Chapter 9 - The Confession of a BrideBy noon, the interrogation room at the federal holding facility was cold, windowless, and silent.
Brooke Whitmore sat at the metal table wearing her designer blouse, though her hair was unbrushed and her manicure was chipped. She hadn't spoken a single word to the two federal agents who had brought her in from her father’s private estate three hours ago.
The heavy metal door clicked open.
Luke Bennett walked in alone, carrying a thick manila folder. He set the folder down on the table with a sharp thud and pulled out the metal chair opposite her.
Brooke raised her chin, her eyes flashing with a desperate, familiar arrogance. “Where is my father? You can't hold me without my lawyers present.”
“Your lawyers advised you to remain silent,” Luke said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Smart advice. But you and I both know your father’s empire is gone. The bank loans have been called. The stadium contract was awarded to a rival firm twenty minutes ago. Whitmore Enterprises is being liquidated by the federal government.”
Brooke’s lower lip trembled, the porcelain mask finally cracking. “He’s my father, Luke. What was I supposed to do? Grace was going to take everything we worked for! She was a nobody from the south side who trapped you with a baby!”
“She never trapped me, Brooke,” Luke said softly, leaning forward. “I loved her. I would have given her everything. The only person who felt trapped was you—trapped by your own obsession with perfection and status.”
Brooke stared at him, tears finally spilling over her lashes, carving tracks through her makeup. “You loved me. On that altar... you were going to marry me.”
“I was marrying a ghost,” Luke said, standing up and pulling the yellow protective order from the folder. He laid it flat on the table in front of her. “Sign this confession, Brooke. Admit to your role in the abduction and the financial cover-up. If you cooperate with the District Attorney, I’ll personally ask the judge for leniency.”
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Brooke looked down at the paper, then up at Luke. The woman he had known for three years—the radiant, untouchable bride in the St. Matthew’s Chapel—was entirely gone. There was only a frightened, hollow stranger staring back at him.
With a shaking hand, she picked up the pen.
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