The night before our engagement party, my fiance's childhood friend said she had planned a bridal surprise for me. She lured me up to the glass greenhouse on the roof of the Half Moon Bay Cliffside Resort, locked the door from the outside, and turned on every sprinkler in the room. It was a December storm, the kind that drove needles of rain sideways off the Pacific. Ice-cold water slammed down over my head. The greenhouse was glass on all four sides. Down below, the party guests lifted their phones and watched me shake. She smiled like an angel with poison in her teeth. "Isn't Sloane Mercer always so above everyone? Let's see what she looks like when she's cold enough to beg." My fiance, Beckett Foster, stood on the terrace below, looking up through the rain. His voice was flat. "Just don't let anyone die." "Women from little Central Valley towns need a little hardship before they understand the Foster family's world isn't that easy to get into." Later, I shattered the glass and climbed down from the roof myself. I wiped the blood off my face and called my attorney. "Notify the board. Suspend the investment commitment, freeze the escrow account, and stop every transfer scheduled for Foster Group tomorrow morning." "And send tonight's videos and security footage to the Half Moon Bay Police Department." "False imprisonment, assault, invasion of privacy, unlawful recording. Don't leave out a single charge." ... The second the water hit me, I could barely breathe. The greenhouse door had been locked from the outside. Transparent walls surrounded me on all sides, and the lights were so bright they left nowhere for my humiliation to hide. The ballroom terrace below was packed. People held champagne flutes like they were watching a staged performance. Some laughed. Some whistled. Others raised their phones and aimed their cameras at my rain-soaked face. "This is insane." "Beckett really knows how to throw a pre-engagement surprise." "Surprise? Didn't you hear Willa Whitman? It's a test." "To see if she's good enough to marry into the Fosters." Their jeers cut through the rain and drilled into my ears. My fingers clenched around the handle. The door would not open. Outside the greenhouse, a keypad lock glowed red. Willa Whitman stood beyond the glass in a clean, beautiful evening gown, her makeup perfect, as spotless as a white gardenia. She held a white umbrella and smiled as she waved the remote in her hand. "Sloane, don't look at me like that." "Everyone just wants to know how much you really love Beckett." She did not speak loudly, but she spoke loudly enough for the people nearby to hear. The crowd burst into laughter again. I wiped the water from my face. My voice shook. "Willa Whitman, open the door." She tilted her head like I had said something adorable. "But the game just started." "We made a bet on how long you can last before you beg." She stepped closer and looked at me through the glass. "Are......
