The Placeholder Wife: His Too Late Regret

On our fifth anniversary, I didn't get a gift. I got divorce papers.

My husband, Ethan Spencer, the city's most feared Underboss, stood by while his mistress threw red wine over my white gown in front of the entire elite.

"You're just a placeholder, Brooke," she sneered. "A factory rat keeping the seat warm."

I waited for Ethan to defend me. Instead, when she planted a necklace in my bag and accused me of theft, he didn't check the cameras. He didn't look at the blood soaking my dress where he had shoved me aside.

He called the police on his own wife.

"Take her away," he ordered cold-heartedly, stepping over me to comfort the crying woman who was framing me.

I spent the night in a freezing cell, realizing that for five years, he hadn't even opened the anniversary gifts I hid in his closet. He didn't know I wrote the stories for his company's games. He didn't know I was the one keeping his empire afloat.

When I was released, I didn't go back to the penthouse.

I walked straight to the headquarters of his sworn enemy, Dominic Cannon.

"I heard you're looking for a narrative designer," I said, placing my wedding ring on his desk. "And I know exactly how to destroy the Spencer family."

By the time Ethan found out the truth and came crawling back, dying and clutching the steel rose I once made him, it was too late.

I was already wearing someone else's ring.

Chapter 1

Brooke POV

I stood anchored in the center of the ballroom, clutching the manila envelope that contained the autopsy of my marriage, while the orchestra swelled into the very song we had danced to at our wedding.

The irony was sharp enough to sever an artery.

Five years of silence. Five years of playing the perfect, invisible ghost to the most feared Underboss in the city. And on the night of our fifth anniversary, while the elite of the criminal underworld sipped champagne that cost more than my mother's life was worth to them, I was served divorce papers by a courier who trembled to be within ten feet of the Spencer family guards.

Ethan Spencer held court across the room.

He was a masterpiece of violence tailored into a tuxedo. Dark hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that usually swept over me like I was a piece of furniture he had regretted purchasing. He was laughing at something a Capo said, his hand resting heavily on the shoulder of a man he would likely order dead by sunrise. That was Ethan. He was the heir to the Spencer empire, a man whose reputation was built on broken bones and silent graves.

I was just the collateral damage.

I retreated into the shadows near a heavy velvet curtain, my fingers trembling against the coarse grain of the envelope. I should have cried. I should have made a scene. But in this world, tears were blood in the water, and the sharks were always circling.

One shark in particular.

Kylie Holland cut through the crowd like a toxic spill in red silk. She wore a dress that was less fabric and more of a suggestion, the material clinging to her like a second skin. She was the daughter of a minor associate, a woman with no respect for Omertà and even less for me.

She spotted me alone. Of course she did. Predators always sense the wounded.

She approached, her entourage of giggling social climbers trailing in her wake. They surrounded me, effectively cutting off my exit.

"Happy Anniversary, Brooke," Kylie purred, her voice dripping with saccharine malice. "You look... quaint. Did you make that dress yourself? Or did your mother stitch it with her one good hand?"

My stomach plummeted.

It was a low blow, even for her. My mother had lost three fingers in a hydraulic press at a Spencer textile factory years ago. It was the accident that had bound my life to this family, the blood money that paid for my silence and my servitude.

I tightened my grip on my clutch until my knuckles turned white.

"Go away, Kylie," I whispered.

She stepped closer, invading my personal space. I smelled her expensive perfume, cloying and heavy, masking the scent of her cruelty.

"Oh, don't be like that," she sneered, leaning in so only I could hear. "Ethan told me about the prosthetic he bought your mom. Cheap plastic for cheap labor. Just like he bought you. You're just a factory rat playing dress-up in a castle, Brooke. Everyone knows it. Ethan is just waiting for the contract to expire so he can flush you like the waste you are."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It was five years of swallowed pride, five years of averting my gaze, five years of being the dutiful, silent wife exploding in a single, violent second.

My hand moved before conscience could intervene.

The sound of my palm striking her cheek cracked like a pistol shot through the sudden silence of the ballroom.

Kylie stumbled back, her hand flying to her face, her eyes wide with shock. The music seemed to die instantly. Every eye in the room turned toward us.

"You bitch!" she shrieked.

Before I could draw a breath, she snatched a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and hurled the contents at me.

The cold liquid splashed across my chest, soaking the white silk of my gown, dripping down like a fresh, gaping wound. The humiliation was instant and searing. I stood there, stained and shaking, while the room erupted in whispers.

"Brooke."

The voice was low, dangerous, and terrifyingly familiar.

Ethan pushed through the crowd. The sea of gangsters parted for the Underboss. He looked at me, his cold eyes scanning the wine stain, the papers in my hand, and finally, Kylie.

Kylie immediately burst into tears, a performance worthy of an Academy Award.

"She hit me, Ethan!" she sobbed, clinging to his arm like a vine. "I just came to say hello, and she went crazy! Look at my face!"

Ethan looked at the blooming red mark on her cheek. Then he looked at me.

I waited for him to defend me. I waited for him to exercise the power he held over this city, to demand respect for his wife. I waited for the boy I had loved since high school to finally see me.

"Go to the car, Brooke," he said, his voice flat.

I stared at him. "You're joking."

"You made a scene," he said, his jaw tightening. "You disrespected an Associate's daughter. Go to the car. Now."

He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It wasn't an act of care. It was an act of concealment. He was covering the stain on his reputation, not protecting his wife.

He turned back to Kylie, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur, his hand lingering on her arm to calm her down.

I turned and walked out.

I walked past the guards, past the valets, and climbed into the back of his armored SUV. The leather was cold against my skin. I sat in the dark, shivering, the cloying smell of wine making me nauseous.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Ethan slid in beside me. He didn't look at me. He tapped on the partition, signaling the driver to move.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, adjusting his cuffs.

I didn't answer. I just stared out the window at the blurring city lights.

"Kylie is a brat, but you know better than to strike someone in public," he lectured, sounding like a disappointed father. "It makes the family look unstable."

I reached into my purse and touched the envelope.

"Is that all you care about?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "The family image?"

"It's my job, Brooke," he said, checking his watch. "We have a reputation to maintain. Speaking of which, why were you so on edge tonight? Is it a special date or something?"

The air left the car.

He didn't know. He genuinely didn't know.

I turned to look at him. The passing streetlights cast intermittent shadows across his handsome, cruel face.

"It's our anniversary, Ethan," I said.

He froze. His hand paused over his phone. For a second, just a single heartbeat, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Regret?

"Oh," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card.

"Buy yourself something tomorrow. A new car. Jewelry. Whatever you want. Just... keep a low profile for a few days until this blows over."

Material penance. The Spencer way.

His burner phone rang.

He looked at the screen. His expression hardened, shifting instantly from the negligent husband back to the ruthless Underboss.

He answered it.

"Kylie?"

I closed my eyes as the car sped into the darkness, realizing that the divorce papers were the kindest thing he had given me all year.