His Paid Substitute: The Fallen Heiress

Eleanor walked out of the luxury apartment building.

The doorman rushed forward to call a black car service, but she waved him off. She walked straight toward a beat-up yellow taxi waiting at the curb.

She slid into the backseat. The cab smelled strongly of cheap pine air freshener.

It was a violent contrast to the penthouse she just left, but the muscles in her shoulders finally dropped. She looked incredibly relaxed.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

She gave him an address in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Her actual safe haven.

The cab pulled into traffic. The iconic buildings of Wall Street blurred past the window.

Eleanor stared at her reflection in the dirty glass. Her mind drifted back to two and a half years ago. The New York Public Library Gala.

The ballroom had been blindingly bright. Eleanor had worn a rented couture gown, hovering near the edges of the room, hunting for her target.

She had spotted Julian Caldwell-Prentice standing in the shadows of the second-floor balcony. He was staring blankly at an old photo on his phone.

Eleanor had bought information off the black market. She knew the woman in the photo was Giselle, his first love who had just dumped him and fled to Europe.

She had walked into the bathroom. She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the curl of her hair and the exact angle of her smile. She turned herself into a perfect replica of Giselle.

Eleanor had grabbed two flutes of champagne. She timed her steps to avoid the security guards' blind spots and walked up to the balcony.

The night breeze hit her. She intentionally let the hem of her rented dress brush against Julian's suit pants.

The first physical contact.

Julian smelled the exact same perfume Giselle wore. He snapped his head around.

The moment he saw her face, his pupils dilated so fast it looked painful.

He screamed Giselle's name. His hand shot out to grab her wrist.

Eleanor smoothly dodged his hand. She held out a glass of champagne, her voice completely flat, shattering his delusion.

She handed him a solid black business card with only a phone number on it.

"I am not Giselle," she said. "But I can be a perfect substitute."

Julian's face twisted in rage. He called her a delusional scam artist. He threatened to call security.

Eleanor didn't flinch. She stood her ground and recited the exact number of days he had suffered from insomnia, followed by the percentage drop in his company's stock price since the breakup.

She pitched her "emotional stabilization service." She promised to keep him sane through his psychological withdrawal.

Julian's anger slowly melted into intense scrutiny. He stared at her face-the face that looked exactly like the woman who broke him. He went dead silent.

Eleanor knew when to stop pushing. She set the champagne down, turned around, and walked off the balcony. She left the choice entirely in his hands.

The taxi slammed on its brakes.

Eleanor jerked forward. The memory vanished. She was back on the loud streets of Brooklyn.

She paid the fare and pushed the heavy door open. The sharp morning air cleared her head.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

It was a notification from her encrypted email. Her private investigator had sent a new message.

It was a lead regarding the bankruptcy of the Love Foundation.

Eleanor read the name of the Wall Street family mentioned in the email. Her stomach dropped. Her eyes turned to ice. She stared at her reflection in the dark screen of her phone. "How much longer can the 'Eleanor Palmer' alias protect me?" she thought bitterly. "Before I can avenge my father and expose the truth behind the foundation's collapse, I must never let anyone discover that I am Cara Love, the last surviving heir of the Love family." She clenched her jaw, the weight of her true identity pressing heavily against her ribs.

She took a deep breath. She shoved the burning hatred down into her gut and forced her face back into a flawless, professional smile.

She pushed open the glass door of an independent coffee shop called The Daily Grind. The bell above the door chimed lightly.

The smell of roasted coffee beans filled her lungs. She walked straight to the most hidden booth in the back corner.

She pulled an encrypted iPad from her bag. She unlocked it and opened her top-secret "Client Roster" spreadsheet.

Julian's name was crossed out. But two other names had bright green lights next to them. Active services.

She tapped on one of the names: Tristan Vance, Hollywood A-lister.

She needed to review the script for their afternoon rehearsal.