The Billionaire's Substitute Bride

The day was bright, the air smelled fresh, and I was crashing out. Quietly though. The calm and slow crash out that artists have when what they have in their heads refuses to paste itself on their canvas. I felt my eyes twitch as I noticed my recent stroke threw off the entire painting. Fuck me with a 20-inch dildo, bruh. Calm down and breathe, Toni. It’s not bad. You are called a genius artist, an innovator. This is nothing, just mix a little red in the color, then apply it, and it will come out well. I reached to grab a deep red color to mix. I am Toni Pete, a mid-successful artist who has three more days to meet a contracted gallery’s deadline for my work, but for some reason, I cannot craft the perfect painting. I have tried for two weeks, but it feels like I have no inspiration at all. I placed my brush back on the painting to try again. Maybe after 60 tries, it will be better. The next stroke had me feeling like burning off my eyes just so I didn’t get to see the entire painting. Maybe I am hungry. I dropped my paint and walked out of the bedroom I had converted into an art studio. I stretched my stiff muscles and walked towards the kitchen. I used my kitchen knife to prep my bagel and poured myself a glass of juice, and sat on one of the barstools of my apartment’s kitchen. I placed my tray on the counter as I stared at the skyline of Manhattan through my ceiling-to-floor windows of my high-rise. Yes, I am in a different tax bracket. I breathed in deeply as I savored my meal and let my thoughts wander. Positive thoughts. You are a great artist; painter’s block is normal. I just need to find something to inspire me. Maybe a one-night stand. Should I climb Mount Everest? Or do some shrooms. Last time I did, I ended up landing my first five-figure contract. I could even try something extreme like bull riding with a real bull. Or I need a break. Yes, that’s it, a massage needs to relax and— *Ring Ring* Why me, Lord? I heard my phone ring. I turned towards the sound, which was from my living room. I had to stand to go get it. f**k this s**t. I stood up, wiped my hands with a napkin, and walked towards my phone. It was an unsaved number, but it looked extremely familiar; something in my subconscious warned me against picking up the call. I ignored it. I was already having a bad day. What’s the worst that could happen? “Hellooo, Toni dear. How are you?” I pulled my phone back from my ear as I heard the upbeat and fake voice I tried to forget. “Who is this?” I inquired, just to confirm. I knew who the f**k it was. A part of me wished I were wrong. “You forgot your mother’s voice, Toni. It’s because you refuse to call while trying to convince yourself that your little drawings can get you a career.” Wow, she never changes. They never change at all. Every single one of them. I felt my body become a little bit heavier, my face dropped even more, and my blood pulsed through my veins more aggressively. I could feel myself ready to explode in rage, but I calmed myself. She does not deserve that kind of reaction from me. “Why are you calling me?” I hissed at her. Sue me, it’s better than yelling at her. “Toni, I can call my daughter. Your name was brought up when my friends and I went to a spa near Manhattan Beach. One of your drawings was there; I did not know you were able to get an upscale buyer. How much did you sell it for? Fifty dollars?” She snickered. To be honest, I was hurt. A little. I know my mum only frequents the most expensive places because of her ‘pride’ and ‘appearances’. I also know the spa she is talking about and that I got six figures for my piece, but even seeing my work there and my name being brought up did not earn her approval. I am tired of her at this point. “We stopped talking for this reason. Why did you call? Tell me or I will hang up.” I sighed. I fell into my couch and resigned myself to this conversation. I was used to this, and I don’t know why I still put up with this or entertain her. Maybe the inner child in me liked the fact that she needed or wanted something from me. Enough to turn her attention to me, even though it is through a phone call, where she makes fun of my passion. “Do you know Dylan Thompson?” Why is she asking me about real estate mogul Dylan Thompson? Dylan Thompson Billionaire real estate mogul, occasional recluse, full-time mystery. People say he’s unbelievably laid-back for someone worth billions; others claim he's arrogant and only cares about his business. Everyone agrees he’s dangerously handsome—tall, broad, with that kind of effortless confidence that doesn’t scream ego. The tabloids love him because he’s unpredictable: one day he’s promoting a new interior design empire, the next he’s spotted in jeans and a hoodie, slipping away onto a private jet. That’s Dylan Thompson. The man everyone wants to figure out, but no one truly can. But why was she asking me about him? “Your dad hit a wall in his business, but Mr. Thompson came up with a proposal that saved his business. It is mutually beneficial. Trina was supposed to help with the contract, but she is unavailable. Your help is needed, and you have to replace her.” She said in the same upbeat tone. My father is a multi-million-dollar contractor, so I understand why Dylan Thompson was interested, but for my mum to call for my help. It seemed urgent or important. And definitely not my f*****g problem. My twin sister, who my mother will pick over me, not being available to help, means I was obviously the second pick. My mum must feel terrible asking me to step up in her place. “What do you want me to do?” “You need to marry Dylan Thompson.” She dropped casually. What the f**k did she just say?