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.