The Placeholder Wife: His Too Late Regret

Brooke POV

Kylie's penthouse wasn't just a home; it was a sensory assault.

Techno music didn't just play; it besieged the walls, the bass vibrating deep in the hollow of my chest. The air was thick, a suffocating haze of smoke and the cloying scent of expensive drugs. Low, oscillating lights in bruised shades of purple and red turned the guests into distorted, writhing shadows.

This was Kylie's territory. The chaotic, hedonistic underbelly of the elite.

When we walked in, the room went quiet for a beat, suspended in judgment, before the whispers started. Ethan kept a firm hand on the small of my back. It felt like a brand. Property of Spencer.

Kylie detached herself from a group of men near the bar. She was wearing a silver dress that looked like liquid chainmail, shimmering with every predatory step. She walked over, a glass of vodka in her hand, a sharp smile on her face.

"Ethan!" She kissed his cheek, lingering uncomfortably long near his mouth. "And Brooke. So glad you could make it. I was worried you'd be too... sensitive to come out tonight."

She signaled a waiter with a snap of her fingers.

"Caviar for the lady," she commanded. "But make sure it's the domestic kind. We don't want to overwhelm her palate. She's used to... simpler things."

Her friends giggled, a sound like breaking glass.

I took the plate the waiter offered, staring down at the black pearls of fish eggs.

"I prefer domestic," I said smoothly, meeting her gaze. "It's less pretentious."

Ethan squeezed my waist. A warning. Be nice.

"Let's play a game!" Kylie shouted, clapping her hands. The music dipped on cue. Everyone gathered around the sunken living room.

Kylie stood on the coffee table, towering over us.

"Seven Minutes in Heaven!" she announced. "Old school. We put numbers in a hat. If your numbers match, you go into the guest room for seven minutes. No rules."

It was juvenile. It was trashy. It was exactly what I expected from her.

Ethan sighed but didn't move to leave. He was the Underboss; he had to indulge the hostess to keep the peace, even if the cost was my dignity.

I tried to step back, to fade into the shadows, but Kylie pointed a manicured finger at me.

"Everyone plays, Brooke. Unless you're scared?"

My jaw tightened. I drew a number. 42.

Ethan drew. He looked at his paper and frowned.

Kylie drew last. She unfolded her paper and squealed.

"Number 98! Who has 98?"

Ethan didn't say anything. He just held up his slip of paper.

The room erupted in cheers and catcalls. "Fate!" someone yelled.

It wasn't fate. It was a rig. I had seen Kylie wink at the guy holding the hat.

Ethan looked at me. He hesitated. For a moment, I thought he would refuse. I thought he would say, I'm a married man, this is ridiculous.

"It's just a game, Brooke," he said, his voice low. "It means nothing. It keeps her happy."

He let go of my waist.

The physical loss of contact felt like he had pushed me off a cliff.

He walked toward Kylie. She grabbed his hand, interlacing her fingers with his, and pulled him toward the guest room.

The door closed. The lock clicked.

Seven minutes.

The crowd laughed. Someone made a joke about what they were doing in there. Someone else looked at me with pity.

I stood there in my red dress, the trophy wife, the placeholder.

One minute passed.

Then two.

I imagined them. I imagined his hands-the hands that never touched me with passion-touching her. I imagined her whispering in his ear, winning.

Three minutes.

I couldn't breathe. The purple lights were suffocating. The bass was a hammer against my skull.

I turned and walked toward the exit.

"Where are you going, sweetie?" one of Kylie's friends mocked. "The game isn't over."

I ignored her. I pushed past the guards at the door.

I hit the elevator button, jamming it over and over.

When the doors opened, I stepped in. As they closed, I saw the guest room door open.

It hadn't been seven minutes. It had been four.

Ethan stepped out, his tie loosened, his hair messed up. Kylie was behind him, smirking, wiping lipstick off her mouth.

Ethan looked across the room. He saw the empty spot where I had been standing.

His eyes scanned the crowd, panic flashing for a microsecond before the elevator doors slid shut, sealing me in my metallic coffin.

I didn't go down to the lobby. I pressed the button for the roof.

I needed air. I needed to scream.

But when the doors opened to the cold night, I realized I didn't want to scream.

I wanted war.

My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from an unknown number.

It was a video file.

I clicked play.

It was grainy, shot in the dark of the guest room just moments ago. Ethan was pinned against the wall. Kylie was kissing his neck.

"I can't refuse you," he rasped in the audio. "You know I can't."

Then a text followed.

He is mine. He always was. Give up, factory girl.

I walked to the edge of the roof. The city sprawled below me, a grid of lights and corruption. I looked at the diamond ring on my finger. The Spencer family heirloom.

I pulled it off.

I held it over the edge, the metal cold against the wind.

"This is my resignation," I whispered to the empty night.

I let go.

I watched the diamond catch the light one last time before it disappeared into the darkness of the alley below.

I turned around and walked back to the elevator.

The Canary was dead.

The Phoenix was waking up.