I Paid Three Million for His Dignity. Now He Owns Mine

For three million dollars, I owned Luke Reed's dignity. I dressed him in white shirts and forced him to mimic my lost love inside my art studio, who was silent and submissive in every way. Then one day, he smashed the luxury watch I had given him, and his eyes blazed with fury as he asked, "How long do I have to keep up this charade?" Years later, my family's fortune crumbled to dust. I became just a junior stagehand under the harsh studio lights. Meanwhile, Luke had clawed his way to the top and risen as the youngest Best Actor winner in the industry. Then he strutted into my world again with his arm slung around his new flame, who looked eerily like me. He ground my spilled stomach pills into the dirt. "Now you know how it feels to be a stand-in," he said. "Pathetic. You are not even a good fake." ***** Five years was enough time to shatter a heart and then tape the pieces back together. Yet some people were like glass shards buried deep in your palm, impossible to remove and impossible to forget, because they ached at the slightest touch. The next time I saw Luke, I was staggering under a tower of catered lunch boxes on set. "Jenna Blake, move your ass," a production assistant barked across the lot. "Studio Three's crew is starving." "On it," I called back. Sweat glued my thin T-shirt to my back like a second skin. Studio Three was packed wall to wall for the day's big scene. I tiptoed inside to deliver the lunches, and then I spotted him in the center of the crowd. Luke sat behind the monitors, his black shirt highlighting the sharp angles of his face under the lights. Time had only carved his beauty into something colder and more dangerous. I yanked my cap down, dumped the lunch boxes in a corner, and turned to escape. Then disaster struck. The top stack slipped from my grip, and the boxes exploded across the floor. Sprays of pasta and marinara sauce splattered everywhere. As I scrambled to clean up the mess, my stomach twisted like a wrung-out towel. The chronic pain had gotten worse lately, and I never left home without my pills. The bottle clattered open, and white tablets scattered across the floor. "Wait." That single word turned my blood to ice. Luke strode over and crushed a pill under his heel without breaking stride. I stood there exposed as a convict in a spotlight, unable to meet his eyes. Then a melodic voice cut through the silence. "Luke, what is so fascinating?" A girl named Shae Moss, Tinseltown's newest darling, affectionately took his arm. When I risked a glance at her face, my breath caught in my throat. She could have been my reflection from five years ago. Luke's expression softened instantly. "Nothing," he said. "Just someone I used to know." Shae tilted her head and studied me with curiosity. "Wait, don't tell me she is an ex?" I ducked my head even lower. "Of course not. Just a stagehand I met once." Now I was only a lowly errand girl, so what right did I have to stand in front of him? Shae let out a disinterested "Oh," and her curiosity evaporated like morning fog. She clung tighter to Luke's arm and said, "Let's go, Luke. The director is waiting for you." Luke nodded, but his eyes stayed fixed on my T-shirt. "Pick those pills up off the floor," he said. I had not expected that, but instinct took over, and I obeyed. The little white pills were now coated in grime, and they looked filthy, just like me. "Still edible?" His voice cut through the air above my head. I crushed the pills in my fist and said, "They are." Luke gave a cold, mocking laugh. "Ms. Blake, how penny-pinching." Tears pricked my eyes, but I swallowed them down. "If there is nothing else, I should get back to work," I said. I spun on my heel and bolted, stumbling over my own feet in my haste. Shae's saccharine voice trailed after me, asking, "Luke, were you two close?" I did not hear his reply, and I did not want to. I fled the set like a criminal escaping a crime scene. Only then did the dam finally burst, and tears streamed down my face without stopping.