The Placeholder Wife: His Too Late Regret

On our fifth anniversary, I didn't get a gift. I got divorce papers.

My husband, Ethan Spencer, the city's most feared Underboss, stood by while his mistress threw red wine over my white gown in front of the entire elite.

"You're just a placeholder, Brooke," she sneered. "A factory rat keeping the seat warm."

I waited for Ethan to defend me. Instead, when she planted a necklace in my bag and accused me of theft, he didn't check the cameras. He didn't look at the blood soaking my dress where he had shoved me aside.

He called the police on his own wife.

"Take her away," he ordered cold-heartedly, stepping over me to comfort the crying woman who was framing me.

I spent the night in a freezing cell, realizing that for five years, he hadn't even opened the anniversary gifts I hid in his closet. He didn't know I wrote the stories for his company's games. He didn't know I was the one keeping his empire afloat.

When I was released, I didn't go back to the penthouse.

I walked straight to the headquarters of his sworn enemy, Dominic Cannon.

"I heard you're looking for a narrative designer," I said, placing my wedding ring on his desk. "And I know exactly how to destroy the Spencer family."

By the time Ethan found out the truth and came crawling back, dying and clutching the steel rose I once made him, it was too late.

I was already wearing someone else's ring.

Chapter 1

Brooke POV

I stood anchored in the center of the ballroom, clutching the manila envelope that contained the autopsy of my marriage, while the orchestra swelled into the very song we had danced to at our wedding.

The irony was sharp enough to sever an artery.

Five years of silence. Five years of playing the perfect, invisible ghost to the most feared Underboss in the city. And on the night of our fifth anniversary, while the elite of the criminal underworld sipped champagne that cost more than my mother's life was worth to them, I was served divorce papers by a courier who trembled to be within ten feet of the Spencer family guards.

Ethan Spencer held court across the room.

He was a masterpiece of violence tailored into a tuxedo. Dark hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that usually swept over me like I was a piece of furniture he had regretted purchasing. He was laughing at something a Capo said, his hand resting heavily on the shoulder of a man he would likely order dead by sunrise. That was Ethan. He was the heir to the Spencer empire, a man whose reputation was built on broken bones and silent graves.

I was just the collateral damage.

I retreated into the shadows near a heavy velvet curtain, my fingers trembling against the coarse grain of the envelope. I should have cried. I should have made a scene. But in this world, tears were blood in the water, and the sharks were always circling.

One shark in particular.

Kylie Holland cut through the crowd like a toxic spill in red silk. She wore a dress that was less fabric and more of a suggestion, the material clinging to her like a second skin. She was the daughter of a minor associate, a woman with no respect for Omertà and even less for me.

She spotted me alone. Of course she did. Predators always sense the wounded.

She approached, her entourage of giggling social climbers trailing in her wake. They surrounded me, effectively cutting off my exit.

"Happy Anniversary, Brooke," Kylie purred, her voice dripping with saccharine malice. "You look... quaint. Did you make that dress yourself? Or did your mother stitch it with her one good hand?"

My stomach plummeted.

It was a low blow, even for her. My mother had lost three fingers in a hydraulic press at a Spencer textile factory years ago. It was the accident that had bound my life to this family, the blood money that paid for my silence and my servitude.

I tightened my grip on my clutch until my knuckles turned white.

"Go away, Kylie," I whispered.

She stepped closer, invading my personal space. I smelled her expensive perfume, cloying and heavy, masking the scent of her cruelty.

"Oh, don't be like that," she sneered, leaning in so only I could hear. "Ethan told me about the prosthetic he bought your mom. Cheap plastic for cheap labor. Just like he bought you. You're just a factory rat playing dress-up in a castle, Brooke. Everyone knows it. Ethan is just waiting for the contract to expire so he can flush you like the waste you are."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a conscious decision. It was five years of swallowed pride, five years of averting my gaze, five years of being the dutiful, silent wife exploding in a single, violent second.

My hand moved before conscience could intervene.

The sound of my palm striking her cheek cracked like a pistol shot through the sudden silence of the ballroom.

Kylie stumbled back, her hand flying to her face, her eyes wide with shock. The music seemed to die instantly. Every eye in the room turned toward us.

"You bitch!" she shrieked.

Before I could draw a breath, she snatched a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and hurled the contents at me.

The cold liquid splashed across my chest, soaking the white silk of my gown, dripping down like a fresh, gaping wound. The humiliation was instant and searing. I stood there, stained and shaking, while the room erupted in whispers.

"Brooke."

The voice was low, dangerous, and terrifyingly familiar.

Ethan pushed through the crowd. The sea of gangsters parted for the Underboss. He looked at me, his cold eyes scanning the wine stain, the papers in my hand, and finally, Kylie.

Kylie immediately burst into tears, a performance worthy of an Academy Award.

"She hit me, Ethan!" she sobbed, clinging to his arm like a vine. "I just came to say hello, and she went crazy! Look at my face!"

Ethan looked at the blooming red mark on her cheek. Then he looked at me.

I waited for him to defend me. I waited for him to exercise the power he held over this city, to demand respect for his wife. I waited for the boy I had loved since high school to finally see me.

"Go to the car, Brooke," he said, his voice flat.

I stared at him. "You're joking."

"You made a scene," he said, his jaw tightening. "You disrespected an Associate's daughter. Go to the car. Now."

He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It wasn't an act of care. It was an act of concealment. He was covering the stain on his reputation, not protecting his wife.

He turned back to Kylie, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur, his hand lingering on her arm to calm her down.

I turned and walked out.

I walked past the guards, past the valets, and climbed into the back of his armored SUV. The leather was cold against my skin. I sat in the dark, shivering, the cloying smell of wine making me nauseous.

Ten minutes later, the door opened. Ethan slid in beside me. He didn't look at me. He tapped on the partition, signaling the driver to move.

"What the hell was that?" he asked, adjusting his cuffs.

I didn't answer. I just stared out the window at the blurring city lights.

"Kylie is a brat, but you know better than to strike someone in public," he lectured, sounding like a disappointed father. "It makes the family look unstable."

I reached into my purse and touched the envelope.

"Is that all you care about?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "The family image?"

"It's my job, Brooke," he said, checking his watch. "We have a reputation to maintain. Speaking of which, why were you so on edge tonight? Is it a special date or something?"

The air left the car.

He didn't know. He genuinely didn't know.

I turned to look at him. The passing streetlights cast intermittent shadows across his handsome, cruel face.

"It's our anniversary, Ethan," I said.

He froze. His hand paused over his phone. For a second, just a single heartbeat, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Regret?

"Oh," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card.

"Buy yourself something tomorrow. A new car. Jewelry. Whatever you want. Just... keep a low profile for a few days until this blows over."

Material penance. The Spencer way.

His burner phone rang.

He looked at the screen. His expression hardened, shifting instantly from the negligent husband back to the ruthless Underboss.

He answered it.

"Kylie?"

I closed my eyes as the car sped into the darkness, realizing that the divorce papers were the kindest thing he had given me all year.

Brooke POV

Ethan slammed his palm against the partition so hard the glass rattled in its frame.

"Stop the car," he barked.

The driver, a massive man named Luca who had been with the Spencers since before I was born, slammed on the brakes. The SUV lurched to a violent halt in the middle of the highway.

Ethan was gripping his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. He wasn't looking at me. He was entirely focused on the voice on the other end, his jaw working as he ground his teeth.

"Calm down," he said into the phone, his voice tight with controlled fury. "Don't do anything stupid, Kylie. Put the pills down."

My stomach turned. Suicide baiting. The oldest trick in the book for a girl who needed to be the center of the universe.

"She's threatening to call her uncle," Ethan said, speaking more to himself than to me. "She's saying she's going to tell him about the shipment coming in at the docks if I don't come over. She's hysterical."

He looked at me then. Really looked at me.

"I have to go to her," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"You're leaving me," I said, my voice hollow. "On our anniversary. After she threw wine on me. To go comfort her because she's throwing a tantrum?"

"She's a liability, Brooke," he snapped. "If she talks, the Feds raid the warehouse. We lose millions. People go to prison. This is business."

He shoved his door open.

"Get in the front," he ordered.

"Excuse me?"

"Luca needs to stay with the security detail. You drive. I can't have a driver hear what she might say. She's loose-lipped. You're my wife. You're safe."

Safe. The word tasted like ash on my tongue. I wasn't a wife. I was a vault for his secrets and a chauffeur for his mistress.

I didn't move.

"Brooke," he growled. "Now."

I got out of the car. The night air was biting. I climbed into the driver's seat of the massive SUV, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. Ethan got in the back.

"Drive to the Holland estate."

I drove. I drove the man I loved to the woman who wanted to destroy me.

When we pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the Holland mansion, Kylie was waiting on the steps. She wasn't holding pills. She was holding a bottle of vodka, looking perfectly fine, just beautifully tragic in the moonlight.

Ethan jumped out before the car even stopped completely.

"Kylie!"

She ran to him. She threw herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. He caught her. He held her. He buried his face in her neck, whispering things I couldn't hear but could feel in the marrow of my bones.

He wasn't pushing her away. He wasn't scolding her for threatening the family business. He was holding her like she was the only fragile thing in the world.

I sat in the front seat, watching them through the rearview mirror. I was the invisible woman. The staff.

After a long minute, Ethan led her toward the car.

"She's coming with us," he said as he opened the back door. "I need to get her to the safe house at Lake Villa. She needs to detox."

Kylie slid into the back seat, smelling of liquor and triumph. She saw me in the mirror and smirked.

"Thanks for the ride, Brooke," she slurred.

Ethan got in beside her. He pulled her head onto his shoulder, stroking her hair.

"Just drive, Brooke," he said softly.

I drove them to the lake house. It took forty minutes.

Forty minutes of listening to Kylie whimper and Ethan comfort her.

Forty minutes of him promising her he would fix everything.

Forty minutes of realizing that the contract marriage wasn't just a business deal for him. It was a waiting room until he could figure out how to be with her.

When we arrived, the Holland family guards were waiting. They took Kylie from Ethan with deferential nods. They ignored me completely.

Ethan stood by the open door of the SUV, looking down at me.

"I have to stay," he said. "To manage the situation. Make sure she doesn't talk."

I gripped the steering wheel until my fingers hurt.

"You're not coming home?" I asked.

"I can't."

He tapped the roof of the car.

"Take the SUV. Luca will meet you at the apartment. Go home, Brooke."

He turned and walked into the house with her. The door closed, shutting out the light, shutting out the warmth, shutting me out of his life.

I put the car in gear and drove away. I didn't cry. I was done crying.

As the tires crunched over the gravel, I realized something terrifying.

I hated him.

Brooke POV

The drive back to the city blurred into a streak of neon lights and ancient ghosts.

My phone sat on the passenger seat, screen dark and silent. No apology text. No checking in to see if his wife had made it home safely through the rain. There was just the low hum of the engine and the crushing weight of five wasted years pressing down on my chest.

As I passed the industrial district, the scent of sulfur and wet wool assaulted me, cutting through even the filtered air of the luxury SUV.

It was the smell of my childhood. Acrid. Inescapable.

I remembered the day the foreman came to our peeling door, holding a settlement check in one hand and a non-disclosure agreement in the other. My mother sat at the kitchen table, her right hand a bandaged, bloody ruin, staring blankly at the wall.

The Spencer family paid well for silence.

That money bought us a small house away from the smog. It bought me a scholarship to the prep school where the children of the city's elite learned the fine arts of laundering money and destroying souls.

That was where I met them.

Ethan Spencer was the dark prince of the school-brooding, untouchable, and beautiful. And Kylie Holland was his designated queen.

I was the charity case. The girl whose clothes were always a season behind, whose mother had a hook for a hand. Kylie made sure the world never let me forget it. She would trip me in the corridors, spill lunch on my library books, and whisper that I smelled like factory smoke.

Ethan never joined in.

Once, in sophomore year, he found me crying in the locker room after Kylie had taken scissors to my gym uniform. He didn't speak. He just handed me his varsity jacket, heavy and warm, and stood guard at the door until I stopped shaking.

That single, small act of kindness became the seed of my destruction. I watered it with hope for years.

I became a narrative designer for the Spencer family's legitimate gaming front because I wanted to be useful to him. I wanted to show him I was more than just a charity case. I wrote stories where the hero always saved the girl.

God, what a joke.

I pulled the SUV into the underground garage of our penthouse building. The silence of the apartment was deafening when I walked in. It felt less like a home and more like a museum-cold, pristine, and dead.

I wandered into Ethan's study. It smelled of mahogany and the expensive cigars he smoked only when the stress of the Family became too much.

I sat in his leather chair, the material still holding the faint impression of his body.

I remembered our wedding day. It was supposed to be Ethan and Kylie. But she had run off with a club promoter two days before the ceremony-a massive, public insult to the Spencer name.

The Don, Ethan's father, was furious. He needed a wedding to secure a territory merger. He needed a bride who was docile, indebted, and clean.

He looked at me. The catering girl. The daughter of the woman they had maimed.

Ethan had proposed to me in the kitchen of the banquet hall, his face carved from stone.

Marry me, Brooke. Five years. We take care of your mother for life. You get five million when you leave. Just play the part.

I said yes because I loved him. I was foolish enough to think five years would be enough to make him love me back.

I pulled open the top drawer of his desk. There, hidden beneath a stack of merger files, sat a velvet box.

My heart stuttered. Had he remembered? Was this an anniversary gift he hadn't had a chance to give me tonight?

I opened it.

It was a diamond necklace. Heavy, gaudy, and utterly tasteless.

And there was a note.

"For K. I'll make it up to you."

The air left my lungs.

It wasn't for me. It was an apology gift for Kylie. He had bought it days ago. He had been planning to apologize to his mistress for the inconvenience of being married to me on our anniversary.

I snapped the box shut. The sound cracked like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The memory of six months ago clawed its way up from the depths of my mind. I had walked past this study and heard him talking to his Consigliere, Marcus.

"She's just a placeholder, Marcus. A cheap placeholder until Kylie gets her head out of her ass. She's convenient. She doesn't ask questions. She's nothing."

I had pretended I didn't hear it. I had cooked him dinner that night and asked about his day, swallowing the glass in my throat.

I stood up, the chair scraping violently against the floor.

The illusion was gone. The hope was dead. The girl who loved the boy who gave her a jacket was gone.

I walked to the closet in the hallway and pulled out a suitcase.

I wasn't going to wait for the five years to be up. I wasn't going to wait for him to discard me like a used pawn.

I was going to burn the contract to the ground.