Counterfeit Double

Serena was back in the country.

Clara found out while she was slumped against Julian’s shoulder, staring at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath.

The air in the room smelled thick and cloying. Rank, really.

She frowned, but couldn’t even muster the strength to drag herself to the bathroom.

Julian was propped up against the headboard, lazily scrolling through his phone.

Then he muttered a low curse, threw on his jacket, and walked out.

The door swung open, and a blast of cold air hit her. She shivered and burrowed deeper into the sheets.

But she couldn’t blame him.

After all, Julian was her patron. And she—she was just a defective knockoff, a stand-in for the real thing.

Julian was a rich kid, born with a silver spoon.

He had every hallmark of a trust-fund brat. Short temper, no manners, and the unshakable conviction that he was the center of the universe.

But he also had the kind of money that let him toss hundreds of thousands at her without blinking.

Clara watched him go, figuring she’d have to fend for herself again tonight. Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the phone he’d left behind.

The screen was still lit. Right there, staring back at her, was Serena’s new Instagram post.

Years apart, but nothing’s changed.

A selfie. Location tag: the airport.

And just like that, Clara understood why Julian had bolted out the door like the place was on fire.

He wasn’t about to let this chance slip to Damian.

Damian was the one who actually ran the Vance family. Julian’s uncle. His legal guardian, ever since Julian’s parents died in that accident years back.

Julian had been raised under Damian’s thumb, and he resented every second of it. So he competed with Damian over everything.

Serena. Company shares. And Clara.

He’d fight Damian to the death inside the company over Serena, then take it out on Clara in bed.

But here was the thing. Clara had known Julian longer than she’d known Damian.

They’d gone to high school together. Braewood Prep. They’d never really run in the same circles, and after her family fell apart and she dropped out, they’d lost touch completely.

Later, when she was desperate for cash and selling bottles at The Velvet Room, two beer-bellied executives cornered her and started getting handsy.

That was when Damian walked into her life.

He’d strolled out from the back of the crowd, and with one look, had both men falling over themselves to apologize, terrified they’d pissed off the wrong person.

Clara had been on the floor, clothes half-torn, convinced the whole world was against her.

And Damian had reached down and pulled her to her feet.

“I’ll cover your quota for the month. Go home and get some rest.”

He’d said it casually, shrugging off his own coat and draping it over her shoulders.

The lingering warmth of that coat wrapped around her, and for the first time in forever, she thought she understood what people meant when they said safe.

Later, on a rainy night, the clothes Clara had clung to so desperately were peeled off her, one piece at a time, by Damian’s hands.

She’d told herself she could live with it. Even if it was just some tacky Prince Charming-and-Cinderella story, she’d swallow it gladly.

But the next morning, Damian woke up, pulled out a card, and tossed it at her.

Sixty thousand dollars.

“From now on, I’ll deposit money on a schedule. Make sure your calendar’s clear and you come when I call.”

He said it while buttoning his shirt, not even looking at her.

Then he glanced back, eyes cool and appraising.

“Buy a few white dresses. Straighten your hair. Send the receipts to my assistant’s email.”

The smear of red on the sheet was loud.

Clara watched him walk out, and finally got the difference between herself and Cinderella.

The prince had actually loved Cinderella.

Damian had never been anything but disgusted by her.

She picked up the card anyway.

That money was a thorny branch in a flooded river. Jagged, piercing. But she grabbed hold and refused to let go.

She needed cash. A lot of it. Enough to abandon every shred of dignity.

And just like that, Clara became Damian’s kept woman.

Later, when she stayed overnight at the Vance estate, she ran into Julian.

She’d been mortified.

But Julian had seized her by the arm, eyes locked on the fading red marks along her throat. “What are you to Damian?”

He hadn’t waited for an answer. “His mistress?”

Right then, Damian happened to come downstairs.

Julian shot him a look, then tilted Clara’s chin up, goading. “From now on, you’re with me. That old man can’t give you a thing.”

It was an absurd thing to say. So absurd that Clara’s head spun.

But Julian didn’t seem to be joking.

She couldn’t pull free, so she begged Damian with her eyes.

Damian looked right back at her, his expression wiped clean of anything resembling emotion. Even though every mark on her body had been put there by him.

Then he said, “Whatever.”

That was the moment her heart hit the floor.

That was the moment she finally understood. To Damian, she was a plaything. A diversion.

Every secret hope she’d harbored about him shattered into dust.

The rainy night she was passed off to Julian, she lay on her back, listening to the thunder roll outside, and mentally ran through every method of killing herself.

...

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Julian.

Clara. Wear what you had on yesterday. Bring my phone to the airport.

She sighed, resigned, and headed out the door with his phone in hand.

At the airport, she didn’t find Julian. She found Damian and Serena first.

In the middle of that teeming crowd, the two of them stood face to face.

And Clara was wearing almost the exact same outfit as Serena.