POV: Brooke

I didn't sleep a single second that night.

Even though I had stood under the blinding lights of the charity gala and loudly, publicly accepted Spencer’s proposal, a pathetic, desperate corner of my heart had still been waiting.

I had sat on the edge of my bed in the dark, staring at the closed bedroom door, absurdly hoping that it would suddenly burst open. I hoped Grant would storm in, his eyes blazing with the jealous fury I used to know, violently demanding that I take it back. I hoped he would pin me against the wall and tell me I wasn't allowed to marry anyone else.

But the door remained shut. The hallway remained dead silent.

He never came.

When the morning light finally crept through the curtains, I looked at my pale, exhausted reflection in the mirror. My heart felt like it had been hollowed out with a blunt knife, but I made one final, reckless decision.

I was going to force his memory open. Even if Dr. Evans warned that it could cause a psychological break, I couldn't just sit here and watch him slip away into another woman's arms.

I pulled my suitcase out from the closet and unzipped the hidden bottom compartment. Inside was a small, fireproof lockbox.

It contained the only physical proof of our five-year secret marriage. There were a handful of polaroids we had taken on our private honeymoon, and more importantly, there was a necklace.

It wasn't diamonds or sapphires. It was a small, delicate silver swallow. Three years ago, Grant had locked himself in his private hobby workshop for three consecutive nights, meticulously melting, hammering, and engraving the silver with his own hands to make it for me. It had our initials carved into the back.

Clutching the box to my chest, I took a deep breath and walked out of my room, heading straight for Grant's suite.

But I didn't even make it down the hall.

Olivia was leaning against the doorway of the second-floor sitting room, her arms crossed over her chest. When she saw me, the pitiful, innocent facade she wore in front of the Whitmore brothers completely dissolved, replaced by a vicious, mocking sneer.

"Going somewhere, Mrs. Whitmore?" Olivia drawled, purposefully emphasizing the title with dripping sarcasm.

I stopped in my tracks. "Move out of my way, Olivia."

"You're really pathetic, you know that?" She took a step closer, her eyes flashing with malicious triumph. "You actually think you're his wife. But look at you. Even when you were married, he hid you like a dirty little rat in the sewers. You couldn't even stand next to him in public. Do you really think a few cheap trinkets are going to make him want you back?"

Before I could react, Olivia lunged forward.

She was taller than me in her heels, and with a sudden, vicious yank, she snatched the lockbox right out of my hands.

"Give that back!" I screamed, lunging for her.

But the box wasn't locked. It popped open in the struggle. Olivia saw the polaroids of Grant kissing me, and a flash of pure, venomous jealousy twisted her features.

She grabbed the stack of photos, turned around, and threw them directly into the roaring flames of the sitting room fireplace.

"No!"

I threw myself toward the hearth, desperately reaching into the flames to grab them. The fire licked at my fingers, burning my skin, but I was too late. The glossy paper curled, blackened, and turned to ash right before my eyes.

My heart violently stopped.

"Oops," Olivia sneered. She looked down at the box still in her hand and pulled out the delicate silver swallow necklace. She dangled it from her manicured fingers, inspecting it with disgust. "What is this cheap garbage?"

"Don't you dare touch that," I breathed, my voice shaking with raw terror. I scrambled to my feet, my burned fingers trembling. "Put it down."

Olivia held my gaze, her lips curling into a wicked smile.

She opened her fingers and let the necklace drop to the marble floor. Then, she raised her foot and brought the sharp, metal heel of her stiletto down directly onto the silver swallow.

Crunch.

I heard the delicate silver clasp snap. I watched the meticulously carved wings bend and warp under her heel as she brutally ground it into the marble.

"Stop!" I sobbed, dropping to my knees. I wildly pushed her leg away, desperately trying to salvage the broken pieces of my husband's love.

Just as my hands touched the ruined silver, heavy, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Grant was coming.

The moment Olivia heard his footsteps, her vicious expression vanished in a split second. She let out a blood-curdling, terrified shriek and threw herself backward.

She landed hard on the floor right next to me, intentionally dragging her palm across a rough edge of the fireplace grate so it immediately began to bleed.

"Ah! It hurts!" she wailed.

The sitting room door was violently shoved open.

Grant stood in the doorway. He took in the scene in a fraction of a second: me, kneeling aggressively on the floor with red, crazed eyes, and his "girlfriend" collapsed beside the fireplace, bleeding and sobbing.

A terrifying, thunderous rage darkened Grant's face.

He closed the distance between us in two massive strides. Before I could even open my mouth to explain, Grant's large hand clamped down on my shoulder. With a brutal, uncompromising force, he violently shoved me backward.

I hit the floor hard, my wrist twisting painfully, but he didn't even look at me.

He immediately dropped to his knees, carefully gathering the sobbing Olivia into his arms.

"Grant, I'm so sorry!" Olivia cried, burying her face in his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. "I just wanted to talk to Brooke... I wanted to tell her not to be mad about last night. But she suddenly started screaming that I stole her place... she kept shouting that she was your real wife, and then she pushed me..."

"That's a lie!" I screamed, my voice tearing through my raw throat. I pointed a shaking, burned finger at her. "She burned our photos! She destroyed my necklace!"

Grant slowly turned his head to look at me.

The look in his eyes made the blood freeze in my veins. There was no confusion. There was no hesitation. There was only absolute, unfiltered disgust.

"You are out of your mind," Grant said, his voice dropping to a freezing, lethal octave. "You're actually psychotic."

"Look at it!" I cried frantically, holding up the crushed, bent piece of silver. My tears fell uncontrollably, blurring my vision. "Look at it, Grant! This isn't just a necklace! You made this for me! You stayed up for three nights in your workshop, hammering this out by hand because you said you wanted to give me something money couldn't buy! How can you not remember?!"

Grant stared at the cheap, mangled piece of silver in my trembling, soot-stained hands.

Not a single flicker of recognition crossed his face. Not a shred of empathy.

He let out a harsh, mocking scoff that sliced straight through my soul.

"Me?" Grant sneered, his tone dripping with toxic condescension. "The CEO of the Whitmore Group, locking himself in a room to make a piece of cheap, worthless trash for my brother's fiancée? Brooke, your delusions have crossed the line into full-blown schizophrenia. You need psychiatric help."

I stopped breathing. The air was physically punched out of my lungs.

Cheap, worthless trash.

Then, Grant did something that completely, irreparably shattered whatever was left of my dignity.

He reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket and pulled out a sleek, black Centurion credit card.

Without breaking eye contact, he flicked his wrist and threw the heavy metal card directly at my face.

The sharp edge of the card struck my cheekbone with a stinging slap before clattering loudly onto the marble floor, landing right next to my knees.

"It's just a damn necklace," Grant said, looking down at me like I was a beggar on the street. "There's no limit on that card. Take the money. Go buy a new one. Buy ten of them. Buy whatever it takes to satisfy your pathetic greed."

He tightened his arms protectively around Olivia, lifting her up from the floor and pressing her safely against his broad chest.

He looked down at me one last time, delivering his final, merciless verdict.

"But from this second on, keep your insane delusions to yourself. And stay the hell away from my fiancée."

He turned his back on me. He carried Olivia out of the room, his long strides echoing down the hall until they completely faded away.

The sitting room was dead silent again, save for the crackling of the fire that had just consumed our memories.

I didn't look at the limitless black card lying on the floor.

I just sat there, kneeling on the cold marble, my fingers gripping the crushed silver swallow so tightly that the sharp, broken metal pierced the skin of my palm. Warm blood slowly slid down my wrist, dripping onto the floor.

But I didn't feel the pain. I didn't feel anything at all.

My mind was entirely consumed by the last three words he had spoken before he walked away.

My fiancée.

For five long years of hidden, secret marriage, he had never once given me a public title. He had never defended my honor in front of the world.

And now, he had taken that title, weaponized it, and publicly crowned the woman who had just destroyed our past.

I lowered my head, staring at the blood pooling in my hand, and listened to the sound of my own heart finally stopping its desperate, foolish beating.

Fiancée.

I repeated the word silently in my mind, the last breath of my love turning into ashes.

Fine, Grant.

As you wish.