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.