The Billionaire's Priceless Stand-In

Billionaire heir Ethan Vance bought out an entire year of my life with a contract worth one hundred thousand dollars a month. My job description was extremely specific: act as the double for his late first love. Her name was Clara Price, a woman who had passed away long ago and lived solely in his memories. On the day of my interview, inside a penthouse office overlooking the New York City skyline, Ethan sat before massive floor-to-ceiling windows. The setting sun cast his figure in a stark, cold silhouette. He handed me a thick stack of photographs and a thumb drive loaded with video files. "Learn the way she walks. Learn the curve of her smile. Learn the exact angle she lifts her pinky when holding a teacup. I want you to become her—a living, breathing Clara." His voice carried not a single trace of warmth. I quickly flipped through the photos of the gentle, elegant girl with soft, smiling eyes, my mind racing with one single thought. Damn, this gig takes some serious technical skill. "Mr. Vance," I said, looking up to meet his scrutinizing gaze, flashing my most professional smile. "As a dedicated body double, I need to clarify my key performance metrics." "What percentage of resemblance counts as a passing grade? Is there a performance review system?" Ethan visibly froze. He clearly had never encountered a candidate this business-minded. Behind him, his personal assistant, Leo, couldn't stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. Ethan’s eyes turned frosty, sharp with warning. "Know your place. You are just a shadow. Don't go harboring any delusions." "Understood," I agreed without hesitation. Pulling a pen and a notepad from my purse, I scribbled a few lines and slid the paper across the desk to him with the utmost respect. It was a clean, crystal-clear rate sheet. "Mr. Vance, this is my menu for value-added services. Basic imitation is covered under my monthly retainer, but any extra 'emotional interaction' requires additional billing." I pointed down the list, going through the line items one by one. "Chit-chat: five hundred dollars an hour. Listening to your daily stress and offering soothing, agreeable nods falls under this tier." "Smiling: a thousand bucks a pop. Tailored to your requests—gentle, beaming, or quietly melancholy—emotional authenticity guaranteed." "As for crying on cue, given the high difficulty and prep time needed to work up tears, that's three thousand per session. But seeing as you're my exclusive VIP client, I'll give you a twenty-percent discount on your first booking." The office went dead silent. Ethan's expression shifted from icy indifference to pure livid fury, a storm brewing in his dark, hooded eyes. It was likely the first time in his life anyone had ever dared put a price tag on his feelings. After a long pause, he squeezed a single word through gritted teeth: "Get out." My heart sank. I figured the deal was dead. Just as I began gathering my things to leave, his cold voice cut through the air again. "Wait outside the door. Leo will handle the paperwork." A wave of relief and excitement hit me. Wait... did I get the job? Evidently, a billionaire telling you to "get out" meant something completely different than it did to regular folks. When I stepped out of the Vance Enterprises building clutching a signed contract and an unlimited black card, I felt like I was walking on air. The first month’s retainer of one hundred thousand dollars hit my account almost immediately. I wired the funds straight to my mom, telling her to transfer my dad from the crowded ward into a top-tier private hospital suite and pay off every penny of his overdue medical bills. Over the phone, Mom broke down in tears, asking how on earth I had come up with that kind of money. Looking at my reflection in the polished glass walls of the skyscraper, my smile was as measured and precise as if drawn with a ruler. "Mom, I just landed a massive corporate gig. The client... has way more money than sense." That was the day Ethan Vance became my biggest client. And I, Harper Cole, was going to be the most cost-effective contractor he had ever hired. My career as the billionaire's stand-in sweetheart had officially begun.On my first day, my entire job was watching videos at his penthouse. The footage showed Clara participating in a college debate tournament. On screen, she was sharp-tongued and relentlessly logical, yet her demeanor remained soft, her eyes clear and unwavering. I sat cross-legged on the sofa, clutching a bag of chips and watching with pure fascination. "When she makes an argument, she has a habit of tapping her right index finger against the table." Ethan’s voice drifted out like a ghost behind me. I jumped out of my skin, nearly dumping chips all over the floor. "Mr. Vance! Do you always walk without making a sound? You're going to give me a heart attack!" I clutched my chest, complaining. He ignored me, his gaze locked onto the screen with a depth of longing I couldn't read. "There's a gala tonight. You're coming with me," he ordered. "Right away, Mr. Vance," I instantly pivoted into work mode. "Any dress code specifications? What persona should I adopt? The demure, understanding socialite, or the aloof, untouchable ice queen?" My words seemed to choke him up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his brow knitting tight. "Shut up. Just dress like her." In the walk-in closet, Leo had already laid out an evening gown. It was an exact replica of the white chiffon dress Clara wore in the video. I slipped into the gown, facing the full-length mirror and trying to mimic Clara’s otherworldly, serene smile. "Not it," Ethan's voice came from behind. "Her smile came from her eyes. Yours looks completely fake." I turned to face him, dropping the smile in an instant and switching back to my deadpan professional facade. "Mr. Vance, may I remind you that authentic, heartfelt smiles fall under the smile service category? A thousand dollars a pop. Would you like to place an order now?" His face darkened again. He glared at me as if trying to bore a hole straight through my skull. After a thirty-second standoff, he whipped an American Express card from his wallet and slammed it onto the vanity table. "Charge it ten times. Tonight, I want you smiling so naturally that not a single one of her old friends can spot a flaw." "Understood, boss! Mission guaranteed!" Beaming with genuine joy, I swiped the card off the table. Ten grand just like that! Talk about easy money! At the charity gala, I slipped my arm through Ethan's, my smile a masterclass in perfection. Clara’s old circle of friends quickly crowded around us, their eyes full of shock and mixed emotions. "My God, Ethan, where did you find her? She looks... identical," gasped a man with sandy-blond hair. Ethan gave no answer, silently sipping his champagne. Relying on my memorized dossiers, I addressed each of them by name with absolute precision, casually reminiscing about "our" shared past. "Tyler, long time no see! The succulent you gave me is still thriving on my windowsill." "Chloe, that bakery you recommended last time? I finally checked it out. The pastries were incredible." I handled every conversation with effortless poise, slipping through every detail without a single slip-up, as though Clara had truly risen from the dead. The looks they gave me shifted from initial bewilderment to profound nostalgia and belief. Standing beside me, Ethan remained quiet, watching me the entire time. Halfway through the night, a woman in a sweeping red gown stepped forward holding a glass of wine. Her name was Rachel, Clara's former best friend. She studied me for a long time, her eyes razor-sharp. "You're not her," Rachel said coldly. "Clara never wore perfume. She always said natural skin was the best scent." My heart dropped into my stomach. Crap. That wasn't in the briefing files! In a split second, every pair of eyes in the circle locked onto me. Ethan’s expression instantly clouded over. My brain worked at lightning speed. Then, I lifted my chin to meet Rachel’s gaze, letting a soft layer of tears instantly pool in my eyes while my lips forced a frail, trembling smile. "Rachel... did you forget? The doctors told me that after my illness, my sense of smell became completely dulled. I can’t pick up faint scents anymore. I just... I just wanted to smell like who I used to be." My voice carried a subtle, heartbreaking tremor—just the right touch of wounded pride and vulnerability. It was half-truth, half-fiction, woven together seamlessly. Rachel froze. Seeing the tears glistening on my lashes, her own eyes reddened. "Clara..." She reached out a hand, looking as if she wanted to touch me, then pulled back. Crisis averted. Flawlessly. The ride home in the back of the town car was steeped in heavy silence. "That was a solid performance back there," Ethan suddenly spoke up, shattering the quiet. "You flatter me, Mr. Vance," I replied, instantly dropping back into contractor mode. "Thinking on my feet to de-escalate a PR crisis counts as extraordinary service. That warrants a bonus, right?" He turned his head toward me, the neon city lights casting shifting shadows across his sharp jawline. "Harper, are you really this obsessed with money?" "Absolutely," I answered without a hint of shame. "Money pays for my dad’s private care. Money keeps my mom from working herself into an early grave. Money gives me dignity. To me, money is life." He didn't argue. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook and handed me a slip. I looked down: twenty thousand dollars. "Crisis management fee. Plus... the cost of that look in your eyes back there," he murmured. Staring at the check, my mood soared. That look in my eyes? Oh, the teary-eyed, fragile routine. Looks like my acting chops just leveled up again.The days flew by in a blur of back-to-back paid gigs between Ethan and me. I grew terrifyingly good at playing Clara. When he took me to her favorite art galleries, I could recite the exact critiques she had once penned for the paintings. When he took me to her favorite Italian bistros, I could rattle off her favorite orders without ever glancing at the menu. I even learned the exact way she brewed traditional loose-leaf tea, steeping a calming pot for him during the nights insomnia kept him awake. Every flawless performance yielded another generous wire transfer from Ethan. My bank account balance skyrocketed, and my dad's health steadily improved day by day. I genuinely thought we would carry on this mutually beneficial business arrangement indefinitely. Until the anniversary of Clara's death rolled around. It was a drizzly, gray afternoon, and the entire penthouse was suffocated by a crushing weight of gloom. Ethan hadn't left his study all day, locking himself inside and drinking heavily. Late that evening, he summoned me in. The room was unlit, illuminated only by the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the rain-streaked windows. The air was thick with the scent of high-end bourbon and profound sorrow. "Tell me about our college days," he said, slumped on the plush carpet with his back against the sofa, his voice utterly ragged. This fell under my standard retainer duties, so I didn't push back. I sat down beside him on the floor and began softly reciting the stories I had drilled into my memory from the files. From our first encounter in the university library, to the first time we held hands walking along the quad under the autumn leaves. I spoke with complete immersion, as if I had truly lived through those memories myself. As the story unfolded, I felt a sudden weight on my shoulder. Ethan had leaned over, his head coming to rest against my collarbone, his breath hot and laced with whiskey. "Clara..." he murmured the name, his voice thick with raw agony and longing. My whole body went rigid. In all the months since signing that contract, this was the closest we had ever been. Through the thin fabric of my blouse, I could feel the heat radiating off him and the distinct tremor shaking his broad shoulders. "Clara... I miss you so much." The words hit my chest like a lead weight. In that singular moment, I wasn't Harper Cole, nor was I a shadow of Clara Price. I was just an ordinary girl being leaned on by a broken, grieving man. I didn't pull away. I didn't say a word. I don't know how much time passed, but suddenly, I felt a cold dampness on my cheek. I raised a hand to touch it. Tears. I'm... crying? Why the hell am I crying? Was it pity for this wealthy man trapped in his grief? Was it sorrow for the young woman who died too soon? Or... was it for myself? The study was dead quiet, save for the patter of rain against the glass and our mingled breathing. "I'm sorry," Ethan suddenly pulled back, sitting upright as his signature detachment snapped back into place. "I lost control." He stood up and flicked on the overhead switch. Under the harsh, fluorescent glare, I saw his red-rimmed eyes, though his spine remained rigidly straight. "Tonight..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Thank you." I lowered my head, wiped my tears clean, and looked up at him with a textbook corporate smile. "Don't mention it, Mr. Vance. According to my price list, crying on cue runs three thousand a pop. Seeing as you were emotionally compromised tonight, I cried proactively on your behalf. I'll give you a buddy discount—call it two grand." "Also, using my shoulder as a support falls under physical contact services. First-time promotional rate: five thousand." "That brings the total to seven thousand dollars. Would you like to settle that now, or should I tack it onto the end-of-the-month invoice?" Ethan’s frame visibly jolted. He stared at me in absolute disbelief, looking at me as though I were some kind of cold-blooded monster. The sorrow and vulnerability in his gaze were instantly wiped clean, replaced by a bitter cocktail of rage and profound disappointment. "Harper," he spat my name, syllable by deliberate syllable. "Do you even have a heart?" I smiled, broader and brighter than I ever had while playing Clara. "A heart?" I shot back. "Mr. Vance, your hundred grand a month bought my acting skills, not my heart. My heart is far too expensive. You can't afford it." With that, I stood up, smoothed down the folds of my dress, and gave him an elegant, professional bow. "If you have no further requests, I’m going to bed. I'll have Leo forward the invoice in the morning." I turned on my heel and walked out of the study, every step steady and composed. The second the heavy door clicked shut behind me, I slumped against the cold hallway wall, my chest squeezing so hard it felt like an invisible fist was crushing the air from my lungs. You did the right thing, Harper. You're an exceptional contractor. A brilliant actress. Don't you dare fall for the role. He’s your client, not your Prince Charming. Every show eventually has its final curtain call.After that night, things between Ethan and me turned freezing cold. He stopped asking me to play Clara. He stopped taking me to social functions. He didn't even come back to sleep at the penthouse anymore. The only tether connecting us was the monthly direct deposit of one hundred thousand dollars that Leo faithfully sent to my account. The sprawling penthouse sat empty. I had become a literal caged songbird, living inside a gilded prison. Honestly? I didn't mind. I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Every day, I read books, hit the gym, and studied index funds and stock portfolios. My dad was discharged from the hospital to recover at home, and all our family debts were wiped clean. Using the money I had stacked away, I even bought my parents a brand-new condo with an elevator back in our quiet hometown. Over the phone, Mom excitedly chatted about our interior design plans. "Harper, sweetie, when is that corporate contract wrapping up? Come on home soon. A neighbor wants to set you up with a really nice guy." Clutching my phone, I chuckled softly. "Soon, Mom. Really soon." It was true. The contract was only for twelve months, and more than three-quarters of it had already ticked by. Once the term expired, I would walk away with enough cash to last a lifetime, completely free to start my own life. Ethan Vance, Clara Price... none of it would matter to me anymore. Just when I thought I would coast peacefully toward the finish line, a bombshell shattered everything. Clara wasn't dead. She was back. Leo was the one who broke the news to me. He showed up at the penthouse that afternoon wearing an expression of pure dread and pity. "Harper, Clara is back," he said quietly. "The car accident years ago caused complete amnesia. An American couple abroad took her in and cared for her. She only recently regained her memories." I sat on the plush sofa, a book on investing still resting in my lap. Hearing this, I wasn't even shocked. Isn't that how every romance novel goes? The true love returns from the dead, and the stand-in quietly exits stage left. What was meant to come had finally arrived. "So?" I asked casually. "Is Mr. Vance terminating my contract early?" "...Yes," Leo nodded uncomfortably. "Ethan’s preference is for you to... disappear for a while. There are three months left on your term, but he will pay you out in full." "On top of that, he wants to offer you a severance package." "Disappear for a while?" I chuckled dryly. "Leo, that clause isn't in my contract." "Harper, I know this is sudden. But Clara's health is extremely delicate right now. She can't handle any emotional shocks. Ethan’s hands are tied," Leo tried to soften the blow. "I get it," I nodded, keeping my cool. I stood up, walked into the home office, retrieved a pre-drafted document from the drawer, and handed it to Leo. Leo looked down at the payout request, his fingers literally trembling, his face paler than a ghost's. "Harper, what is this...?" "It's what I'm owed," I stated evenly. Leo opened his mouth, but not a single sound came out. He knew every word I said was undeniable fact. "Please pass this invoice to Mr. Vance," I said, sliding the paper closer to him. "Three million dollars. Not a penny less." "The moment the wire clears, I vanish into thin air. I guarantee his precious Clara will never catch a single glimpse of her cheap knockoff."