The Stand-In's Sweetest Revenge

The clumsy, out-of-tune notes of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" echoed in the vast, silent living room. It was a stark, almost comical contrast to the intricate Chopin nocturne Bella had just performed.

Bella' s smug grin widened. This was it. The moment of my utter humiliation. She scanned the crowd, eagerly awaiting the jeers, the whispers, the looks of pity that were supposed to be directed at me.

But they never came.

The assembled titans of tech and finance simply stood there, their expressions ranging from polite indifference to mild amusement. Evans Mosley sipped his drink. Javier Mullins was checking his phone. No one was laughing at me.

Bella' s smile faltered. This wasn't right. The extras weren't following the script.

"Why aren't you laughing?" she demanded, her voice a harsh whisper directed at a woman standing near her. "She's making a fool of herself!"

The woman, a sharp-eyed COO I' d helped with her cholesterol, just raised an eyebrow. "Why would we laugh? She's a personal trainer, not a concert pianist. Her value has nothing to do with her musical ability."

She took a pointed bite of a quinoa-stuffed mushroom from my buffet. "This, however, is genius."

Bella looked as if she'd been slapped. She couldn't comprehend it. In her world, the world of romance novels, the protagonist had to be perfect at everything, and any rival was inherently inferior in all aspects. The fact that these powerful people valued my skills in nutrition over my lack of skill in music was a reality her fantasy-addled brain couldn't process.

"You're all fools!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with fury. "You're just background characters! Your only job is to adore the hero and heroine and mock the villain! You're doing it all wrong!"

The room went dead silent.

Evans Mosley slowly lowered his glass. "I believe," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "that my five-billion-dollar fund and I are more than just 'background characters.' And I believe we've had enough of this evening."

He turned and walked toward the door. "Clementine, my office will call you Monday. Name your price."

That one act broke the dam. Within minutes, the room was emptying. The welcome-home party had become a mass exodus.

"Don't go!" Connor pleaded, rushing toward the door, but it was too late. The damage was done.

Bella stood in the middle of the room, fuming. "Let them go," she sniffed, tossing her hair back. "Insignificant gnats. When Connor and I are married, I'll make sure they can never get another round of funding in this valley again."

The last few remaining guests, hearing this, also turned and left without a word.

The party was over.

I stood up from the piano, my work here clearly done. A hundred grand for a terrible rendition of a nursery rhyme. Not a bad hourly rate.

As I headed for the door, a hand clamped down on my wrist. It was Bella.

"This is your fault," she hissed, her eyes wild. "You plotted this. You turned them all against me!"

"Bella, let her go," Connor said, his voice heavy with a disappointment so profound it seemed to suck the air out of the room.

"Make her apologize!" Bella demanded. "Punish her!"

Connor looked at her, and for the first time since she' d returned, the naive affection in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, weary clarity.

"I'm tired, Bella," he said. "I'm just so, so tired of this."

Bella' s face went pale. "What did you say? You're tired of me? Is it because of her?"

She pointed a trembling finger at me. "You chose her over me. After everything. You'll regret this, Connor Smith. You'll come crawling back to me, and I'll make you beg!"

With a final, venomous glare in my direction, she grabbed her coat and stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

The silence she left behind was deafening.

I gently pulled my wrist from Connor's loosened grip. "Well," I said softly. "That was something."

He looked at me, his face a mess of conflicting emotions. "I'm sorry, Clementine."

"It's okay," I said, giving his arm a light pat. "Just don't forget to transfer the hundred thousand."

His lips twitched in a faint smile, but it vanished as quickly as it came. His face went ashen, and he pressed a hand to his stomach, a low groan escaping his lips.

I knew that groan. The stress had finally done it. His gastritis was back with a vengeance.

"Sit down," I commanded, my voice shifting back into professional mode.

I guided him to the nearest sofa and pushed him down gently.

"I'll go make you some congee," I said, already heading for the kitchen. "The party's over. The nutritionist is back on the clock."