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.
