The Billionaire's Stand-In Wife Is A Genius

The scenery changed. Glass and steel gave way to red brick, vinyl siding, and power lines that crisscrossed the sky like messy spiderwebs.

"Where to exactly, miss?" the driver asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

Johnna gave him the address. It felt strange on her tongue, a sequence of numbers she hadn't spoken aloud in three years.

The car pulled up to a two-story house in a working-class neighborhood in Queens. The paint was peeling slightly around the window frames, and the small patch of lawn was more brown than green. Her mother had moved here shortly after the wedding, insisting she needed to be within driving distance of the city "just in case," though she had never once visited the penthouse. There was a wreath on the door, and the porch light was on, fighting the afternoon gloom.

Johnna paid the driver and dragged her suitcase up the concrete steps. She stood at the door for a long moment. Her hand trembled as she reached for the bell.

The door swung open before she could touch it.

Her mother, Susan, stood there in a faded floral apron, a wooden spoon in her hand. Her hair was grayer than Johnna remembered, her face lined with a few more worries.

Susan looked at Johnna. She looked at the red-rimmed eyes, the singular suitcase, the missing ring.

"Oh, honey," Susan breathed. "That son of a bitch."

She didn't ask questions. She dropped the spoon on the entryway table and pulled Johnna into a fierce, bone-crushing hug. Johnna smelled garlic, onions, and cheap laundry detergent. It was the best smell in the world.

"Mom," Johnna choked out. Her knees gave way, and she sagged against the older woman.

"I've got you," Susan whispered, stroking her hair. "I've got you. Come inside. I made stew."

The house was warm, overheated in that way old houses always were. Johnna sat on the lumpy sofa, a mug of sweet tea in her hands. Susan paced the small living room, muttering curses against the Dyer family.

"We should sue them," Susan said, pointing a finger at the TV. "We should take them for every penny."

"I'm tired, Mom," Johnna said softly. "I just want to sleep."

Susan stopped. She looked at her daughter's pale face and nodded. "Your room is just how you left it."

Johnna climbed the stairs. Her old room was a time capsule. Posters of Renaissance art exhibitions were taped to the walls. Her old easel stood in the corner, covered in a dust sheet.

She collapsed onto the twin bed. The mattress was soft and sagging. She pulled the quilt over her head, shutting out the world.

She slept for two days.

It was a black, dreamless sleep. A shutdown of the system. She only woke up when Susan came in to force her to drink water or eat a few spoonfuls of soup. She was vaguely aware of the sun rising and setting, of the sounds of the neighborhood-sirens, barking dogs, children shouting.

On the morning of the third day, Johnna woke up.

The sunlight hitting her face felt different. It wasn't the cold light of the penthouse. It was warm, dusty, and real. She stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

She was alive. The world hadn't ended because Chadwick Dyer didn't love her.

Her stomach growled, a loud, demanding sound.

She went downstairs. Susan was watching a soap opera in the living room. Johnna walked into the kitchen and made herself a sandwich, piling the ham high. She ate it standing over the sink, devouring it in huge bites.

Susan appeared in the doorway, watching her with cautious relief.

"I need a job," Johnna said, wiping crumbs from her mouth.

"You need to rest," Susan countered.

"I need to work," Johnna corrected. "I need to use my hands."

She went back upstairs and opened her old laptop. It groaned as it booted up. She logged into a private, invite-only forum for art conservators. It was a world she had ghosted three years ago, disappearing into the anonymity of being a trophy wife.

A listing caught her eye. The Vault.

She knew them. Everyone knew them. They were an elite studio in Chelsea that handled restoration for the kind of clients who owned private islands. They didn't advertise. They didn't recruit.

Except now, they had an emergency opening.

Johnna updated her resume. She deleted "Johnna Dyer." She typed "Johnna Hayden." She hesitated over the name-her mother's maiden name, the one she used professionally before the marriage. It was a common enough name to offer a veil of privacy, yet respected enough in the niche circles her father had once frequented under his own professional pseudonym. She attached a portfolio of photos she had kept hidden in a secure cloud drive-before and after shots of a 16th-century fresco she had restored in Italy before she met Chadwick.

She hit send.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. This was who she really was. Not the trailer trash girl. Not the gold digger.

The phone on the desk buzzed.

Johnna jumped, expecting Chadwick. But the notification was an email.

From: Simon Vance, The Vault.

Subject: Interview.

Body: Can you be here in an hour?

Johnna stared at the screen. A fierce, sharp smile cut across her face.

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