The Contracted Substitute

Chapter 7

-MIA-

The next few days blurred into each other. I slipped into a routine. Most of the time was spent at home. Linda’s clothes no longer felt like costumes. The high heels stopped feeling like torture devices. I was adapting.

Dylan—the efficiency personified—booked a piano teacher for me. He came to the penthouse every day, teaching me how to play Linda’s pieces, note by note.

But I couldn’t resist carving out something for myself. Remembering Asher’s offhand comment, I started singing lessons too. After all, it was his idea that I pursue a career as a singer, wasn’t it?

And it was the only thing I had that hadn't belonged to Linda before.

Being around Asher was… strange. His moods swung like a teenager's. Sometimes, his icy eyes softened when I played one of Linda’s favorite pieces. Other times, when I strayed too far from her style, he snapped. Thankfully, it was never as bad as the caramel pudding incident.

Funny, I thought I was nailing the imitation. But Asher said that sometimes I sounded frivolous. Superficial. Egocentric.

After that day at the country club, he began bringing me to lunches and cocktail parties. Small gatherings with a few of his business associates. Nothing major.

I’d dress up, style my hair, slip into one of Linda’s endless couture outfits. I played the part of the perfect porcelain doll. I was there in physical form, but it was really invisible. No one asked questions, not even really looked at me. Even Asher.

At those events, I gave my best performance. Best Fake Girlfriend in a Leading Role. Eyes on the prize: my mother’s recovery.

One afternoon, while searching for a book in the library, I stumbled across a black leather notebook.

Strange. I thought I’d seen all of Linda’s old journals.

But this one was different. The handwriting was bold, uniform, and written on expensive linen paper. Definitely not Linda’s.

Curiosity won.

June 10, 2023

Dr. Greene suggested I start a journal. I think it’s stupid, but frankly, I don’t have the energy to argue with my therapist anymore. I don’t have the energy for anything I used to love, like beating a competitor, swimming laps, sipping my dad’s old bourbon. Everything tastes like cardboard.

I froze.

Oh my God.

This was Asher’s journal.

I shouldn't have been reading this.

This is personal. I have to place it back in the same spot I found it before he notices.

So why are my hands still clutching the pages and my eyes still roaming over it?

She says writing about my time with Linda will help me move on. I could be free from the guilt and just enjoy the memories we shared together.

But she doesn’t understand.

How do you move on from someone like her? It’s like coming to a dark home and realizing, no matter what you do, the light is gone.

The room is cold.

And I’m stuck in the darkness. Alone.

God, my heart throbbed under my ribs, and I ran a hand over it. A tear slipped from my eye and landed on the perfectly written page, smudging the fountain pen ink.

Shit.

I tried to blot it with my sleeve, but the damage was done. The smudge remained, a tiny bruise on something sacred.

Double s**t. Why was I thinking???

I placed the journal back where I’d found it, hands trembling, heart heavy. I felt small. Asher had loved Linda with his whole being.

This strange contract he’d made with me was another attempt to let her go. A desperate, twisted way to keep her close while pretending to move on.

And I hated myself for it, but I felt jealous of her. Of the life she had. Of the love she got. Of the impact she left behind.

She was gone but never forgotten. And I was here, but not really seen.

She must have been extraordinary.

Later that night, fresh from the shower, I caught my reflection in the fogged-up bathroom mirror. Just a glimpse. But it was enough.

For the first time, I saw the old Mia staring back with tired eyes.

And for the first time, I wished I’d never met Asher.

Wished I hadn’t traded pieces of myself for a life that wasn’t mine.

Wished I hadn’t given away my true self.

I’d barely slept a couple of hours when a loud crash jolted me awake.

It couldn’t be a burglar, right? Asher probably had a million-dollar security system.

But… what if?

I slipped out of bed, heart pounding, phone in hand, ready to dial 911, until I heard Asher’s voice echoing from downstairs.

"f**k!"

"Asher? What happened?" I called out, rushing down the stairs to find him.

"Don’t move," he barked. "I broke a f*****g vase. I hate this stupid golden table."

He was crouched on the floor, trying to gather the shards. I turned and headed to the kitchen, grabbing the broom and dustpan. But when I returned, Asher shoved me back, firm but careful.

"No! You're barefoot! I told you. I don’t want you to get hurt."

He picked up the pieces himself and dumped them in the trash in the kitchen. But when he closed the bin, I saw blood trailing down his palm.

"You cut yourself!" I grabbed his hand. "Let me see."

"It’s nothing," he muttered, trying to pull away, but I didn’t let go.

"It’s not deep," I said, inspecting the wound. Thankfully, he was not behaving like a wounded alpha and avoiding my touch. I released his hand and went to the pantry, pulling out the first aid kit Anna always kept stocked. "Let me clean it."

I wrapped the Band-Aid around his palm, carefully and quietly. The soft scrape of plaster and our breathing were the only sounds inside the cold kitchen. Outside, the rain tapped steadily and strongly against the windows, matching my heartbeat.

Asher watched me closely. When I was done, I met his eyes. He was watching me.

Not the bandage. Me.

I dropped his hand, my heart skipping a beat. Those intense blue eyes were locked on me, his breathing was hard.

I took a step back, my butt hitting the kitchen counter. Asher took a step further, slow and precise, a predatory look on his face.

Every cell of my body was aware of his presence. His handsome face was the only thing I could see, his earthy, masculine scent the only thing I could smell.

And the only one I wanted to taste.

He brought his hand to my head, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and a zing of electricity traveled down my spine.

Why is it so hot here?

"Go back to your room, Mia," he said, his commanding voice low and rough.

I licked my lips, his blue irises watching closely with insane hunger.

He tilted his head down, his mouth hovering over mine. His hands were resting on the counter, caging me.

I needed to step out of this madness. But why wasn’t I moving?

Why didn’t my body want to move?

My hand flattened on his chest, my palm spread on his hard planes.

I wanted to shove him back, but I just kept it there, feeling his heartbeat go like a war drum.

"Go upstairs now!" His tone was urgent, desperate. And it was so, so hot.

I was running out of time. This was my last chance to bolt.

But I didn’t.

And he pounced.