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."
