Love Deal, Family Loss

Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of playing a role I'd never auditioned for, wearing masks that had grown so familiar they felt like my own skin. I should have known it wouldn't last forever.

Carter's phone buzzed against the marble countertop of his penthouse kitchen, the sound cutting through our comfortable morning silence like a blade. He was reading the financial section, coffee steaming beside his elbow, looking every inch the successful businessman in his charcoal suit. The picture of domestic tranquility—if you ignored the fact that I was paid to be there.

"P" flashed across his screen.

My blood turned to ice water in my veins. I knew that initial. Had known it would appear eventually, like a ghost materializing from the shadows of my carefully constructed life.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" I asked, my voice steady despite the earthquake happening beneath my ribs.

Carter glanced at the phone, then at me, something unreadable flickering across his features. "It's not important."

But his fingers twitched toward the device, and I caught the micro-expression that crossed his face—anticipation mixed with guilt. The same look he'd worn as a child when he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The phone buzzed again. And again.

"Carter." My coffee had gone cold, but I wrapped my hands around the mug anyway, needing something solid to anchor me. "How long has she been texting you?"

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Sierra—"

"How long?"

The silence stretched between us like a taut wire. Outside, the city hummed with its usual chaos, but inside this gleaming apartment, the air felt thin and dangerous.

"Six months," he said finally, the words falling like stones into still water.

Six months. Half a year of messages I'd never seen, conversations I'd never been part of, plans made in the shadows while I played house with a man who was already looking toward the door.

"She's coming back, isn't she?" The question scraped my throat raw.

He didn't answer, but the phone buzzed again, and this time he couldn't resist. His thumb swiped across the screen, and I caught a glimpse of the message preview: *Flight lands at 3. Can't wait to see you.*

The mug slipped from my numb fingers, coffee spreading across the white marble like spilled blood.

---

Carter's birthday party was a testament to wealth and influence—the kind of gathering where champagne flowed like water and every conversation was a potential business deal. The penthouse had been transformed into something from a magazine spread, all soft lighting and elegant arrangements that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

I stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the city glitter below while trying to ignore the knot of dread that had taken up permanent residence in my stomach. My dress was perfect—navy blue silk that Carter had selected, expensive jewelry that caught the light just so. I looked the part of the successful businessman's companion, even as everything inside me screamed that this was the end.

The elevator chimed, and conversations paused as heads turned toward the entrance. I didn't need to look to know who had arrived. The shift in the room's energy was palpable, like the moment before lightning strikes.

Paislee Thomas stepped into the room like she owned it.

She was devastating in red silk that hugged every curve, her platinum blonde hair cascading over one shoulder in waves that probably took hours to perfect. But it was her smile that stopped my heart—predatory and triumphant, the smile of someone who'd come to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

Carter moved toward her as if pulled by invisible strings, and I watched my carefully constructed world crumble in real time. She rose on her toes to kiss his cheek, her hand lingering on his chest, and the gesture was so intimate, so possessive, that I felt like I was intruding just by witnessing it.

"Darling," her voice carried across the room, honey-sweet and sharp as broken glass. "I've missed you so much."

The whispers started immediately, rippling through the crowd like wildfire.

"Is that Paislee Thomas?"

"I thought she was in London."

"Well, that explains the other one."

"Poor thing, she probably thought it was real."

Each word was a small death, but I kept my expression neutral, my posture straight. I'd had two years of practice at playing roles I didn't want.

Paislee's eyes found mine across the room, and her smile widened. She whispered something in Carter's ear that made him laugh—the real laugh I remembered from childhood, not the polite chuckle he gave business associates. Then she took his arm and let him guide her into the crowd, accepting congratulations and welcome-backs like a queen returning from exile.

I stood by the window for another hour, watching the woman I'd been paid to replace reclaim her throne with effortless grace. When I finally left, slipping out while Carter was deep in conversation with investors, I don't think anyone noticed.

Except Paislee. Her eyes followed me to the elevator, and even from across the room, I could see the satisfaction in her smile.

---

The company break room at eight in the morning was usually my sanctuary—a quiet space where I could gather my thoughts before facing another day of meetings and deadlines. I was reaching for the coffee pot when I heard the click of heels on linoleum.

"Well, well. If it isn't Carter's little substitute."

I turned slowly, my hand still gripping the coffee pot handle. Paislee stood in the doorway like an avenging angel in designer clothes, her smile as sharp as her stilettos.

"Paislee." I kept my voice level, professional. "I didn't know you were visiting the office."

"Oh, I'm not visiting, sweetheart." She moved into the room with predatory grace, her heels clicking against the floor like a countdown timer. "I'm reclaiming what's mine."

She reached for the second coffee pot, her movements deliberate and controlled. "You know, I have to thank you. You've kept my seat warm beautifully. But now that the real woman is back, I think it's time you learned your place."

The coffee she poured was fresh, steam rising from the surface like smoke signals. She held the pot just a little too close to my hands as she moved past me, the heat radiating against my skin in a warning that needed no words.

"Two years is a long time to play pretend," she continued, her voice honey-sweet with an undertone of venom. "But the game is over now, Sierra. Time to step aside and let the adults handle things."

She set the pot down with deliberate care, the metal clanging against the counter like a bell tolling. Then she picked up her mug and took a delicate sip, her eyes never leaving mine.

"I do hope you understand," she said, tilting her head with mock concern. "It would be such a shame if things got... unpleasant."

The coffee pot was still hot in my hands, and for one wild moment, I imagined what would happen if I just let go. But I was Sierra Nichols—reliable, professional, always in control. So I set it down carefully and walked away, leaving Paislee victorious in the break room that suddenly felt more like a battlefield.

Behind me, I heard her laugh—light and musical and absolutely terrifying.