POV: Brooke
The blinding flashes of the cameras hit me like a torrential downpour.
"Mr. Whitmore! Miss Brooke! Is it true that you two are finally tying the knot after all these years?"
"Brooke, look over here! Are you and Spencer officially back together?"
I walked down the crimson red carpet, my arm securely looped through Spencer’s. I maintained a perfectly curated, flawless smile for the cameras, but beneath the designer silk of my gown, my heart felt like it was drowning in acid.
To the rest of the world, I was just Spencer Whitmore's "ex-fiancée" from seven years ago, a woman who had finally found her way back to her rightful place.
Because no one in this room knew the truth.
No one knew that for the past five years, I was actually Grant's legal, wedded wife.
Five years ago, when Grant and I fell in love, he had made the incredibly difficult decision to keep our marriage completely hidden from the public eye. It was to protect the Whitmore Group's fragile stock prices, but more importantly, he did it to protect me. He didn't want the media tearing me apart, labeling me with vicious, slut-shaming headlines for marrying my ex-fiancé's younger brother.
We chose an absolute, ironclad secret marriage.
For five years, that secrecy was my ivory tower. It was a testament to Grant's extreme, obsessive need to protect me from the world's cruelty.
But tonight, that exact same secrecy had mutated into a suffocating, inescapable tomb. It buried all my legitimate claims, all my grievances, and all my agonizing pain, forcing me to watch my own husband slip away while I couldn't even scream his name.
The massive crystal chandeliers inside the Whitmore family’s annual charity gala bathed the ballroom in a golden, opulent glow.
Spencer kept me close all evening, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. He played the role of the devoted partner flawlessly, whispering intimately in my ear, making us look like a couple deeply, profoundly in love.
I didn't push him away.
I was gambling with the very last ounce of my dignity. I was desperately hoping that when Grant saw me wrapped in his brother's arms, the impenetrable wall of his amnesia would finally crack. I wanted to see him lose control.
A sudden ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd near the grand entrance.
Grant had arrived.
And he wasn't alone.
Because the world didn't know I was Mrs. Whitmore, the socialites and business tycoons naturally flocked to Olivia, treating her as the undisputed woman by Grant's side.
I gripped my champagne flute, my knuckles turning white as I stared at him.
But when Grant’s dark, commanding gaze finally swept across the room and landed on Spencer and me, my chest violently collapsed.
His eyes were as calm and dead as a frozen lake. There was no jealousy. There was no possessive fury.
Instead, he calmly raised his glass in our direction, offering a polite, distant nod. It was the chilling, appropriate greeting of a man acknowledging his future sister-in-law.
A second later, Olivia shivered dramatically, complaining about the ballroom's air conditioning.
Without a single moment of hesitation, Grant slipped off his tailored suit jacket—the one that still carried his body heat and his signature cedarwood scent—and draped it gently over Olivia's bare shoulders. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her temple as he murmured something soft and comforting into her ear.
I had to look away before my tears broke through my meticulously applied makeup.
When the orchestra began to play the opening waltz, Spencer smoothly pulled me onto the dance floor.
I let him guide me through the steps, but my eyes uncontrollably searched the crowded floor.
Come and take me away, a pathetic, desperate voice screamed in my head. Grant, please. Look at me. Get angry. Take me away from him.
But he didn't.
Grant was dancing with Olivia just a few yards away. His strong arm, the arm that had held me through countless nightmares, was wrapped securely around her waist.
Olivia looked up at him and whispered something playful.
I watched as Grant lowered his head and let out a deep, genuine laugh.
It was the very first time I had seen him smile since the car crash.
Then, right there in the middle of the dance floor, under the gaze of hundreds of New York's elite, Grant cupped Olivia's face in his large hands. He closed his eyes and leaned in, capturing her lips in a deep, breathtakingly tender kiss.
That public, legitimate kiss hit me with a force far more devastating than the heavy truck that had nearly killed us.
During our five years of secret marriage, we could never kiss under the spotlight. We had to hide our love in the shadows. And now, he was giving the public devotion I had always secretly craved to a woman who had tried to disfigure me just yesterday.
I missed a step, my heel catching on the hem of my dress.
I finally understood. My pathetic tests, my fake dating with Spencer, my desperate hopes—it was all just a delusional, one-man show.
His heart was completely empty of me.
An hour later, the charity auction commenced.
The final, highly anticipated lot was brought out onto the velvet podium: a legendary antique sapphire necklace known as the "Tears of the Deep Sea."
When the auctioneer pulled away the silk cloth, the massive, ocean-blue jewel glittered under the spotlights, stabbing directly into my eyes.
This was my necklace.
Or, at least, it was supposed to be.
Just a month before the crash, Grant had held me in our bed, kissing the bare skin of my shoulder. He had told me that he was going to buy the "Tears of the Deep Sea" at this exact auction and place it around my neck for our fifth anniversary. He had promised it was his way of compensating me for the years of hiding in the dark.
The bidding started.
Spencer, eager to play the perfect fiancé, immediately raised his paddle.
"Two million!"
But from the front row, Grant calmly raised his hand. "Three million."
The price skyrocketed in a senseless display of sibling rivalry.
"Ten million!" Grant finally declared, his deep voice echoing with terrifying finality through the silent ballroom.
Spencer lowered his paddle, giving me an apologetic smile.
The auctioneer slammed his gavel. Sold.
When Grant stood up and was handed the velvet box containing the sapphire, my heart betrayed me one last time. It hammered frantically against my ribs.
For one brief, fleeting second of absolute stupidity, I thought: Does he subconsciously remember? Does he remember the promise he made to me in the dark? Is he going to walk over here?
I held my breath.
But Grant didn't even look in my direction.
He walked straight past my table, his eyes fixed entirely on Olivia.
The room erupted into thundering applause as Grant stopped in front of his ex-girlfriend. He opened the box, took out the breathtaking sapphire, and gently fastened it around Olivia’s neck. The cameras flashed furiously, immortalizing the romantic gesture.
Grant took the microphone from the MC, his dark eyes looking softly at Olivia.
"This color suits your eyes perfectly," Grant said, his deep, resonant voice echoing through the speakers. "Consider this a compensation for the seven years I missed out on loving you."
The applause roared like a tidal wave, drowning me completely.
I sat frozen in my chair, watching the entire room celebrate the perfect love of the golden couple. I felt the very last drop of warmth, the very last shred of hope for my marriage, drain out of my body.
Because of our secret marriage, my husband was currently standing in front of the whole world, using the private promise he made to me, to love another woman.
And I didn't even have the legal or social right to stand up and slap him across the face.
"Brooke?"
Spencer’s voice was laced with genuine concern. He reached under the table and tightly wrapped his warm hand around my freezing, trembling fingers.
I didn't cry.
The pain had finally surpassed the threshold of tears. I slowly turned my head and looked at Spencer, who was looking at me like I was the only person in the room.
Since Grant had used the most ruthless, public method to announce his new life, why was I still destroying myself? Why was I trapping myself in the agonizing prison of this invisible marriage, begging for a man who didn't even want our past anymore?
I turned my hand over and firmly squeezed Spencer's hand back.
A few moments later, Grant and Olivia began to make their way back to their seats. Their path took them directly past our table.
Just as Grant’s tall frame entered my peripheral vision, I stood up.
I looked directly into Spencer's eyes, offering him a calm, resolute smile.
"Spencer," I said.
I didn't shout, but my voice was clear, steady, and just loud enough for the man walking past us to hear every single syllable.
"I accept your proposal. Let's get married."
I didn't turn my head.
I didn't look at Grant's face.
Therefore, in that retrospective moment, I couldn't possibly see what happened the very second the word 'married' left my lips.
I couldn't see how Grant's footsteps abruptly and violently stopped dead in their tracks.
I couldn't see how the gentle, aristocratic smile on his face instantly vanished, leaving behind a complexion completely drained of all blood.
And I couldn't see how his large hand—the one securely holding Olivia's—suddenly began to spasm with a violent, uncontrollable tremor, as if an invisible, catastrophic agony was tearing his heart straight out of his chest.
