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