The Placeholder Wife: His Too Late Regret

Brooke POV

The next morning, the penthouse felt less like a home and more like a gilded cage I had foolishly forgotten to lock.

I was in the middle of packing-just my clothes, nothing he had ever bought me-when the front door beeped.

Ethan walked in. He looked like absolute hell.

His shirt was rumpled, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He reeked of stale scotch and the cloying sweetness of Kylie's perfume.

He stopped dead when he saw the suitcase on the living room floor.

"Going on a trip?" he asked, bypassing me to reach the kitchen.

"I'm leaving, Ethan," I said, my hands steady as I folded a sweater.

He downed a glass of water in one long gulp and slammed it onto the marble counter.

"Don't be dramatic, Brooke. I had a long night. Kylie was... difficult."

I didn't answer. I just kept packing.

He turned around, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms. The movement strained the fine fabric of his shirt against his biceps. He was used to being looked at. He was used to being obeyed.

"Put the bag away," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "We have a schedule."

I laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound that scraped my throat.

"A schedule? Is that what you call it?"

"My father is coming over for dinner on Sunday," he stated flatly. "We need to discuss the pre-nup renewal. The lawyers found a loophole regarding the payout. If you leave early, you get nothing. Zero. And your mother's medical care gets cut off immediately."

He played the card. The only card that mattered.

He watched my face, waiting for the fear to set in. Waiting for the submission.

But I wasn't afraid anymore. I had secretly audited my mother's accounts weeks ago. I had been siphoning my salary from the gaming division for three years. I had enough to move her to a private facility in Oregon. I didn't need his blood money.

"I don't care about the money, Ethan."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're bluffing. You have nowhere to go."

He walked over and kicked the suitcase shut with the toe of his shoe.

"Get dressed. We're going out."

"Excuse me?"

"Kylie is throwing a 'reconciliation' party at her penthouse tonight," he said, sounding bored. "To apologize to the family for the scene at the gala. She invited us."

"You want me to go to a party hosted by the woman who threw wine on me yesterday?"

Ethan ran a hand through his messy hair, looking annoyed that I was making this difficult.

"It's about unity, Brooke. If we don't go, it looks like there's a rift. It makes us look weak to the rival families. You just have to stand there, smile, and drink a martini. It's what you're good at."

What I'm good at.

Standing. Smiling. Being a prop.

I looked at him-really looked at him. I saw the arrogance, the blindness. He didn't see a person. He saw a narrative asset.

"Fine," I said, my voice hollow. "I'll go."

He relaxed, thinking he had won. "Good girl. Wear the red dress. The one I bought you last Christmas. It matches the tie I'm wearing."

He walked into the bedroom to shower, stripping off his shirt as he went.

I waited until the water turned on. Then, I followed him into the bedroom.

I went to the back of his closet, to the high shelf where he kept his seasonal gear. I reached behind a stack of sweaters and pulled out a small, dusty wooden box.

Inside was a watch. I had designed the face myself, sketching the gears, the intricate layout late into the night. I had it custom-made in Switzerland. It had taken six months of coordination.

I had given it to him for his birthday three years ago.

It was still in the box. The cheap plastic protector was still peeling off the glass. He had never even wound it.

Next to it was a first edition of The Great Gatsby, his favorite book. Unopened. The spine hadn't even been cracked.

A cashmere scarf I knitted. Unworn.

He hadn't just rejected my love; he hadn't even bothered to acknowledge its existence.

I put the box back into the darkness.

I put on the red dress. It fit like a second skin, hugging my curves, the slit riding high up my thigh. I applied my makeup like war paint. Sharp, winged eyeliner. Blood-red lipstick.

When I walked out, Ethan was waiting. He looked me up and down, his eyes dark with possession.

"Perfect," he said. "You look like a Spencer."

No, Ethan, I thought as I grabbed my purse.

I look like a widow.