CHAPTER 3: Play the Role, Get the Cash
1622 Words
Elena
Roman Sutton doesn’t give you answers. He hands you questions dressed in power suits and expects you to obey.
I stand in Hartwell Manor’s study, my fingers curled into my sleeves to keep from shaking.
“You want me to pretend to be Victoria,” I say slowly, as if I'm wrong, the walls might cave in.
He nods, cool as steel. “Just for one meeting.”
One meeting. One lie.
“Why me?”
“Because Victoria trained you. Because she trusted you. And because she picked you.”
I stare at him. “You mean manipulated me.”
His expression doesn’t flinch. “Semantics.”
“Why now?”
“Because timing is everything.”
I fold my arms. “That’s not an answer.”
He moves toward the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a folder. Slides it across the table like a bribe.
“Read this.”
I open it.
Top sheet: Confidential Agreement
Beneath it: One-hour impersonation of Victoria Hartwell
Stated goal: Secure a private investment deal from Harold Dane
Payment: $150,000. Paid in full upon completion.
I blink. Look up.
“This is a joke.”
“It’s not.”
“You want me to play a dead woman for money?”
“She wouldn’t call it that.”
“What would she call it, then?”
He meets my eyes. “A performance. The final one.”
My brain short-circuits. $150,000. For one hour. For one conversation. For one lie.
It’s insulting. It’s outrageous. It’s—
Tempting.
He steps closer. Drops the next line like a blade.
“That money clears your mother’s hospital debt. Wipes your credit. Gets your life back.”
I flinch. “You did your homework.”
He shrugs. “I don’t offer people things they can’t afford to want.”
I want to say no. To walk out and slam the door behind me. But I don’t.
Because Mom’s voice is still in my head—wheezing in a hospital bed while I argued with insurance companies that treated her like a number. Because I spent three months choosing between gas and groceries. Because I sold her locket for heat.
And Roman Sutton is offering me a reset.
“If I screw up?” I ask.
“You won’t.”
“And if I do?”
He doesn’t smile. “Then I clean it up.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in Victoria’s old bedroom.
It’s exactly how I remember it. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A closet the size of my entire apartment. Silk and perfume and memory. Her ghost lingers in the walls—every velvet curtain, every stiletto-lined shelf.
A stylist waits with a rolling rack and a lipstick palette so extensive it needs its own oxygen supply.
“She wore this to the auction in Milan,” the woman says, holding up a black velvet blazer with daggered lapels. “And this for the Versace fundraiser.”
I blink. “I’m supposed to know this?”
“You’re not playing her. You are her. For sixty minutes.”
Right.
No pressure.
I let the stylist dress me, paint me, curl me into someone I haven’t been in years. Someone bold, sharp, untouchable.
The mirror shows a stranger.
Hair like polished obsidian. Lips bloodred. Eyes that dare you to blink first.
I look like Victoria. God help me, I sound like her too.
“Walk. Shoulders back. No sway. Chin tilted—subtle, not haughty.”
I practice for twenty minutes. Posture, gestures, tone.
The script is short. Victoria’s lines for the meeting are mostly vague—strategic pauses, deliberate compliments, surgical curiosity.
She was always a master of emotional architecture.
And now I’m wearing her skin.
The car ride is silent.
Roman rides beside me, calm and unreadable, like he’s running equations in his head.
“You said this is about an investment,” I say.
He nods. “A private equity firm wants to back my expansion. But they only trust one person: Victoria.”
“And they don’t know she’s dead?”
“She made sure of it. Her death was never public.”
I blink. “What?”
“She instructed her lawyer to delay the announcement. No obituary. No press. Just a sealed will and a list of posthumous instructions.”
“So they still think she’s alive?”
“For one more day. This is the final meeting before the deal closes.”
“And after that?”
“She’ll be gone.”
I stare out the window. “She really planned this.”
“Down to the minute.”
I want to scream. Or laugh. Or cry.
She left me nothing but damage—and now she’s using me like a chess piece.
Roman doesn’t look at me. “You don’t have to like her. You just have to finish what she started.”
I don’t respond.
The meeting is in a private suite inside the Bellmore Hotel. Fifth floor. No security cameras. NDA signatures required before entry.
Roman walks me through it once more. “He’s old money. Suspicious. If he senses weakness, the deal dies.”
“And if I freeze?”
“You won’t.”
He adjusts my cuff, smooths the lapel of the blazer. His hands are steady. Professional. But my pulse jumps anyway.
Because under the cold calculation, there’s heat.
And it terrifies me.
“You’re ready,” he says.
I nod, even though I’m not.
The door opens.
We walk in together.
Harold Dane is already seated. Gray suit, sharper smile. He stands when he sees me.
“Victoria,” he says, voice silk. “I was beginning to think you’d vanished.”
I mirror Victoria’s smirk. “I only vanish when I’m bored.”
He laughs. “Still sharp, I see.”
Roman stays quiet. Let me work.
Let it. I cross my legs the way she used to. Tilt my chin just enough.
“I hear you’ve made Roman an offer,” I say.
Dane nods. “Favorable terms. If he has the right backing.”
“And you want my blessing.”
He smiles. “Your instincts, more than anything.”
I lean in. “My instincts say you’re trying to buy insurance. Not vision.”
He stiffens.
“Which is smart,” I add. “Because vision can’t be bought. But I can tell you this—Roman Sutton is exactly what he claims. No smoke. No mirrors. And no mercy for liars.”
His eyes flick to Roman, then back to me.
“And you trust him?”
I let a pause bloom. Controlled. Deliberate.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
The air thickens. Dane sits back. Studies me. Then he reaches into his briefcase and slides over a signed contract.
Roman’s hand tightens into a fist.
“You’ll have my backing,” Dane says.
I smile. “Pleasure doing business.”
It’s over in fifteen minutes.
Outside the suite, I finally exhale. My knees nearly give out.
Roman catches me by the elbow. “You did it.”
I laugh, too close to hysteria. “I think I forgot how to breathe.”
“You were perfect.”
“No. I was her.”
He doesn’t argue.
Back in the car, I peel off the blazer. The illusion feels heavier than I expected.
“That’s it?” I ask. “I pretend to be a ghost, and now I get the money?”
“You’ll get a wire transfer within the hour. Clean. Untouchable. No strings.”
I want to believe him. I really do.
But something’s off.
The way he watches me. The way Victoria’s name still hangs in the air like a trap.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask.
He turns to face me. “The deal closes tomorrow.”
“Okay?”
“And there’s one more meeting.”
I freeze. “No. That wasn’t the deal.”
“I know. But Dane wants dinner. He wants to celebrate. With Victoria.”
I stare at him. “I’m not doing this again.”
“It’s the final step. After that, you walk away with the money. Clean slate.”
My voice cracks. “You said one hour.”
He doesn’t blink. “Things changed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Because you wouldn’t have come.”
He’s right.
And I hate him for it.
“I’m not her,” I whisper.
“No,” he says. “You’re better.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I answer.
“Elena Torres?” a woman asks.
“Yes?”
“This is Safehold Medical. We’re calling about your application for financial relief.”
I frown. “I didn’t apply.”
“Someone did. And the debt on your mother’s account was just paid in full.”
I go still.
“What?”
“There’s a zero balance. Effective immediately.”
I hang up. Turn to Roman.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t gloat.
He just looks at me like this was always the plan.
“You paid it off.”
He nods once. “Consider it incentive.”
My breath catches.
“You own me now.”
owe eyes darken. “No. I chose you. There’s a difference.”
And before I can say another word, the car jerks to a stop.
A man stands in front of us, blocking the driveway.
Dressed in all black. Hood up. Hands in his coat.
Roman curses. “Stay in the car.”
“Who is that?”
He doesn’t answer.
Just opens the door and steps out.
And the man raises something.
Metal glints in his hand.
Gun.
- Writer
