He Forgot Me, I Married His Brother

Gretchen pushed open the heavy double doors of The Plaza Hotel ballroom.

Her breath came in short, jagged gasps, betraying the frantic tension that had been building in her chest for three agonizing months.

The moment she stepped inside, a waterfall of blinding camera flashes slammed into her face.

The harsh white light forced her to narrow her eyes.

She immediately straightened her spine, locking her shoulders back into the proud, rigid posture of a prima ballerina.

She forced herself to ignore the probing, pitying stares of the Manhattan elite that burned into her skin.

Her eyes darted frantically through the sea of clinking champagne glasses and designer suits.

She was looking for one specific silhouette.

Then, her gaze locked onto the main stage.

There he was.

Barnett Spencer.

He stood tall and broad-shouldered, the man she had loved for six years, the man who had vanished without a trace ninety days ago.

Gretchen's heart violently contracted against her ribs.

A hot sting of tears flooded her eyes.

She grabbed the heavy silk fabric of her gown and took a desperate step forward.

But her foot froze mid-air.

Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

Tucked tightly into the crook of Barnett's arm was a strange woman.

The woman was wearing a cheap, poorly fitted white dress.

Sensing the heavy stare, the stranger shrank back like a startled deer.

The strange woman pressed her small frame deeper into Barnett's chest, burying her face against his expensive suit lapel as if seeking absolute refuge.

Barnett immediately looked down at her.

His face softened into the exact same tender, protective expression that Gretchen had believed belonged only to her.

He murmured something low to the woman, his hand gently rubbing her arm.

The sight hit Gretchen like a physical blow to the stomach.

The air was violently punched out of her lungs.

Her brain went entirely blank, leaving only a deafening ringing in her ears.

She bit down hard on her back teeth.

She shoved past a waiter who tried to offer her a tray, nearly knocking the crystal glasses to the floor.

She marched straight toward the steps of the main stage.

"Barnett!"

Her voice tore out of her throat, trembling and raw.

The sound sliced through the luxurious ballroom like a shattered glass.

Every single conversation in the room stopped instantly.

The camera lenses of a dozen media outlets swiveled like predators, locking onto the abandoned principal dancer.

Barnett turned his head at the sound of his name.

His forehead creased into a deep frown.

He looked down at Gretchen, and his eyes held nothing but absolute, freezing hostility.

There was no recognition.

"Miss, you have the wrong person."

His deep voice echoed through the microphone, entirely devoid of emotion.

The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured directly over Gretchen's head.

Her entire body began to shake.

She stared at him, her eyes wide with a horrified disbelief.

"I am Gretchen, your fiancée! What are you talking about?"

Her voice cracked as she lost control, and she lunged forward to grab his sleeve.

Before her fingers could brush his suit, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped in.

They formed a solid, unyielding wall of muscle, shoving her roughly back to the bottom of the stairs.

The woman in his arms let out a soft, fragile gasp.

Her hands gripped Barnett's suit lapels tightly, but a fleeting spark of triumph flashed in her eyes.

"Don't be afraid, I'm here."

Barnett pulled the woman entirely behind his broad back.

He glared down at Gretchen with naked, visceral disgust.

The Spencer family's chief lawyer quickly stepped out from the shadows.

He moved in front of the microphone and cleared his throat, taking control of the chaotic room.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Spencer suffered severe head trauma in a recent accident."

The lawyer's voice was calm and clinical.

"He has lost all memory of the past six years."

The ballroom erupted into a deafening roar of gasps and whispers.

Journalists frantically mashed their camera shutters, capturing the exact moment all color drained from Gretchen's face.

Gretchen felt as if a lightning bolt had struck her chest.

Her long fingers curled into fists, digging her nails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

She needed the sharp physical pain to keep her knees from buckling.

"And this is Miss Joslyn," the lawyer continued, raising his voice over the noise.

"She is the woman who saved Mr. Spencer's life on a remote coastline."

Barnett took the microphone back from the lawyer.

He looked right over Gretchen's trembling shoulders, fixing his gaze firmly on the flashing cameras.

"Not only that," Barnett declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.

"Just yesterday, Joslyn and I registered our marriage in Nevada."

He tightened his grip on Joslyn's waist.

"She is now my legal wife."

The blinding white flashes of the cameras completely swallowed Gretchen's vision.

A crushing wave of humiliation crashed over her, tearing her dignity into bloody shreds.

Three aggressive reporters broke through the security line.

They shoved their microphones inches from her face.

They shouted sharp, cruel questions, asking how it felt to be publicly dumped for a stranger.

Gretchen bit down on her lower lip.

She bit so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of her own blood.

She forced the burning tears back down her throat.

She lifted her long, swan-like neck, tilting her chin up to the ceiling.

She did not let a single tear fall.

Using the flawless, disciplined poise of a ballerina, she turned her back on the stage.

She placed one foot in front of the other, walking steadily out of the suffocating slaughterhouse they had made of her life.

Gretchen threw her head back and swallowed the last burning drop of her dry martini.

The harsh liquid scorched a path down her throat, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach.

The dim, amber lighting of the Soho House private club offered her a dark corner to hide.

A man in a custom-tailored suit leaned heavily against the bar next to her.

His eyes roamed hungrily up and down her bare legs.

Gretchen turned her head slowly, fixing him with a dead, freezing stare.

"Get lost."

The words slipped from her lips, flat and utterly fearless.

The man's face flushed red with sudden, wounded pride.

He reached out, his thick fingers grabbing her wrist to pull her off the stool.

He muttered a filthy curse under his breath.

Before Gretchen could pull away, a large hand shot out from the shadows.

The hand, adorned with a heavy Patek Philippe watch, clamped down on the man's wrist like a steel vice.

A sickening pop of grinding bone echoed over the low jazz music.

The man let out a sharp, pathetic yelp.

He stumbled backward, clutching his arm to his chest, his face pale with pain.

Gretchen blinked her heavy eyes and turned her head.

Her gaze crashed into a pair of deep, dangerous, gray-blue eyes.

Dixon Spencer stepped smoothly out of the shadows of the VIP booth.

He was Barnett's younger brother.

He moved with the lazy grace of a predator, taking the empty barstool right beside her.

He raised two fingers in the air.

The bartender immediately backed away to the far end of the counter, terrified, leaving them in absolute privacy.

Gretchen stared at the sharp angles of his face.

He looked so much like Barnett, yet infinitely more lethal.

Her stomach violently churned.

She grabbed her small clutch purse from the counter and stood up.

"Running away?"

Dixon's voice was a low, dark rumble, like a demon whispering in the dark.

"Just like you ran away from The Plaza tonight? Like a stray dog?"

The words stomped directly onto her bleeding wounds.

Gretchen froze in her tracks.

She spun around, her chest heaving, glaring at him with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Did you come here to laugh at me, the second son of the Spencer family?"

She sneered, her knuckles turning stark white as she gripped her purse.

Dixon's lips curved into a cold, entirely humorless smirk.

He reached into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket.

He pulled out a neatly folded legal document and slid it across the polished mahogany bar.

"I came to hand you a knife."

He tapped his long, elegant index finger against the thick paper.

"Do you want to destroy Barnett?"

Gretchen stopped breathing.

Her eyes were dragged downward against her will, landing on the bold black letters at the top of the page.

Commercial Marriage Agreement.

"He forgot you," Dixon said smoothly, tossing out the bait.

"He married a woman from nowhere. And now, he plans to transfer the company shares that belonged to both of us to that little stray."

Gretchen's breathing turned shallow and rapid.

The image of Barnett looking at her with absolute disgust flashed behind her eyelids.

A sharp, stabbing pain twisted her heart.

"Marry me."

Dixon leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.

The scent of cedar and expensive tobacco wrapped around her.

"Move back into the estate, openly and legally, as the second Mrs. Spencer."

Gretchen stumbled back half a step.

She stared at him like he had lost his mind.

"Are you insane? I am your brother's ex-fiancée!"

"Exactly."

Dixon's eyes darkened into a pitch-black void, threatening to swallow her whole.

"That is what makes it the perfect revenge. I want his shares. You want his pain. We both get what we want."

Gretchen gasped for air.

Every rational thought in her brain screamed at her to run away from this dangerous man.

But the alcohol in her bloodstream poured gasoline on her burning hatred.

She refused to be kicked to the curb like a piece of trash.

"Why me?"

She ground her teeth together, probing for the trap.

"Because you are the only person who can make him and the old man utterly miserable."

Dixon delivered the business excuse flawlessly.

He blinked, hiding a dark, possessive gleam that flared in his pupils for a fraction of a second, burying the true depth of his calculations behind a flawless mask.

Gretchen closed her eyes.

A single, hot tear finally broke free and slid down her cheek.

She raised the back of her hand and wiped it away with a violent, angry swipe.

When she opened her eyes again, the fragile, broken woman was gone.

Only a cold, burning fire remained.

She snatched the heavy Montblanc pen resting on the bar.

Without a single second of hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name at the bottom of the page.

Dixon stared at the wet ink.

His Adam's apple bobbed sharply against his collar.

He snatched the document back instantly, as if terrified she might rip it up.

"Let's go, Mrs. Spencer."

He stood up, his tall frame towering over her.

He wrapped his large hand firmly around her waist, leaving no room for argument.

He guided her out of the dim club and into the freezing Manhattan night.

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.