His Paid Substitute: The Fallen Heiress

The Porsche's engine roared as it pulled into the underground garage, then cut off into heavy silence.

Tristan kept his grip on Eleanor's wrist. He pulled her into his private elevator.

The metal doors slid open to his industrial SoHo penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in harsh light. Scripts were scattered everywhere across the hardwood floor.

Eleanor smoothly twisted her wrist, breaking his grip. She walked to the bar and poured two glasses of ice water to cool the suffocating tension in the room.

Tristan ripped off his hoodie and threw it on the couch. He took the water and downed it in three gulps. His Adam's apple bobbed. His eyes never left her face.

He dug through the mess on the coffee table and found the HBO script. He flipped to the climax of episode three-the captivity standoff.

Eleanor took the script. She read the female lead's character breakdown: New York old money, arrogant, controlling, slightly paranoid.

Her finger stopped on the page. This character was an exact replica of Julian's first love, Giselle.

She looked at the cover. The name printed next to the female lead was Giselle Dawson. It wasn't a coincidence. This indie script was notoriously written by one of Giselle's bitter ex-friends, directly capitalizing on the real Giselle Dawson's scandalous socialite life.

Eleanor laughed internally. The irony was sickening. She had just finished being Giselle's stand-in for Julian, and now she was rehearsing lines explicitly modeled after the real Giselle.

Her face remained blank. She instantly slipped into the arrogant, neurotic persona she had perfected over the last two years.

The rehearsal started. Tristan snapped into the serial killer's dark mindset. He backed Eleanor toward the massive windows.

Eleanor tilted her chin up. Her eyes dripped with old-money disgust. She channeled Giselle's soul perfectly.

Tristan fed off her intense pressure. He spat his lines with desperate madness.

The energy in the massive living room felt electric. Their words clashed like knives.

The scene demanded that the male lead use violence to break the woman. Tristan grabbed a crystal whiskey glass from the bar.

He hurled it at the floor near Eleanor's feet, trying to shatter her nerves with the noise.

But Tristan was too deep in the scene. His angle was slightly off.

The heavy crystal exploded against the hardwood. A sharp shard bounced up and sliced straight across Eleanor's exposed right forearm.

Blood instantly welled up. It soaked into the cuff of her white silk shirt. The bright red stain looked violent against the cold industrial room.

Tristan snapped out of character. He saw the blood. All the color drained from his face.

He lunged toward her, his voice cracking as he yelled about calling an ambulance. His hands shook violently.

Eleanor's stomach plummeted.

She knew her body's terrifying secret. Rapid cellular regeneration.

If Tristan saw her deep wound stitch itself together in seconds, he would think she was a monster. Worse, it would attract the medical syndicate hunting her.

Before Tristan could touch her, Eleanor spun around. She turned her back to him and pressed her bleeding arm hard against her stomach.

She clenched her jaw. The skin under her silk sleeve began to itch violently. The cells were splitting and fusing at a terrifying speed. It burned like acid being poured directly into her veins.

Tristan grabbed her shoulders from behind. He was practically crying, begging her to let him see the cut, cursing himself for being an idiot.

Thirty agonizing seconds passed.

Eleanor felt the deep gash finally fuse shut, though the newly knitted skin remained raw, raised, and aggressively red, throbbing with a dull ache. The perfect healing would take at least another hour.

She took a slow, shaky breath. She didn't have to force her voice to sound weak; the intense metabolic drain of the rapid regeneration left her genuinely exhausted.

She slowly pushed his hands away. She turned around, using her left hand to tightly grip her bloody right sleeve, desperately hiding the unnatural, rapid scarring process from his view.

"I'm fine," she smiled weakly. "It's just a scratch."

She looked him dead in the eye. "Your explosion just now was perfect. Do not lose that feeling. Don't let this ruin the scene."