VIVIAN'S POV
The closet is already filled with her clothes.
Not just any clothes. Designer labels. Tags still attached. Everything in her exact size down to the last detail. Dresses that probably cost more than her monthly rent used to be. Shoes arranged by color. Sweaters in cashmere. Jeans that look expensive just standing there.
Vivian touches a silk blouse and her stomach twists.
He knew she would say yes. He planned this entire setup before she even called. Before she agreed. Before she sold herself. He just waited for the inevitable moment when desperation would win over hesitation.
She's not special. She's predictable.
Desperate people are always predictable.
She changes into her own jeans and sweater, holding onto the familiar fabric like it's the last piece of herself she gets to keep. Then she explores the penthouse on shaking legs.
It's massive. Everything white and cream and perfect. Floor to ceiling windows overlook Central Park like it's private property. The art on the walls probably costs more than entire houses. Original paintings. Museum quality. Real.
Everything is expensive. Nothing is personal.
No photos. No books stacked haphazardly on tables. No evidence that anyone actually lives here. It's a showroom. A museum exhibit. A beautiful mausoleum for a man who's been dead inside for two years.
She finds his office. Dark leather furniture. Floor to ceiling bookshelves. A desk that's completely empty except for a computer and a single framed photo. She picks it up without thinking.
Elena Thorne.
The woman in the photo is beautiful in a gentle way. Soft features, kind eyes, a smile that reaches those eyes. She's wearing a white sundress and she's laughing at something off camera. She looks alive in a way that makes Vivian's chest ache.
This is who she's supposed to replace. This is the ghost she's supposed to be.
She sets the photo down carefully and keeps moving through the penthouse.
At six fifty eight, Vivian positions herself on the couch. She doesn't know what else to do. Doesn't know the protocol for meeting your employer who bought you like you were on a menu.
At seven exactly, the elevator opens.
Kade walks into the penthouse carrying briefcase and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He's changed from the tuxedo into a dark suit. His tie is loosened. His hair is slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it.
He looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with work.
"You are settled?" he asks.
"Yes."
He doesn't smile. Doesn't make small talk. Just nods like she's confirmed a business detail and walks toward his study.
"Dinner at seven thirty," he says without looking back.
Vivian sits alone and realizes she's terrified.
The dining table seats twelve. Kade sits at one end. Vivian sits at the other, a distance of at least ten feet between them. Mrs. Chen serves food that smells expensive and tastes like ash in Vivian's mouth. Salmon. Some kind of rice. Vegetables arranged artfully on the plate.
Neither of them speaks.
The silence is crushing. It fills the space between them like something alive and hungry. Vivian tries to eat but her throat is too tight. She watches Kade across that vast table, noting how he eats mechanically. No pleasure. No engagement. Just fuel.
She thinks about Elena. About that photo in his office. About how this man bought her because she has the same eye shape as his dead wife.
The silence gets worse.
Vivian sets down her fork. She can't do this. Can't sit across from him in silence while they both pretend this is normal.
"Why me?" The question comes out before she can stop it. "You could have anyone. Any woman in Manhattan would say yes to what you're offering. Why me specifically?"
Kade sets down his fork slowly. Deliberately. Like putting down a weapon. He meets her eyes across the table and something in his expression hardens.
"You remind me of someone," he says.
"Who?"
"My wife. She died two years ago."
The words land in the space between them like a bomb.
Vivian's chest squeezes. She found articles about Elena when she was researching Kade. Car accident. Tragic loss. A woman who seemed genuinely kind in every photo ever taken of her.
"I look nothing like her," Vivian says carefully.
"Around the eyes. The cheekbones." His voice is flat. Clinical. Like he's describing an investment. "Enough."
So that's what this is. She's not Vivian Lawson. She's a replacement. A stand-in. A ghost he bought to torture himself with.
"So I'm a ghost you bought," she says.
"Yes."
At least he doesn't lie.
Vivian stands up from the table. Her legs feel shaky but she does it anyway. She needs distance. Needs air. Needs to not be sitting across from a man who sees someone else when he looks at her.
"I should go to my room," she says.
"Wait."
Kade stands too. He's tall and the space suddenly feels smaller. She watches him walk toward her, movement careful like he's approaching something wounded.
"I bought your time, Vivian. Not your thoughts. Not your feelings. Not your right to question this arrangement." His voice is quiet but it carries weight. "You can hate me. You can resent this situation. But while you are here, you will show up when I ask and you will play the role we discussed."
"The role of your dead wife," she says.
"The role of my companion."
He's closer now. Close enough that she can see the exhaustion around his eyes. Close enough to notice that he's not actually looking at her like she's Elena. He's looking at her like she's a problem he's trying to solve.
"You will go to events. You will smile when photographers ask you to smile. You will sit beside me at dinners and pretend we are something other than what we are." He pauses. "But you will not go back to your old life. You will not contact your old friends. You will not do anything that draws media attention to this arrangement or to your past."
"You're putting conditions on me?"
"I'm protecting my investment."
The words should hurt but they don't. Not really. Because she already knows that's what she is. She sold herself. She just thought she had more autonomy than she apparently does.
"Anything else?" she asks.
"Yes." He steps back, giving her space. "Your mother's surgery is Monday. I expect you to be grateful but not effusive about it. When she asks how you're affording this, tell her we're dating normally. Tell her you're happy. Make her believe it."
"You want me to lie to my mother."
"I want you to protect your mother from the truth of what this is. That's not lying. That's kindness."
Vivian turns to leave but his voice stops her.
"Vivian."
She looks back.
"I'm not a good man," he says quietly. "I'm not going to pretend to be. But I will keep you safe. I will keep your mother safe. And I will not ask you for anything you're not willing to give."
She doesn't know if she believes him. Doesn't know if it matters.
"What happens when the year is over?" she asks.
Something shifts in his expression. Something darker moves behind those storm gray eyes.
"We will figure that out when we get there," he says. "For now, you belong to me. That's the only thing that matters."
He walks back to the table and sits down.
Vivian stands in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, realizing what she's just agreed to. She's not just sold her time. She's sold her life. Her choices. Her ability to make decisions about her own future.
She's trapped in a beautiful cage with a man who sees his dead wife when he looks at her.
And the most terrifying part is that in a few moments, when she sees her mother after her surgery is done, she won't even be able to tell anyone the truth.
She'll have to smile and pretend and lie.
She'll have to become whoever Kade Thorne needs her to be.
And she's no longer sure where Vivian Lawson ends and that ghost begins.