The Contracted Substitute

Chapter 6

-MIA-

"Dr. Miller said you're improving so fast, you’ll be out of bed and strolling through the garden in no time," I told my mom as I fluffed her pillow.

It was nice finally being able to talk to her. I missed that. The moment I woke up, I rushed to the hospital. I was about to catch the bus when Jake pulled up. Apparently, Asher had assigned him as my backup driver, and now he was under strict orders to bring me wherever I wanted. I tried to argue, but Jake wasn’t budging.

Fine. I guess there are worse perks than being the stand-in girlfriend of a billionaire with questionable sanity.

"That would be nice. I’m tired of being tied to this bed, even if this room is much better than the other one," Mom said, her voice thin, her skin a pale yellow.

She was getting slowly better. The tumor was gone, but Dr. Miller wanted her to go through another round of chemo, just to be safe. She wasn’t strong enough yet.

"When you’re out of here, we’ll take a trip. Just the two of us. Where do you want to go?" I asked, steering the conversation away from the luxurious private room Asher was paying for.

I dragged a chair over and sat beside her.

"Just the two of us? What about Dennis?"

"He already left for California," I said, busying myself with pouring her a glass of water. I avoided her eyes, terrified she’d see right through me. “He’s finishing high school there before UCLA starts. He came by to say goodbye, but you were still unconscious. He’ll call you later today.”

"But how? Did he get that tuition subsidy?" she asked, and my stomach dropped.

I was about to lie to my mom. And it felt like swallowing glass.

"Yes! Isn’t it amazing? He was over the moon. He’s even thinking about taking surf lessons. Dennis—the straight-A nerd—wants to become a surfer!" I forced a smile, praying she was still too weak to notice the cracks in it.

I’d lied to my brother before. But this was different. Mom wasn’t just family, she was my anchor. My best friend. Lying to her felt like betrayal wrapped in shame.

How could I explain the mess I was in? That I sleep in a house designed for someone who isn’t me, pretending to be her. That I’m slowly dissolving into someone else’s life for money.

After that, we didn’t talk much. I couldn’t stay long. I was in a hospital, but I felt like the disease.

Back home, I didn’t have the energy to keep mimicking Linda’s videos. I missed my old job at the diner. At least there, I could vanish into endless shifts until my feet—and my thoughts—went numb. I even kind of missed the dry, greasy leftover burgers I used to eat for lunch.

The house was quiet by dinner. I reheated a piece of lasagna Anna had left and ate alone. Asher wasn’t home, or maybe he was buried so deep in work he’d skipped the meal entirely.

My head was heavy, and I was stalling bedtime. I knew sleep wouldn’t come easy. I wandered past the living room, my fingers grazing the edge of a beautiful piano. I’d barely practiced, just a few lessons back in high school.

Still, I sat down. And when my fingers hovered over the keys, a memory surfaced: a song Mom used to sing when I was little. Elton John.

It was back in the early years after Dad died, when money wasn’t so tight, and she tried her best to fill the silence he left behind.

I missed her so much it hurt in places I didn’t know could ache. So I played—clumsy, off-key—and sang with a voice that felt like it might shatter.

When I finished, I was about to close the lid when I felt that prickling sensation on my neck.

I turned. Asher was standing in the hallway, hands tucked in his pockets, watching me.

"Where did you learn to sing like that?" he asked, his voice unusually warm.

I blinked away the tears before he could see them. "It’s a song my mom used to play for me."

He came closer, his suit jacket brushing my bare shoulder. "Tiny Dancer?"

"Yeah. I wanted to be a ballerina." I smiled faintly. "But I was too clumsy for Madame Trusseau. She let me go."

"Hmm. Say the word and I’ll make her disappear," he said, raising a brow and I laughed.

"It’s okay. I wanted to be a superhero after that."

He gazed at the piano, his blue eyes thoughtful. "Can you play Rocket Man?"

"Don’t tell me you wanted to be an astronaut," I teased.

"No. Linda used to play that song."

Ah. My smile faltered. "I can’t really play. I just know a couple of songs."

"Try. Please."

Asher said please. Am I dead? Is heaven a penthouse decorated in pale pink tones?

"Okay. But no promises."

I searched for the song on the tablet and tried to follow. It wasn’t easy, but I was managing. To hide my mistakes, I sang along.

Asher watched quietly beside me, his warmth radiating behind me.

I hit a wrong key, the sour note halting everything.

"It’s okay. She used to mess up that part too."

He leaned over, guiding my hand to the right spot. His cologne—woodsy, masculine—wrapped around me like a blanket.

"Try again like this," he said softly, his breath brushing my ear. I suppressed a shiver.

My heart was racing as I started again, his frame still close. When I finished, I placed my trembling hands in my lap, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

Was I… attracted to him?

"Elton John would probably throw one of his glasses at me if he heard that," I joked, flashing a crooked smile.

"Your voice is beautiful, Mia. You should sing professionally. The way you sing… it makes the music live inside you."

I blinked. Asher was complimenting me?

I must’ve hit my head on one of his golden tables.

"Thanks," I said, tucking my hair behind my ear.

Was I blushing?

"I want you to play more songs. Have you found Linda’s old music notebook? I want you to learn those pieces."

Linda. Of course. Just like that, the whiplash hit.

I stood from the bench, taking a few steps away. "Sure," I said, not meeting his eyes.

"If you need help to find a piano teacher—"

"I know. I’ll talk to Dylan," I cut in, dryly. "It’s late. I’m going to bed. Good night, Asher."

I made a beeline for the stairs, refusing to look back. For a moment, I’d forgotten I was playing a role. I felt hurt, but I had to push past it. I was here to perform. A replica.

And every day, I feared my real self was being swallowed whole.