He Forgot Me, I Married His Brother

A blast of freezing morning wind whipped across Gretchen's face.

She groaned, pressing her fingers hard against her throbbing temples.

She slowly peeled her eyes open.

She was sitting in the plush leather passenger seat of an unfamiliar Maybach.

Through the tinted window, the massive stone pillars of the Manhattan City Hall loomed over her.

Dixon pushed open the driver's side door and stepped out into the cold.

He walked around the hood of the car and yanked her heavy door open.

"Get out."

His tone was hard and clipped.

He shoved a freezing cup of iced Americano into her hands, forcing the cold plastic against her warm skin.

Gretchen shivered violently.

The memories of the dark bar and the signed contract crashed into her pounding skull.

She pressed her spine hard against the leather seat, her legs feeling like lead.

"Now? We don't even have a Marriage License."

"In New York, with enough money and the right lawyers, a twenty-four-hour waiting period becomes zero."

Dixon let out a short, cold laugh.

He reached in, wrapped his hand around her upper arm, and half-dragged her out of the luxurious cabin.

Gretchen stumbled over her own feet as she followed him up the wide concrete steps.

Couples waiting in line for their morning appointments stared at her wrinkled evening gown in shock.

Dixon ignored them all, pulling her directly past the security checkpoint.

They were ushered into a small, private office in the back of the building.

A judge was already standing behind a wooden desk, wiping sweat from his balding forehead.

Dixon's executive assistant, Kian, stepped forward instantly.

He handed Gretchen a thick stack of legal documents, pointing a silver pen at the dotted lines.

Gretchen's hand shook violently as she took the pen.

She stared at the papers that would legally bind her to the devil.

She hesitated for ten agonizing seconds.

Dixon didn't rush her.

He casually leaned his hip against the edge of the desk.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and turned the volume up.

A news clip played loudly in the quiet room.

It was footage from last night, showing Barnett wrapping his coat around Joslyn's shoulders as they left The Plaza, smiling lovingly.

The sound of Joslyn's shy, breathy giggle shattered the last of Gretchen's hesitation.

She pressed the pen down and signed her name.

The judge quickly mumbled through the standard vows.

"Dixon Spencer, do you take..."

"I do."

Dixon cut the judge off before he could even finish the sentence.

His answer was so fast, so immediate, that it sent a strange shiver down Gretchen's spine.

The judge cleared his throat and turned to her.

Gretchen took a deep breath.

She stared at the blind scales of justice sitting on the desk.

"I do."

Her voice was as cold and hard as stone.

"You may now kiss the bride," the judge announced awkwardly.

Gretchen's entire body went rigid.

She instinctively turned her face away to avoid him.

But Dixon's large hand shot out, his fingers gripping her chin with terrifying strength.

He forced her face back toward him.

He lowered his head.

His warm, firm lips brushed against the corner of her mouth.

It was a fake kiss, heavy with a silent, dark warning.

The moment Kian handed her the stamped marriage certificate, a wave of dizzying nausea hit her.

She walked back to the Maybach like a zombie.

The second the heavy car door clicked shut, the adrenaline left her body.

The crushing weight of her hangover pulled her down, and she slumped against the cold window, falling into a deep sleep.

The Maybach glided smoothly toward Long Island.

Dixon pressed the brake pedal as they hit a red light.

He slowly turned his head to look at the passenger seat.

He reached out his hand.

His thumb gently, greedily traced the dark purple circles under her closed eyes.

His gaze was burning, obsessive, and entirely unhinged.

A car honked loudly from behind them.

Dixon snatched his hand back instantly.

The manic fire in his eyes vanished, replaced by the freezing mask of a Wall Street shark.

The car passed through the heavy iron gates of the Spencer Estate.

He parked near the side entrance of the massive main house.

He got out, walked to her side, and opened the door.

He didn't wake her.

He leaned in and scooped her up into his arms, lifting her against his chest.

The estate maids standing in the foyer gasped, their eyes wide with shock as the second young master carried a woman inside.

Alistair, the head butler, rushed forward to speak.

Dixon shot him a glare so lethal it nailed the old man to the floor.

Dixon carried her straight up the grand staircase.

He kicked open the door to a guest bedroom.

He laid her gently onto the center of the massive, soft mattress.

He stood over the bed, staring down at her sleeping face for a long time.

Then, he pulled the stamped marriage certificate from his pocket.

He dropped it onto the pillow right next to her head.

He turned, walked out, and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. Outside in the quiet corridor, two of his personal security guards took up silent positions, their imposing presence a clear, unspoken warning that she was now fully within his territory.