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.

POV: Spencer

The sharp, sterile smell of antiseptic in the corporate medical lounge was suffocating, but I barely noticed it.

I sat on the edge of the examination table, my jaw tight as the company medic carefully peeled away the ruined, soaked fabric of my dress shirt. The skin on my right forearm was blistered and an angry, raw red.

Every time the medic dabbed the burn ointment onto my flesh, a searing pain shot up my arm.

But compared to the dark, violent thrill currently thrumming through my veins, the physical agony was absolutely nothing.

I looked down.

Brooke was sitting on the small stool right beside me. She was utterly silent, her face pale, her beautiful eyes fixed on my wound. But for the first time in five years, she wasn't looking at me with that impenetrable wall of ice and defense. For the first time since she woke up in that hospital, she had willingly grabbed my arm and walked by my side.

Grant, you absolute fool, I thought, a twisted, triumphant sneer curling in my mind as I looked at her soft profile.

He had spent five grueling years melting the ice around Brooke’s heart, building an impenetrable fortress of a marriage. And today, with a single cup of boiling water and his own arrogant, amnesic pride, he had taken a sledgehammer and smashed it all to pieces. He had practically gift-wrapped my woman and handed her right back to me.

The medic wrapped the white gauze around my arm, the silence in the room pulling my mind backward, plunging me into a memory I had spent the last seven years desperately trying to bury.

Seven years ago.

The exact timeline my idiotic brother’s brain was currently trapped in.

Back then, Brooke had been mine.

I could still vividly remember the blinding sunlight pouring into my penthouse, illuminating the custom-designed, five-carat diamond engagement ring I had slipped onto her finger. We had been weeks away from the wedding of the century.

And then, in a single, catastrophic night, I had destroyed my entire universe.

It was a massive corporate gala celebrating the firm's international acquisition. As the heir apparent to the Whitmore empire, I had been surrounded by vultures, investors, and ambitious climbers. I remembered accepting a flute of champagne from a new marketing intern—a girl named Chelsea.

Within twenty minutes of finishing that glass, a heavy, paralyzing wave of heat had crashed over my nervous system.

My vision had blurred. My pulse had roared deafeningly in my ears. A toxic, synthetic haze had completely hijacked my cognitive control. I had stumbled away from the ballroom, dragging myself to my private suite upstairs, desperately trying to clear my head.

I blacked out.

When I finally regained consciousness hours later, my skull was splitting with an agonizing migraine.

And lying right beside me in the king-sized bed, with her clothes deliberately scattered across the floor in a perfect visual trap, was Chelsea.

I was paralyzed by the sick, nauseating realization that I had been drugged and framed by an intern who wanted to blackmail her way to the top. I knew, with absolute certainty, that my body had been too incapacitated to even touch her. Nothing had happened. It was a flawless, vicious setup.

But before I could even drag myself out of the bed to throw the scheming woman out, the door to the suite clicked open.

The memory of that exact second still made my chest violently contract.

Brooke stood in the doorway.

She was wearing a stunning evening gown, holding a massive bouquet of red roses she had brought up to surprise me for closing the deal.

I would never, for as long as I lived, forget the look in her eyes. The shock. The devastating betrayal. The instantaneous, absolute shattering of her trust.

The roses slipped from her trembling fingers. The heavy bouquet hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud, the crimson petals scattering across the floorboards like drops of fresh blood.

"Brooke... wait..." I had scrambled out of the tangled sheets, my head still spinning violently from the drugs.

I reached out for her, desperate to explain. I wanted to scream that I was spiked, that it was a trap, that I hadn't touched the woman in the bed.

But I hesitated.

I was young, arrogant, and poisoned by the pride of being a Whitmore. Facing the woman I loved, I felt a suffocating sense of humiliation. I didn't want to admit in raw, ugly detail that I, the untouchable Spencer Whitmore, had fallen victim to a cheap, sordid trick by a twenty-two-year-old intern. I stammered. I tried to shield her from the ugliness of the corporate trap, thinking I could handle it quietly later.

That single moment of arrogant hesitation cost me my life.

"Don't touch me," Brooke had whispered.

There were no hysterical tears. There was only a cold, terrifying fury that completely eclipsed her sorrow. She reached down, ripped the custom diamond ring off her finger, and hurled it directly at my face with all her strength.

The heavy diamond clipped my cheekbone, cutting the skin and drawing a drop of blood before clattering into the dark corner of the room.

"We're done, Spencer. You disgust me."

She turned and walked away. And she never looked back.

I spent the next few months descending into a manic hell. I fired Chelsea, I destroyed her career, I recovered the security footage proving I had been drugged, and I stood in the pouring rain outside Brooke’s apartment, begging for her forgiveness.

But Brooke’s pride was absolute. Her heart had turned to stone.

And while I was drowning in the ashes of my own mistakes, Grant stepped out of the shadows.

My quiet, righteous younger brother. The man who had secretly harbored a burning, forbidden obsession for his future sister-in-law for years.

He didn't care about the scandal. He put on the armor of a devoted savior. He used his unwavering, sickeningly perfect patience and absolute devotion to slowly, meticulously heal Brooke's broken heart. He gave her a safe harbor when she was drowning, and eventually, he legally made her his wife.

For five agonizing years, I had to stand on the sidelines like a defeated dog. I had to clench my fists and watch the woman I loved walk down the aisle toward my own brother. I had to watch him kiss her at family dinners. The daily torture of being a mere bystander in her life was a thousand times worse than the burn currently searing my arm.

"Spencer."

A soft, hesitant voice pulled me sharply out of the nightmare of the past.

I blinked, the sterile white walls of the medical lounge coming back into focus. The medic had finished bandaging my arm and quietly slipped out of the room, leaving just the two of us.

Brooke was looking up at me, her eyes lingering on the thick white gauze wrapped around my forearm.

"Does it hurt?" she asked, her voice carrying a trace of genuine guilt.

I stared into her beautiful eyes, the dark, predatory ambition in my chest finally breaking free from its five-year cage.

I reached out with my uninjured hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She stiffened slightly, but she didn't pull away.

I smiled—a bitter, yet fiercely determined smile.

"As long as you're willing to stay by my side, Brooke," I murmured, my voice low and thick with emotion, "this pain is absolutely nothing."

Because the real pain hadn't even started yet.

Grant had personally smashed his own marriage. He had physically driven the love of his life straight into my waiting arms.

And I couldn't wait for the day his amnesia broke. I couldn't wait to see the look on his face when he remembered everything, only to realize he had personally handed his wife to the brother he hated.

That cremation of Grant's heart was going to be a spectacular show.

POV: Brooke

The blinding flashes of the cameras hit me like a torrential downpour.

"Mr. Whitmore! Miss Brooke! Is it true that you two are finally tying the knot after all these years?"

"Brooke, look over here! Are you and Spencer officially back together?"

I walked down the crimson red carpet, my arm securely looped through Spencer’s. I maintained a perfectly curated, flawless smile for the cameras, but beneath the designer silk of my gown, my heart felt like it was drowning in acid.

To the rest of the world, I was just Spencer Whitmore's "ex-fiancée" from seven years ago, a woman who had finally found her way back to her rightful place.

Because no one in this room knew the truth.

No one knew that for the past five years, I was actually Grant's legal, wedded wife.

Five years ago, when Grant and I fell in love, he had made the incredibly difficult decision to keep our marriage completely hidden from the public eye. It was to protect the Whitmore Group's fragile stock prices, but more importantly, he did it to protect me. He didn't want the media tearing me apart, labeling me with vicious, slut-shaming headlines for marrying my ex-fiancé's younger brother.

We chose an absolute, ironclad secret marriage.

For five years, that secrecy was my ivory tower. It was a testament to Grant's extreme, obsessive need to protect me from the world's cruelty.

But tonight, that exact same secrecy had mutated into a suffocating, inescapable tomb. It buried all my legitimate claims, all my grievances, and all my agonizing pain, forcing me to watch my own husband slip away while I couldn't even scream his name.

The massive crystal chandeliers inside the Whitmore family’s annual charity gala bathed the ballroom in a golden, opulent glow.

Spencer kept me close all evening, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. He played the role of the devoted partner flawlessly, whispering intimately in my ear, making us look like a couple deeply, profoundly in love.

I didn't push him away.

I was gambling with the very last ounce of my dignity. I was desperately hoping that when Grant saw me wrapped in his brother's arms, the impenetrable wall of his amnesia would finally crack. I wanted to see him lose control.

A sudden ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd near the grand entrance.

Grant had arrived.

And he wasn't alone.

Because the world didn't know I was Mrs. Whitmore, the socialites and business tycoons naturally flocked to Olivia, treating her as the undisputed woman by Grant's side.

I gripped my champagne flute, my knuckles turning white as I stared at him.

But when Grant’s dark, commanding gaze finally swept across the room and landed on Spencer and me, my chest violently collapsed.

His eyes were as calm and dead as a frozen lake. There was no jealousy. There was no possessive fury.

Instead, he calmly raised his glass in our direction, offering a polite, distant nod. It was the chilling, appropriate greeting of a man acknowledging his future sister-in-law.

A second later, Olivia shivered dramatically, complaining about the ballroom's air conditioning.

Without a single moment of hesitation, Grant slipped off his tailored suit jacket—the one that still carried his body heat and his signature cedarwood scent—and draped it gently over Olivia's bare shoulders. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her temple as he murmured something soft and comforting into her ear.

I had to look away before my tears broke through my meticulously applied makeup.

When the orchestra began to play the opening waltz, Spencer smoothly pulled me onto the dance floor.

I let him guide me through the steps, but my eyes uncontrollably searched the crowded floor.

Come and take me away, a pathetic, desperate voice screamed in my head. Grant, please. Look at me. Get angry. Take me away from him.

But he didn't.

Grant was dancing with Olivia just a few yards away. His strong arm, the arm that had held me through countless nightmares, was wrapped securely around her waist.

Olivia looked up at him and whispered something playful.

I watched as Grant lowered his head and let out a deep, genuine laugh.

It was the very first time I had seen him smile since the car crash.

Then, right there in the middle of the dance floor, under the gaze of hundreds of New York's elite, Grant cupped Olivia's face in his large hands. He closed his eyes and leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep, breathtakingly tender kiss.

That public, legitimate kiss hit me with a force far more devastating than the heavy truck that had nearly killed us.

During our five years of secret marriage, we could never kiss under the spotlight. We had to hide our love in the shadows. And now, he was giving the public devotion I had always secretly craved to a woman who had tried to disfigure me just yesterday.

I missed a step, my heel catching on the hem of my dress.

I finally understood. My pathetic tests, my fake dating with Spencer, my desperate hopes—it was all just a delusional, one-man show.

His heart was completely empty of me.

An hour later, the charity auction commenced.

The final, highly anticipated lot was brought out onto the velvet podium: a legendary antique sapphire necklace known as the "Tears of the Deep Sea."

When the auctioneer pulled away the silk cloth, the massive, ocean-blue jewel glittered under the spotlights, stabbing directly into my eyes.

This was my necklace.

Or, at least, it was supposed to be.

Just a month before the crash, Grant had held me in our bed, kissing the bare skin of my shoulder. He had told me that he was going to buy the "Tears of the Deep Sea" at this exact auction and place it around my neck for our fifth anniversary. He had promised it was his way of compensating me for the years of hiding in the dark.

The bidding started.

Spencer, eager to play the perfect fiancé, immediately raised his paddle.

"Two million!"

But from the front row, Grant calmly raised his hand. "Three million."

The price skyrocketed in a senseless display of sibling rivalry.

"Ten million!" Grant finally declared, his deep voice echoing with terrifying finality through the silent ballroom.

Spencer lowered his paddle, giving me an apologetic smile.

The auctioneer slammed his gavel. Sold.

When Grant stood up and was handed the velvet box containing the sapphire, my heart betrayed me one last time. It hammered frantically against my ribs.

For one brief, fleeting second of absolute stupidity, I thought: Does he subconsciously remember? Does he remember the promise he made to me in the dark? Is he going to walk over here?

I held my breath.

But Grant didn't even look in my direction.

He walked straight past my table, his eyes fixed entirely on Olivia.

The room erupted into thundering applause as Grant stopped in front of his ex-girlfriend. He opened the box, took out the breathtaking sapphire, and gently fastened it around Olivia’s neck. The cameras flashed furiously, immortalizing the romantic gesture.

Grant took the microphone from the MC, his dark eyes looking softly at Olivia.

"This color suits your eyes perfectly," Grant said, his deep, resonant voice echoing through the speakers. "Consider this a compensation for the seven years I missed out on loving you."

The applause roared like a tidal wave, drowning me completely.

I sat frozen in my chair, watching the entire room celebrate the perfect love of the golden couple. I felt the very last drop of warmth, the very last shred of hope for my marriage, drain out of my body.

Because of our secret marriage, my husband was currently standing in front of the whole world, using the private promise he made to me, to love another woman.

And I didn't even have the legal or social right to stand up and slap him across the face.

"Brooke?"

Spencer’s voice was laced with genuine concern. He reached under the table and tightly wrapped his warm hand around my freezing, trembling fingers.

I didn't cry.

The pain had finally surpassed the threshold of tears. I slowly turned my head and looked at Spencer, who was looking at me like I was the only person in the room.

Since Grant had used the most ruthless, public method to announce his new life, why was I still destroying myself? Why was I trapping myself in the agonizing prison of this invisible marriage, begging for a man who didn't even want our past anymore?

I turned my hand over and firmly squeezed Spencer's hand back.

A few moments later, Grant and Olivia began to make their way back to their seats. Their path took them directly past our table.

Just as Grant’s tall frame entered my peripheral vision, I stood up.

I looked directly into Spencer's eyes, offering him a calm, resolute smile.

"Spencer," I said.

I didn't shout, but my voice was clear, steady, and just loud enough for the man walking past us to hear every single syllable.

"I accept your proposal. Let's get married."

I didn't turn my head.

I didn't look at Grant's face.

Therefore, in that retrospective moment, I couldn't possibly see what happened the very second the word 'married' left my lips.

I couldn't see how Grant's footsteps abruptly and violently stopped dead in their tracks.

I couldn't see how the gentle, aristocratic smile on his face instantly vanished, leaving behind a complexion completely drained of all blood.

And I couldn't see how his large hand—the one securely holding Olivia's—suddenly began to spasm with a violent, uncontrollable tremor, as if an invisible, catastrophic agony was tearing his heart straight out of his chest.