.
"Charging." I nod toward the little shelf on the wall. "The battery was dead."
"Give it to me."
"Brooks, you have a head injury. You're not supposed to look at screens."
"I'm calling my lawyer," he says, holding his hand out. "And then I'm calling the police. Give me the damn phone."
Panic flares in my chest, hot and bright. This is it. The moment I've been dreading.
"I'd advise against that," I say, trying to sound like I have any leverage whatsoever.
He freezes, his hand still outstretched. A slow, incredulous look crosses his face. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I'd advise against it," I repeat, leaning against the bed rail to hide the trembling in my knees.
"Think about the optics. You're Brooks Taylor.
Your family is... well, your family. Do you want the headline to be 'Venture Capitalist Bested by Bridesmaid in Garden Brawl?
' It doesn't exactly scream 'stable, level-headed investment partner,' does it? "
He stares at me. For a second, he looks genuinely stunned by my audacity. Then, his eyes narrow.
"Are you threatening me?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're the one who committed assault at a wedding where I'm sure there are witnesses. Including, if I recall correctly, your best friend's fiancé. Mason Kincaid, isn't it?"
My stomach drops through the floor.
"No one noticed. Besides, Mason has nothing to do with this," I say quickly. Too quickly.
"Doesn't he?" Brooks tilts his head, studying my reaction with scientific interest. "He's a lawyer. A good one. Which means he knows exactly what the penal code says about battery."
"He's my friend. He won't sue me."
"He won't sue you," Brooks agrees, his voice silky.
"But he's an officer of the court. If I press charges, which I intend to do, I can subpoena him.
I can put him on the stand and ask him, under oath, what he saw.
And he'll have to choose between perjury and sending his fiancée's best friend to jail. "
The blood drains from my face. I hadn't thought of that. I had been so worried about Mason's judgment, I hadn't considered that Brooks could weaponize Mason's integrity against me.
"You wouldn't," I whisper.
"Try me," Brooks says. "Give me my phone."
"I've been here for two hours making sure you didn't die," I say, desperate to change the subject, to find a different angle. "I rode in the ambulance. I held the basin when you got sick in the intake bay. I haven't left this room, Brooks."
He studies me without blinking, hunting for the deception he knows is there. Men like Brooks Taylor don't believe in altruism. They believe in leverage. And right now, he is trying to figure out why the woman who flattened him is currently fluffing his pillows and guarding his hydration.
He looks at my dress, the champagne fabric now wrinkled and stained with grass and dirt. He looks at the dark circles under my eyes. He looks at the terror I'm trying so hard to hide.
"Why?" he asks. It's a simple question, but it feels like a trap. "Why are you still here, Ivy? If you were smart, you would have run. You're scared. I can see it. So why are you sitting in that chair?"
I open my mouth to answer, to conjure up some noble excuse, but the door swings open before I can speak.
A nurse marches in, the same one from earlier. She's carrying a clipboard and wearing the kind of forced high-wattage cheerfulness that makes me want to crawl under the bed.
"Well, look who's awake!" she announces, beaming at Brooks as if he's a prize poodle who performed a trick.
She moves to the bedside, checking the monitors with brisk movements. Then she turns that glow on me.
"You must be so relieved, honey. I told you he needed to sleep it off."
I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks up.
"Yes," I manage to choke out. "Very relieved."
Brooks looks between us, his brow furrowing. The pain in his eyes is eclipsed by confusion.
"Who is..." he starts to ask.
"Your fiancée has been an absolute wreck," the nurse continues, talking right over him as she adjusts his IV drip.
She reaches out and pats my arm affectionately.
"She hasn't left your side for a second.
Poor thing was shaking like a leaf when you came in.
She told the intake coordinator she wouldn't let anyone else make medical decisions for you. That's true love, right there."
The silence that follows is absolute.
It is a vacuum. A black hole in the center of the room that sucks all the oxygen out of the air.
I don’t dare look at Brooks. I stare at the speckled linoleum tiles, counting the scuff marks, bracing for the explosion—his shout of “Who is this woman,” the call button slammed for security, the nurse summoned with orders to call the police and remove the stranger who assaulted him.
But the shout doesn't come.
Instead, a low, dark sound escapes him. A chuckle.
It's a terrifying sound. It's dry and devoid of humor, the sound of a lock clicking into place.
I risk a glance up.
Brooks is watching me. The confusion is gone. The dull gloss of pain is pushed to the background. In their place is something far more dangerous: clarity.
He looks from the plastic 'Visitor' band on my wrist to my pale, terrified face. He looks at the nurse, then back to me.
I can practically see the gears turning.
He is connecting the dots—the lawyer at the wedding, the ambulance ride, the refusal to leave. It seems to dawn on him that I didn't stay out of guilt; I stayed to get past the "Family Only" policy. I stayed to keep him quiet.
He has found the trap I've built for myself. And he realizes that I am currently standing in it with both feet.
"Right," Brooks says smoothly. His voice is silk over steel.
His eyes lock onto mine with the force of a physical blow. His lips pull back, baring teeth. The expression is cold, predatory, and terrifyingly sharp. It is the look of a man who has been handed the winning hand in a high-stakes poker game he didn't even know he was playing.
He reaches out his hand.
For a second, I think he's going to strike me. But he doesn't. He takes my hand in his. His skin is warm, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls me a step closer to the bed, forcing me into his orbit.
"She's devoted," he tells the nurse, never breaking eye contact with me. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, a gesture that looks affectionate but feels like a shackle. "Aren't you, darling?"
My heart stops.
I have no way out. If I pull away, if I deny it, the nurse asks questions. If the nurse asks questions, the police get called. If the police get called, Mason gets subpoenaed.
I am standing on the edge of a cliff, and Brooks Taylor is holding the only rope.
I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face open.
"Yes," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Devoted."
The corners of his mouth tick upward, barely a fraction. It doesn't reach his eyes. They are cold, calculating, and victorious.
"See?" he says to the nurse, giving my hand a squeeze that is tight enough to hurt. "I'm a lucky man."