The Contracted Substitute

Chapter 4

-MIA-

My reflection stared back at me in the antique Venetian mirror in Linda’s old study. I’d just returned from the salon where Dylan had arranged the appointment.

Paolo, the hairdresser, was the most extraordinary person I’d ever met. He wasn’t just Linda’s favorite; nearly every woman in high society adored him. People waited a whole year just to sit in his chair. But Asher Holbrook wasn’t just anybody, and thanks to him, Dylan got me in the day after I moved into the penthouse.

I asked for Linda’s exact haircut, but Paolo refused.

"Your hair is a masterpiece," he’d said, waving his hand through my strands with reverence. "Why would you want to paint over it with someone else’s shade?"

He said my chestnut hair was far more striking than her dull golden brown and wouldn’t let me dye it. After some convincing, he agreed to add a few highlights and straighten it, but only temporarily. He didn’t want my natural waves to disappear forever.

He made me feel beautiful. Valued. And I hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time.

Riding that high, I was eager to start working on my impersonation skills.

I popped in a CD with an old video of Linda and slipped on headphones. She was acting as an ambassador for some luxury cosmetic line, walking viewers through a twenty-step morning skincare routine. Twenty steps. It was ridiculous. Her soft, droning voice reminded me of my old history teacher: endless and sleep-inducing. Still, it was good practice for me.

I began mimicking her, speaking aloud, my eyes flicking between the computer monitor and the ornate golden mirror.

I thought I was doing a pretty good job until I caught movement in the mirror behind me.

Asher.

His scowl froze me in place. My breath caught in my throat. I yanked off the headphones, heart pounding.

"I didn’t know you were home," I turned to face him, my pulse still racing from the shock.

Since arriving yesterday, I haven’t seen him once. I’d eaten alone in the kitchen, with only Anna for company. She was his housekeeper, a kind woman in her fifties with rosy cheeks and the comforting scent of fabric softener that reminded me of my mother.

"Don’t be so pretentious. Linda never sounded like that," he snapped, arms folded tight across his broad chest.

"O-kay," I muttered. I didn’t say it, but she did sound like that.

He just stood there, glacial eyes sweeping over me, lips curled in quiet disdain. I felt like an ant under a magnifying glass, one flick away from being burned.

"You need to change your clothes. This is all too casual. Follow me."

He turned sharply and left the study without waiting for a response.

And once again, I had to chase him down like a stray in that gigantic penthouse where I kept getting lost.

He strode down the hall, finally stopping in front of a door. "This was Linda's closet."

The door swung open, and he waited for me to cross the threshold before stepping in behind me.

I took a few hesitant steps, pausing to take it all in.

Shelves lined nearly every wall, and a raised mirrored drawer stood in the center like a jewel box. The room was bigger than my entire old apartment. Hangers overflowed with clothes, from winter coats to summer dresses, tailored skirts, and everything in between. High heels arranged in neat rows, enough to make Carrie Bradshaw weep with envy. And the bags... There were so many, I could use a different one every day and not repeat for half a year.

I stepped further in. Every piece was from a designer. Everything looked brand new. Some still had tags attached, dating three years old and untouched.

Asher kept all of this? It was madness.

"Was this all Linda’s?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. I remembered a photo of her in that long, silk red dress tucked into the corner.

"Yes," he said, eyes glued to his phone. "I want you to wear them. If anything needs adjusting, ask Dylan. He’ll arrange someone to tailor them to your figure."

He didn’t even look up.

I slipped on a cream blazer and buttoned it up. The soft, cool fabric felt like nothing I’d ever worn before. It was elegant, expensive, unreal.

"I think it fits," I said, turning to face Asher.

He looked up from his phone and stilled. For the first time since I met him, the ice in his eyes thawed. Just a little. His throat bobbed, and he gave a small shake of his head.

"Choose something casual and elegant for lunch at the country club tomorrow. Wear high heels. I’ve got things to do," he said, spinning on his heel and leaving like his pants were on fire.

I stood there, frowning. Anger curled in my belly. Even knowing he was grieving, it was hard to stomach how cold he could be.

Yes, he was hurting. But he was also an asshole.

Still, this was the deal I signed up for. I had to keep moving.

Back at the diner, how many times had I dealt with rude customers complaining about undercooked burgers or dry chicken? I managed that. I could manage Asher, even with his necromancer vibes.

I took a deep breath and picked out a knee-length navy dress for tomorrow’s lunch. It fit almost perfectly. Linda was curvier than I, but the extra fabric didn’t bother me. If it had been tighter, it would’ve felt too revealing for my taste.

As I left the closet, something caught my eye. There was a door slightly ajar to a room I hadn’t entered before. A library, apparently.

Inside, Asher sat in a leather chair, his back to me, nursing a glass of whiskey. His gaze was fixed on a photo of him and Linda, the very first one of them as a couple I had seen.

And just like that, I felt like crap.

He was a big jerk, yes. But he was drowning in grief, still tethered to her memory after all these years.

What would it feel like to be loved like that? With someone’s entire soul?

I wanted to do something. Anything. To make him feel better.

I remembered seeing a recipe for caramel pudding in one of Linda’s old notebooks. It seemed to be Asher’s favorite dessert.

Why not?

After bringing the recipe to the kitchen, I gathered all the ingredients. Sugar, milk, eggs. Anna had already left for the day, and dinner sat in the fridge, waiting to be reheated like always.

Cooking was not one of my greatest skills. But I was smart. I could follow instructions.

Pouring sugar into the pan and setting it on the stove, I watched it slowly melt. The recipe warned me to be careful. Caramel burns fast.

But it was taking forever, so I cranked up the flame.

It only took a few seconds. Part of the caramel burned while the sugar crumpled. Smoke filled the kitchen, making the smoke detector blare.

I was still trying to salvage the mess with a wooden spoon when Asher’s voice exploded behind me.

"What the f**k is going on here?"