POV: Brooke

The pungent smell of antiseptic rushed into my nasal cavity.

The steady beep-beep of the heart monitor echoed in the dead silence of the room.

I snapped my eyes open.

A shattering pain radiated through every bone in my body, but I ignored it.

I didn't care about the sharp sting of the fresh stitches on my forehead.

I didn't care about the dull, suffocating ache of my fractured ribs.

Only one frantic thought consumed my mind.

I had to find my husband, Grant.

Just a few hours ago, when that out-of-control heavy truck came barreling toward us on the slick highway, Grant hadn't hesitated for a single second.

He had violently cranked the steering wheel, intentionally exposing the driver’s side to the brunt of the collision.

He had used his own flesh and blood to shield me from the Reaper.

I pushed away the thick hospital blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

When a nurse hurried in, trying to gently push me back down, I blindly shoved her hands away.

Gritting my teeth, I forcefully yanked the IV needle out of the back of my hand.

A few drops of blood oozed from the puncture wound, splattering onto the pristine white tiles, but I didn't stop.

Leaning heavily against the cold, pale walls of the corridor, I stumbled my way toward the Intensive Care Unit.

Every step I took felt like walking on broken glass, and the screeching sound of twisting metal still rang in my ears.

Yet, interspersed with the nightmare of the crash were the sweet, lingering memories of just hours before.

It had been our fifth wedding anniversary.

Grant had rented out the entire revolving restaurant overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

I could still feel the warmth of his lips pressing against my forehead as he pulled me into his chest, his voice a low, intoxicating rumble.

"I will protect you with my life, Brooke."

For five years, high society had whispered behind our backs.

They mocked me as the woman who was originally supposed to marry his older brother, only to somehow end up in Grant's bed.

But Grant never cared about the rumors.

He gave me his absolute preference, spoiling me with a relentless, all-consuming love that made me the happiest woman in the world.

He was my protector, my anchor.

I finally reached the slightly ajar door of the VIP ward.

I pushed it open, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs.

I was fully expecting to see the man who, even while severely injured, would pull me into his arms the second he saw me with red, tear-filled eyes.

Instead, the sight before me instantly froze the blood in my veins.

The hospital bed was propped up, and Grant was indeed awake.

Thick, blood-seeping bandages were wrapped around his head, making him look pale and exhausted.

But he wasn't looking for me.

His muscular arms were wrapped tightly around another woman—his ex-girlfriend, Olivia.

I stood paralyzed in the doorway.

I could clearly see Olivia resting her head against his chest, her shoulders trembling as she let out soft, delicate sobs.

And Grant... Grant was gently stroking her hair.

It was the exact same tender, comforting motion he used on me.

The gaze he directed down at her was filled with a profound affection and pity that I thought belonged entirely, exclusively, to me.

The plastic medical clipboard in my hand slipped, hitting the floor with a sharp crack.

The sound shattered the intimate bubble in the room.

Both of them looked up.

"Grant?" My voice broke.

I stumbled forward, my eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Grant, what are you doing? I'm your wife..."

The moment he heard my voice, the tenderness in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by a deep, impenetrable frown.

He reacted immediately, pulling Olivia behind him to shield her from me, as if I were some kind of dangerous predator.

He looked at me without a single trace of love.

There was only a cold, guarded defensiveness—and a deep, unmistakable layer of disgust.

"Wife?" Grant's voice was like cracked ice. "What kind of sick joke are you playing?"

I stared at the face I had kissed a thousand times, watching him spit out the most foreign, cruel words.

"Brooke, you are my brother's fiancé," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "You're officially becoming my sister-in-law next month. Why the hell are you acting crazy in my hospital room?"

The air was sucked from my lungs.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

Seeing my shock, the woman hiding behind his broad shoulders seized her moment.

Olivia clung to Grant's arm, her doe eyes wide with mock innocence as she adopted a pitiful, whining tone.

"Brooke, I know Spencer has been busy prepping for your wedding and maybe he's been neglecting you," she said, her words laced with thinly veiled malice.

"But you're about to marry him. Coming here to mess with my boyfriend... don't you think that's unfair to both brothers?"

I felt a wave of nausea.

"Shut up," I hissed, taking another desperate step toward the bed. "Grant, look at me. It's me!"

Before I could reach him, the heavy door of the ward was pushed open again.

Footsteps echoed sharply against the floorboards.

My ex-fiancé—and Grant's older brother—Spencer, walked in.

He was dressed in an immaculate, tailored charcoal suit, holding a manila folder containing a CT scan report.

Spencer didn't even look surprised.

He took long strides across the room, stopping right beside me.

A chilling, predatory smirk played on the corners of his mouth.

"The doctor just confirmed it," Spencer announced, looking down at his injured brother with an expression that looked far too much like victory.

"He's suffering from severe retrograde amnesia. The trauma to his brain completely reset his memory back seven years."

Spencer turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine.

"Back to the year you were about to marry me."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

Seven years.

He forgot our wedding. He forgot our home. He forgot every single time he told me he loved me.

"No," I choked out, a fierce desperation clawing at my throat.

I lunged forward, desperately grabbing the sleeve of Grant's hospital gown.

"No, I can prove it! Grant, just come home with me. If you just look at the wedding photos in our bedroom, if you see the life we've built for the last five years, you'll remember. I swear you'll remember!"

I didn't even get a second to hold onto him.

Spencer's hand clamped down on my wrist like an iron vise, violently yanking me backward.

"Brooke, stop," Spencer barked, his voice laced with strict authority, though a dark, calculating gleam flashed in his eyes.

"The neurologist specifically warned against this. You cannot force him to confront memories that contradict his current reality. It will trigger a severe psychological stress response. You could cause irreversible, physical damage to his brain."

Irreversible damage.

Those two words acted like a paralyzing poison.

I instantly froze, terrified that my mere presence was hurting the man who had just saved my life.

Fear gripped my heart with an icy grip.

Tears finally spilled over my eyelashes.

I looked at Grant, my pride breaking as I practically begged.

"Then... then at least let him come back to our house. To our little nest. He's badly hurt, he needs someone to take care of him. Maybe his subconscious will adapt to the environment..."

"Don't touch me," Grant snarled.

He violently jerked his arm back as if my touch had burned him.

He glared at Spencer's hand, which was still wrapped tightly around my wrist.

A flicker of something dark and unreadable—irritation, perhaps—flashed through Grant's eyes, but he quickly masked it with an icy glare.

He pointed a long, unforgiving finger toward the door.

"Go back to 'our' love nest? Bro, do something about your crazy woman." Grant sneered, his words meant to inflict maximum damage.

"Since Spencer is here, just leave with him. Take your drama somewhere else, Brooke. Don't sicken me and Olivia anymore."

He didn't want to look at me for another second.

He turned away, carefully and tenderly pulling a 'startled' Olivia back into the safety of his embrace.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my vision completely blurred by tears.

Over Grant’s broad shoulder, Olivia peeked out at me.

In her tear-stained eyes, I saw an unmistakable, triumphant smirk.

I also clearly saw Grant’s strong arms—the arms that had weathered every storm for me—wrapping protectively around another woman's waist.

A massive, agonizing pain twisted through my organs like a serrated knife.

But I didn't collapse.

I didn't scream or throw a hysterical fit.

I roughly wiped the tears from my cheeks, my nails digging so fiercely into my palms that they drew blood.

He had put himself between me and the Grim Reaper.

He had traded his life for mine.

Since the blood pumping through my veins was paid for by him, I was absolutely not going to hand him over to another woman just because of some amnesia.

Grant, I thought, staring at his broad back.

I don't care who you're holding right now, and I don't care how many cruel words you use to tear me apart.

You are my only husband.

And I swear, I will make you remember everything.

POV: Brooke

I sat in the sprawling living room of Spencer's hillside mansion, staring blankly at the dead autumn leaves blowing across the manicured lawn.

My heart twisted into a brutal, suffocating knot.

Seven years ago, I had stood in this exact room, joyfully picking out floral arrangements and acting as the future hostess, meticulously planning my wedding to Spencer Whitmore. I had sworn to myself that I would never step foot in this gilded cage of deceit ever again.

But a few hours ago, I had compromised.

Dr. Evans, the Whitmore family’s elite private neurologist, had stood before me with grim, uncompromising eyes.

"His brain has suffered a massive trauma, Brooke," the doctor had warned, his voice lowering into a grave whisper. "If you force the reality of your five-year marriage onto him now, the severe cognitive dissonance will trigger an extreme psychological stress response. Best case scenario, he slips into a permanent coma. Worst case, the blood vessels in his brain rupture."

Permanent coma. Rupture.

Those words had drained every ounce of blood from my face.

That was when Spencer had stepped in, offering a plan that sounded flawlessly logical, yet was undeniably laced with his own dark, selfish desires.

"Brooke, his memory is stuck seven years in the past," Spencer had said, his voice a smooth, comforting hum as he placed a hand on my trembling shoulder. "If we recreate his reality from seven years ago—if we live in this house, with you acting as my fiancée—his brain will relax in the familiar environment. The safety of that routine might naturally stimulate his lost memories to return."

A fake engagement. Playing the role of my own husband's future sister-in-law.

It was the most cruel, agonizing torture imaginable.

But I looked down at my phone, staring at the photo from the crash site—the image of Grant’s blood soaking into his ruined white shirt as he shielded me.

I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. With red, tear-filled eyes, I agreed to Spencer's twisted game. As long as it brought my husband back to me, I was willing to drink poison.

By late afternoon, the sound of tires crunching against the gravel driveway signaled Grant's arrival.

Because this was the Whitmore family's ancestral estate, Spencer had used the excuse of "centralizing his medical care" to have Grant discharged and brought here.

When the heavy oak doors opened, I took a desperate, eager step toward the foyer, my heart hammering against my fractured ribs.

But the faint smile on my lips shattered instantly.

Stepping into the grand hallway wasn't just Grant, looking imposing and cold despite the stark white bandages wrapped around his forehead.

Clinging tightly to his arm was Olivia.

She had moved in with him. Using her status as his "current girlfriend" in his seven-year-old memories, she walked into the house with an air of absolute entitlement.

I watched as Olivia leaned heavily against Grant's broad shoulder, complaining softly about the chilly autumn wind. Grant didn't push her away. Instead, he reached out with his large, calloused hand—the hand that wore our matching wedding band just yesterday—and carefully pulled her trench coat tighter around her shivering frame.

A wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy ripped through me. My fingernails dug so deeply into my palms that the skin nearly broke.

Grant’s dark, fathomless eyes slowly swept across the foyer until they landed on me.

The temperature in the room plummeted.

He deliberately used a tone so formal, so guarded, it felt like a physical slap to the face.

"Brooke."

Just my name. Spoken like I was a stranger he was forced to tolerate.

But what I couldn't see was the violent war raging beneath his icy exterior. The moment his eyes locked onto me standing there in a soft, oversized sweater, it took every ounce of his willpower not to cross the room, pull me away from his brother, and crush me against his chest.

He didn't understand why his body craved the woman who was about to marry his brother. And that confusion only made him angrier.

Dinner that night was an absolute catastrophe.

To comply with the doctor's "situational recreation" therapy, I was forced to sit next to Spencer at the long mahogany dining table. I had to force a rigid, agonizing smile as Spencer played the role of the devoted fiancé.

Spencer reached over, smoothly tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear before pouring me a glass of expensive red wine.

"You look tired, darling," Spencer murmured, his voice loud enough to carry across the table. "Eat a little more."

Sitting directly across from us, Grant’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

He stared dead at Spencer’s hand lingering on the back of my chair. In Grant's amnesiac mind, I was a fickle, vain woman happily parading my relationship in front of him. But his heart—his heart was burning with a wild, rabid possessiveness that made him want to tear the dining table in half.

To mask his terrifying loss of control, Grant aggressively turned his attention to Olivia.

He picked up his knife and fork, meticulously cutting a piece of medium-rare Wagyu beef into bite-sized pieces. He then picked up a piece with his fork and brought it directly to Olivia’s lips.

"Here," Grant said, his voice dripping with forced, exaggerated tenderness.

Olivia practically glowed with triumph. She took the bite, giggling softly as a drop of peppercorn sauce smudged the corner of her mouth.

Grant lifted his thumb and gently, intimately, wiped the sauce from her lip.

Watching him use the exact same hands that had explored every inch of my body to pamper another woman made my stomach violently churn. A suffocating wave of nausea crawled up my throat.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't watch this for another second.

"Excuse me," I choked out, abruptly pushing my chair back. The heavy wood scraped loudly against the marble floor.

I didn't wait for a response. I turned and practically ran out of the dining room, fleeing the suffocating nightmare.

Because I ran, I didn't see what happened the second I turned my back.

Grant’s eyes violently tracked my retreating figure. His hand gripped his silver steak knife with such brutal, terrifying force that as he pressed down, the blade let out a sharp, ear-piercing screech, carving a deep, jagged crack straight through the center of his bone-china plate.

Midnight brought no relief.

My stomach cramped so painfully from stress and hunger that sleep was impossible. Throwing a thin silk robe over my pajamas, I crept downstairs into the cavernous, unlit kitchen to get a glass of warm water.

The house was dead silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator.

I poured the water, my hands still shaking slightly from the events of the day.

Just as I turned around to lean against the marble island, a towering shadow detached itself from the darkness.

Before I could even gasp, a large, impossibly hot hand shot out and clamped down on my wrist like a steel shackle.

The familiar, intoxicating scent of crushed cedar, mint, and raw male pheromones instantly enveloped me.

I shivered violently.

I looked up through the moonlight spilling through the window, crashing straight into Grant’s deep, predatory eyes. They were completely devoid of the cold indifference from dinner. Right now, they were dark, volatile, and rimmed with a dangerous, bloodshot red.

"Sneaking around in the dark, Brooke?" His voice was a harsh, gravelly whisper that sent shivers down my spine. His massive frame stepped closer, backing me flush against the cold edge of the marble counter. "Are you waiting for my brother, or just too guilty to sleep?"

The mocking cruelty in his tone sparked a flash of fierce, desperate anger in my chest.

I glared up at him, my eyes shining with unshed tears, my heart threatening to beat out of my ribcage.

"Since in your mind I am your brother's fiancée," I fired back, my voice trembling but defiant, "what exactly are you doing pinning me against a counter in the middle of the night, Grant?"

Grant’s jaw snapped shut.

Every logical instinct in his brain screamed at him to push me away, to step back from this dangerous, forbidden line.

But his body completely betrayed him.

He didn't let go of my wrist. Instead, his grip tightened.

Slowly, almost against his own will, he lowered his head. His face came so agonizingly close to mine that I could feel the ragged, scorching heat of his breath brushing against my parted lips.

He was so close I could feel the fine tremor of restraint vibrating through his heavily muscled arms.

"I'd like to know that too," Grant murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. His voice was completely hoarse, laced with a tortured, self-loathing hunger he couldn't suppress. "I want to know why I'm losing my mind... why I have this sick, twisted reaction to my future sister-in-law."

POV: Brooke

In the dim, moonlit kitchen, Grant’s lips were less than an inch from mine.

I could feel the ragged, scorching heat of his breath brushing against my skin, trembling with a heavy, suppressed desire. For one breathless second, I truly believed his subconscious had broken through the cage of his amnesia. I thought he was going to kiss me.

But then, as if he had just touched a live wire, Grant violently shoved himself away from me.

He took a massive step back, the dark hunger in his eyes instantly shattering. I watched his expression twist into a storm of extreme self-loathing and disgust.

"Stay away from me," Grant spat, his voice dropping to a freezing, gravelly whisper. "Don't make me think the woman my brother is bringing home into this family is just some desperate woman in heat."

The words struck me like a physical blow to the chest.

He didn't look at me for another second. He turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, his footsteps hurried and chaotic, leaving me completely alone against the cold marble counter.

I clutched my violently pounding chest, my tears falling silently, shattering against the back of my hand.

I suddenly realized a bitter truth: It’s hard to wake a person who is pretending to be asleep, but it’s entirely impossible to wake a man who is actively forcing himself to hate you.

The next morning, the tension in the house was thick enough to cut with a knife.

To maintain Dr. Evans's "situational recreation" therapy—and to satisfy his own twisted desires—Spencer cornered me in the foyer right before we were supposed to leave for the office.

"Fix my tie, Brooke," Spencer murmured, stepping into my personal space.

I swallowed the bitter lump of resistance in my throat. Standing on my tiptoes, I reached up, my fingers mechanically looping the expensive silk around his collar.

Just as I smoothed down the fabric, heavy footsteps sounded from the oak staircase.

Grant, dressed in a sharp, tailored charcoal suit, was walking down. He took in the intimate scene before us, and his footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second. His eyes darkened into a terrifying, stormy abyss, and I saw his knuckles turn bone-white as he gripped the banister.

But almost immediately, he masked the violent reaction with a cold, mocking sneer. He let out a low scoff, as if he found the sight of us utterly pathetic.

Seeing Grant approach, Olivia immediately bounced forward, eager to mark her territory.

"Oh, Grant, your lapel is a little crooked," she cooed in a sickly sweet voice, reaching her hands up toward his chest to mimic my exact actions.

However, the second Olivia’s manicured fingers were about to brush against his suit jacket, Grant violently flinched.

He jerked his shoulder back, taking a sharp step away from her, dodging her touch entirely.

The air in the foyer instantly froze. Olivia’s hands hovered awkwardly in mid-air, her face flushing a deep, humiliated red.

Even Grant looked briefly stunned by his own reaction. I saw his brows knit together in deep confusion, staring at Olivia's hands as if he didn't understand why his own body had just physically repulsed the touch of his supposed girlfriend.

"I'm fine," Grant said stiffly, clearing his throat and stepping around her.

After breakfast, Spencer insisted I accompany them to the Whitmore Group headquarters under the guise of a "corporate handover."

For the past five years, I hadn't just been Grant's wife. I was his most trusted VP, his absolute right hand in the boardroom. The Whitmore Group was as much my territory as it was his.

Inside the expansive CEO's office, Olivia was desperate to assert her dominance as the 'future lady' of the company. She bustled into the executive pantry and emerged holding a steaming cup of coffee.

"I made your favorite, Grant," Olivia chimed, placing the mug on his desk. "A caramel macchiato with three sugar cubes."

I was sitting on the leather sofa, reviewing a quarterly report. The moment I heard those words and smelled the artificial syrup, muscle memory took completely over.

I dropped the folder. Before I even realized what I was doing, I marched over to his desk, snatched the mug right out from under his nose, and dumped the entire contents into the sink.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" Olivia shrieked.

I ignored her. Moving with terrifying efficiency, I operated his private espresso machine, pulling a double shot of dark, bitter espresso. Then, without even looking, I opened the second drawer on the left side of his desk, bypassed the pens, and pulled out a small, unmarked silver pillbox.

I set the black coffee and the stomach pill down in front of a completely stunned Grant.

"He has a mild allergy to artificial sweeteners," I stated coldly, my eyes fixed on Olivia. "And drinking sweet, milky coffee on an empty stomach triggers severe gastric spasms for him."

The office fell deathly quiet.

Grant stared at the black espresso—exactly how he took it—and the specific medication from his hidden drawer. I watched a tidal wave of shock and bewilderment crash through his deep, dark eyes.

I knew what he must be thinking. How could his brother's fiancée, a woman who supposedly spent all her time seven years ago obsessing over Spencer, know his most hidden physical boundaries and private habits with such terrifying intimacy?

But the vulnerability in Grant's eyes only lasted for a second.

He quickly built a fortress of arrogance around his confusion. He leaned back in his leather executive chair, looking up at me with a gaze so cold it burned.

"Well," Grant drawled, his lips curling into a toxic, deeply cruel smile. "It seems you thoroughly investigated every detail of my life just to secure your place in the Whitmore family. What a diligent, calculating sister-in-law I have."

The knife twisted violently in my heart.

Calculating.

Sister-in-law.

I had spent five years memorizing his every breath, loving him with every fiber of my being, and he reduced it all to a cheap, gold-digging scheme.

Grant’s cruel mockery was all the validation Olivia needed. Her wounded pride was instantly replaced by vicious arrogance.

"I'll go get some hot water for tea," Olivia muttered, grabbing a heavy ceramic mug.

She walked over to the water dispenser. I had turned my back, taking a deep breath to stop my tears from falling.

As Olivia walked past me, I heard the sharp, deliberate clatter of her high heels twisting against the hardwood floor.

"Oh!" she cried out in fake alarm.

I turned my head just in time to see her intentionally hurl the entire mug of freshly boiled, steaming water directly toward my face.

Time seemed to slow down to an agonizing crawl.

Grant was the closest to me. He was sitting right at the edge of the desk.

In that split second, I clearly saw his body react. His broad shoulders bunched, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he instinctively half-rose from his chair to shield me. It was the same physical reflex that had made him crash his car to save my life.

But then... he stopped.

I watched his jaw lock tight. A fierce, terrifying battle flashed across his dark eyes before an icy, deliberate mask slammed down over his features. His hands gripped the armrests so hard the leather groaned.

He forced himself to sit back down. He was actively choosing to sit there and watch me get hurt.

I closed my eyes, bracing for the agonizing, disfiguring burn.

Crash!

Instead of boiling water, I was violently yanked forward, slamming into a hard, protective chest.

A muffled, painful groan ripped through the air, followed by the shattering of the ceramic mug on the floor.

I opened my eyes in shock.

It wasn't Grant.

Spencer had lunged across the room, wrapping his arms tightly around me and spinning us around. He had used his own back and arm to take the full, devastating hit of the boiling water.

"Brooke... are you hurt?" Spencer gasped, his breathing heavy as he pulled back. He frantically checked my face and arms, completely ignoring his own soaked, steaming sleeve.

I stood there, trembling from head to toe. I shook my head numbly.

Before I could even thank Spencer, a sickeningly delicate sob echoed through the office.

"Grant! Oh my god, I was so scared! The mug just slipped!"

I looked past Spencer's shoulder and watched as Olivia ran behind the massive executive desk. Ignoring the shattered ceramic and the mess on the floor, she practically threw herself into Grant’s arms, climbing right onto his lap.

My breath hitched.

Grant didn't push her away. Instead, he wrapped his strong, protective arms around Olivia’s waist.

His dark eyes flicked over to me and Spencer for a fraction of a second—utterly devoid of empathy—before he focused entirely on the woman clinging to his neck.

"Are you hurt?" Grant asked Olivia, his voice a low, comforting rumble that sent a violent shudder down my spine. His large hand gently stroked her back to calm her fake trembling. "Did the splashing water burn you?"

I stared at the unbelievable scene unfolding right in front of my eyes.

The man who had bled half to death to save me just a few months ago was now holding the very woman who had tried to disfigure me, asking if she was okay.

In that singular, devastating moment, the last remaining spark of hope in my heart completely froze, then shattered into unrecognizable dust.

The Grant who loved me with his life was truly dead. The man sitting in that chair was a stranger who couldn't even offer me basic human decency.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I blinked away the tears I had been holding back for days.

"I'm fine, Spencer," I said softly.

For the first time since this sick charade began, I didn't push Spencer away. Instead, I reached out and gently held his uninjured arm, my voice dead and devoid of all the desperate hope I had carried since waking up in the hospital.

"Your arm is burned," I told Spencer, turning my back entirely on the man sitting at the desk. "Let's go get you treated."

I didn't spare Grant another glance. I didn't yell. I didn't try to prove my innocence or expose Olivia's vicious trick.

I simply walked out of the office with Spencer, letting the heavy mahogany door click shut behind me, completely shutting Grant out of my world.