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.
