When He Offered Me to His Business Partner, I Left

The notification arrived while I stood in the walk-in closet of Waylen's penthouse, my fingers tracing the delicate fabric of the white chiffon dress he'd ordered me to wear. The familiar chime of my phone broke the silence, and I glanced down at the screen.

*Wire transfer complete: $500,000.00*

My breath caught in my throat. The final payment from Tessa Romero had arrived—right on schedule, just as she'd promised when she hired me three years ago. My mother's medical bills were now officially paid in full.

"Vivian?" Waylen's voice echoed from the bedroom. "The car will be here in twenty minutes. Make sure you're wearing the white dress."

I looked back at the pristine garment hanging before me—the latest designer piece that Waylen had selected specifically because it reminded him of Tessa. White. Always white. Because Tessa loved white, and I was merely her stand-in.

Not anymore.

My fingers moved with newfound determination as I pushed the white dress aside and reached for the garment bag hidden in the back corner. I unzipped it slowly, revealing the structural black gown I'd designed myself during late nights when Waylen thought I was sleeping.

The dress was everything Tessa would hate—bold, architectural, unapologetically unique. I'd worked on it secretly for months, sketching designs during the rare moments when Waylen wasn't demanding my presence at his side.

"Did you hear me?" Waylen appeared in the doorway, already dressed in his tailored tuxedo, checking his watch with irritation.

"I heard you," I replied, my voice steadier than I expected as I stepped into the black dress.

His eyes narrowed as I fastened my mother's simple silver locket around my neck—the only piece of jewelry I wore that wasn't from Tessa's collection.

"What are you wearing?" he demanded, his voice cold.

I smoothed the black fabric over my hips and met his gaze in the mirror. "A dress."

"That's not the dress I selected."

"No, it's not." I turned to face him fully, my heart hammering but my expression calm. "I decided to wear something different tonight."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or confusion. In three years, I'd never once defied him about what to wear.

"You look nothing like her," he said finally, his voice flat.

"I know." I reached for my clutch. "I prefer to look like myself tonight."

He checked his watch again, dismissive. "Fine. Whatever game you're playing, we don't have time for it."

In the limousine, Waylen barely glanced at me, his attention fixed on his phone as he scrolled through emails. His fingers drummed impatiently against his knee—a habit I'd noticed whenever he was frustrated but wouldn't acknowledge it.

I stared out the window, watching Manhattan's lights blur past. Three years of being the perfect substitute girlfriend. Three years of wearing white to remind him of someone else. Three years of silence when I wanted to scream.

"You're unusually quiet," he remarked without looking up.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how I prefer to look like myself tonight," I repeated, emphasizing each word.

He finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine briefly before returning to his phone. "Whatever mood you're in, get over it before we arrive. The Vandermeres will be there, and I need you to be presentable."

The car pulled up to the red carpet entrance of the Metropolitan Museum. Camera flashes erupted as the door opened. Usually, I would shrink behind Waylen, allowing him to guide me inside while I kept my head down.

Tonight, I stepped out first.

The paparazzi swiveled toward me, confused by the unfamiliar woman in black emerging from Waylen Crawford's car.

"Who's that with Crawford?" someone shouted.

"Isn't that his girlfriend? She never wears anything but white!"

Flashes intensified as Waylen emerged behind me, his expression darkening as he realized I was drawing attention—the wrong kind of attention.

"Vivian," he hissed, reaching for my elbow.

I stepped away, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing server and turning toward a group of investors I recognized from previous events.

"Mr. Harrington," I called out, my voice carrying across the foyer. "I've been dying to discuss your new gallery space in SoHo."

I left Waylen standing alone in the entrance, his hand still outstretched where I'd slipped from his grasp.

As I approached the group of art investors, I felt his eyes burning into my back—a mixture of shock and fury that warmed me more than the champagne in my glass ever could.

For the first time in three years, I wasn't hiding in the shadows of someone else's life. I was stepping into my own light, even if it was just for one night.

And it felt glorious.