From Temporary to Unforgettable Love

My husband, Easton, dragged me to a party for his ex-girlfriend, Kelly Holland. Our five-year marriage was a sham, a contract he'd signed to spite her after she left him. I was just the placeholder wife.

During a game of "Seven Minutes in Heaven," he chose Kelly. When they emerged from the powder room, her lipstick was smeared, and a fresh hickey stained her neck.

Later that night, Easton and Kelly stormed into our home. He accused me of stealing her multi-million dollar diamond necklace.

He didn't believe me, even when I swore I was innocent. He called the police, who conveniently found the necklace in my handbag.

He looked at me with disgust. "I never should have married you," he spat. "You're nothing but trash from the slums."

I was arrested based on the word of the woman who set me up. My five years of quiet love and devotion meant nothing. The man I had secretly fallen for saw me as nothing more than a common thief.

I spent the night in a cold holding cell. The next morning, after being bailed out, I took the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in two, and dropped it in the trash. It was over.

I would make them pay. I would burn their entire world to the ground.

Chapter 1

The divorce papers arrived on a Tuesday. The crisp white envelope sat on the marble countertop, my name, Brooke Rollins, typed in a sterile font. Next to it was another name: Easton Spencer. My husband.

For five years, that title had felt like a costume I wore. It was a sham, a placeholder marriage he' d entered into to spite his socialite ex-girlfriend, Kelly Holland, after she' d publicly dumped him.

I stood in the corner of the lavish ballroom, a flute of champagne untouched in my hand.

Then I saw them. Kelly Holland, draped in a glittering silver dress, glided toward me. Her friends, a flock of equally polished women, trailed in her wake. The air grew thick with their expensive perfume and unspoken contempt.

"Brooke, darling," Kelly' s voice was smooth as silk, but her eyes held a familiar cruelty. "I almost didn' t recognize you. You clean up surprisingly well."

I didn' t smile. I just met her gaze. "Kelly."

One of her friends laughed, a high, tinkling sound. "Still so cold. I guess you can take the girl out of the factory town, but you can' t take the factory town out of the girl."

The words were meant to sting, but I' d heard them, or versions of them, a thousand times. They were nothing.

But Kelly knew where to aim. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "I saw your mother the other day. Still limping around from that factory accident, isn't she? It' s so tragic. You' d think with all of Easton' s money, you could have at least gotten her a decent prosthetic."

A hot, white rage flooded me. My mother was my line. The one thing in this world they couldn' t touch.

My hand moved before I could think. The crack of my palm against Kelly' s cheek echoed in the sudden silence.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Kelly' s head snapped back, a red mark blooming on her perfect skin. For a second, she looked stunned.

Then her eyes narrowed. With a vicious snarl, she grabbed a full glass of red wine from a passing tray and flung its contents at me.

The cold liquid soaked the front of my dress, a dark, ugly stain spreading across the pale fabric. It dripped onto the floor, pooling at my feet. I stood there, shivering and humiliated, the wine clinging to my skin like a second, shameful layer.

Suddenly, a presence was behind me. A large, expensive suit jacket was draped over my shoulders, shielding me from the staring eyes.

"What the hell is going on here?"

Easton' s voice was low and dangerous. I didn't have to turn around to know he was here. He always showed up at the most dramatic moments. His shirt was slightly untucked, and his hair was a mess, as if he' d run all the way here.

He stepped in front of me, a protective wall between me and the world.

He glared at Kelly, his jaw tight. "What did you do?"

Kelly' s face immediately crumpled. Tears welled in her eyes as she pointed a trembling finger at me. "Easton, she hit me! Look! For no reason at all, she just attacked me."

I could see the gears turning in his head, the old, familiar conflict. His loyalty to me, his wife, versus the deep, toxic pull of the woman he' d loved since childhood.

He didn't fall for it this time. Not completely. "Get out, Kelly. Now."

He grabbed my arm, his grip firm, and pulled me away from the scene, through the parted crowd, and out into the cool night air. We walked in silence to his car, the engine a low growl in the quiet parking garage.

Inside the car, he let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his already messy hair. He looked at me, his expression a mix of anger and something I couldn't place.

"Is today something important?" he asked, his voice rough.

My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a small, painful throb. He' d forgotten.

"It was our anniversary, Easton," I said, my voice flat. "Yesterday."

He flinched. The guilt was plain on his face. "I' m sorry, Brooke. I... I' ll make it up to you. I' ll buy you anything you want."

That was Easton. Meticulous with gifts and grand gestures, a performance of a perfect husband. But emotionally, he was a black hole. He could remember to send flowers but forget the reason why. He was a man of breathtaking consideration and even more breathtaking cruelty.

Just as he was about to start the car, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

Kelly Holland.

Easton' s face hardened as he answered the phone, his voice a low growl. "What do you want, Kelly?"

He hit the brakes so hard the car lurched. I could hear her frantic, sobbing voice through the speaker, even with the volume low.

"Don' t you ever threaten me again," Easton snapped, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "You know I' m not joking."

Her crying intensified, becoming a desperate, manipulative wail. It was a sound he' d never been able to resist. I watched the tension in his shoulders, the war on his face. He was a CEO who could command boardrooms and crush competitors, but in the face of Kelly's tears, he was powerless.

After a long, tense silence, he sighed, his entire body slumping in defeat. "Fine. Where are you?"

He hung up and turned to me, his eyes filled with an apology that felt as hollow as our marriage. "Brooke, I' m sorry. She... she' s threatening to do something stupid. I have to go see her. Will you come with me?"

I hesitated. The divorce papers were sitting on our counter at home. My escape was already in motion. This was just one more night of humiliation. One last one.

"Fine," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

We arrived at the Holland family mansion to find Kelly waiting on the porch, her face tear-streaked but her eyes gleaming with triumph. The moment Easton got out of the car, she threw herself into his arms, clinging to him like a vine.

He stiffened, trying to gently push her away. "Kelly, stop."

She just held on tighter, burying her face in his chest. "Don' t leave me, Easton. Please."

He looked over her head, his eyes meeting mine for a brief, helpless moment before he finally gave in, his arms wrapping around her in a gesture of reluctant comfort.

I watched from the driver' s side, a silent, invisible spectator to their endless drama. My heart felt like a block of ice in my chest.

"Brooke," Easton' s voice was strained. "You drive."

It wasn' t a request. It was an order. We were going to her parents' lake house. They were worried about her.

"Easton, I..."

"Just do it, Brooke," he said, his voice sharp with impatience. He didn' t want to argue in front of her.

He got in the back with Kelly, leaving me to take the wheel. I was no longer his wife; I was his chauffeur. The humiliation burned in my gut as I felt the eyes of the Hollands' staff on me. I was the hired help, the placeholder, the substitute.

I started the car, my hands gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles were white.

In the rearview mirror, I could see Kelly whispering in Easton' s ear, her hand sliding up his thigh.

"Kelly, cut it out," he warned, his voice low and tight.

She pouted, feigning innocence. "I' m just cold, Easton. Hold me."

My stomach churned. I gripped the wheel tighter, focusing on the road ahead.

He glanced at me in the mirror, his eyes filled with a fleeting apology. It meant nothing.

Then, he turned back to her, his voice softening into that familiar, indulgent tone he only ever used for her. "Okay, Kelly. Okay."

I let out a shaky breath, a bitter laugh dying in my throat. What a joke. This marriage, my life for the past five years. It was all a joke, and I was the punchline.

The Holland family rarely interacted with Easton anymore, not since he' d married me. But now, as we pulled up to their sprawling lake house, they rushed out to greet him like a returning king.

"Easton, you' re finally here!" Mrs. Holland exclaimed, hugging him warmly.

"Easton, I knew you wouldn' t abandon our Kelly," Kelly cooed, clinging to his arm possessively.

They swept him inside, a whirlwind of affection and familiarity, leaving me completely alone.

I sat in the car, the engine off, the silence deafening. They had forgotten I even existed.

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. A text from Easton.

`You can go home first. I' ll stay here tonight.`

My fingers went numb. He didn' t even have the decency to say it to my face. I was dismissed. Sent away like an employee whose shift was over.

I stared at the screen, the words blurring through a film of tears I refused to let fall. It was over. It was finally, truly over.

Driving back to the city, the past five years played out in my mind like a movie I was forced to re-watch.

My mother, Erna, had worked as a seamstress for the Spencer family' s textile business before a machine malfunction left her with a permanent disability. We were the help. They were the elite. That was the line drawn between us from the day I was born.

In the private high school I attended on a scholarship, that line was a wall. I was the charity case, the girl with the secondhand uniform and the working-class accent. Kelly Holland, with her perfect clothes and cruel smile, made sure I never forgot it.

She and her friends cornered me in the locker room once, pushing me against the cold tiles. "Look at her," Kelly sneered, yanking my hair. "Do you really think you belong here?"

I was terrified, helpless.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the air. "Leave her alone."

It was Easton. He was a senior, a god in the halls of that school. He stood there, effortlessly powerful, and Kelly' s posse scattered like mice. He didn' t even look at me. He just dealt with the situation, reported Kelly for bullying, and moved on.

But I never forgot. A seed of a crush was planted that day, a foolish, hopeless admiration for the boy who had, for a moment, been my protector.

I watched him from afar for years. I saw how he doted on Kelly, how he chased her through every breakup and tantrum. He was desperately in love with her. I knew I never stood a chance, so I buried that crush and focused on my studies. I excelled, pouring all my energy into my passion: narrative design for video games.

Years later, fate threw us together again. I was working as a caterer at what was supposed to be Easton and Kelly' s wedding. The guests were all assembled, the orchestra was playing, but the bride was a no-show.

Kelly had sent a text. She' d run off with some European model. It wasn' t the first time she' d left him standing at the altar.

I saw Easton standing alone, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. In a fit of pure, vengeful spite, he turned, his eyes scanning the crowd, and they landed on me.

"You," he said, his voice dangerously low. "Marry me."

I was so shocked, I couldn't speak. He offered me a deal. A five-year contract marriage. He needed a wife to save face, to show Kelly she couldn' t break him. I, with my quiet intelligence and unthreatening background, was the perfect candidate.

And I, remembering the boy who saved me in the locker room, with that long-buried crush stirring in my heart, said yes.

For five years, he played the part of a perfect husband. We were polite, respectful strangers sharing a house. He made sure my mother received the best medical care, that she was comfortable. He never forgot my birthday or a holiday, always presenting me with a thoughtful, expensive gift. In public, if anyone dared to look down on me, he would shut them down with a cold, protective glare.

I allowed myself to hope. I thought maybe, just maybe, this performance had become real for him, too.

Then, six months ago, I overheard him talking to his friend in his study.

"I can' t believe Kelly' s coming back," his friend said.

Easton' s voice was weary. "I always knew she would."

"What about Brooke? Are you just going to toss her aside?"

I held my breath, my heart pounding against my ribs.

I heard Easton sigh. "Brooke was always temporary. She' s a cheap placeholder, a way to pass the time until Kelly was ready to come back to me. She knows her place."

The words shattered my carefully constructed fantasy. A cheap placeholder. The truth was colder and crueler than I could have ever imagined. My five years of hope, of quiet devotion, turned to ash in my mouth.