Chapter 2
"Wow! She's gorgeous!"
"She really does look like Isabelle!"
"What good is being pretty? She's just a replacement. The moment Miss Monroe comes back, he'll dump her."
"I swear she had her face done to look like Isabelle. What a calculated little—"
Emma heard every word.
She simply smiled.
After all, people were entitled to their opinions.
Especially when they were wrong.
Emma's natural appearance was actually much more striking than innocent.
She had sharp features, expressive eyes, and the kind of beauty that could easily be described as dangerous.
But Emma was a professional.
And with enough makeup, the right hairstyle, softer clothes, and a carefully practiced expression—
She could turn herself into an entirely different woman.
A delicate little flower.
Sweet.
Fragile.
Innocent.
The kind of woman men instinctively wanted to protect.
She had met Lawrence Vance six months ago while working part-time as a server at a private party.
That night, Lawrence had been drunk.
Very drunk.
At some point, he had grabbed her hand and stared at her as though he'd seen a ghost.
"Isabelle..."
His voice had been rough.
"Isabelle..."
Then he'd looked at her with the kind of desperation Emma had only ever seen in terrible romance movies.
"If you come back, I'll give you anything you want."
Emma's first instinct had been to yank her hand away.
Take your hand off me, you drunk idiot.
Before she could say it, one of Lawrence's friends had pulled out his wallet.
He took out several thousand dollars in cash and tossed it onto the table.
"Just humor him."
Emma froze.
The man continued casually.
"That's all. You don't have to do anything else."
Money.
Actual money.
Just sitting there.
On the table.
For talking.
Emma's vocabulary suddenly expanded.
She crouched down and gathered every bill.
Then she looked at the drunk man in front of her.
Her expression changed instantly.
"Isabelle is here."
Lawrence froze.
Emma gently squeezed his hand.
"I'm never going to leave you."
The words came out so naturally that even Emma was impressed with herself.
She continued talking nonsense for the next ten minutes.
Apparently, Isabelle had always loved him.
Apparently, she had never forgotten him.
Apparently, everything was going to be okay.
By the end of it, Lawrence had quieted down.
A few minutes later, he fell asleep against Emma's shoulder.
Emma handed him back to his friends.
Then she flashed the man who had paid her the brightest smile she could manage.
And, because she believed in repeat business, she gave him her phone number.
"If you ever need this kind of service again, call me."
She paused.
"I'm a professional."
Then she smiled.
"And since we've already met, I'll even give you a one-percent discount."
The man stared at her.
Emma smiled wider.
"I'm serious."
The next morning, her phone rang.
It was Lawrence.
He wanted to hire her.
Apparently, he needed someone to accompany him to dinners, social events, workouts, and various other activities.
The rate?
Emma had exactly zero reasons to say no.
She signed the contract that same day.
And just like that, she became Lawrence Vance's replacement.
His untouchable ideal—the girl who ruined him for anyone else—was Isabelle Monroe.
She was traveling in another country.
And Lawrence was still waiting for her.
So naturally, the replacement had to fall madly in love with him.
That part was easy.
Emma even went online and found pictures of Isabelle.
And she discovered something interesting.
They actually looked a little alike.
Maybe three out of ten.
But three out of ten wasn't good enough.
Emma had been paid.
Therefore, she would deliver.
She studied Isabelle's makeup.
Her hairstyle.
Her clothing.
Her mannerisms.
The way she smiled.
The way she held her coffee.
The way she tilted her head when she listened.
Emma recreated everything.
After several hours of work, three out of ten became eight.
The first time she showed up for work dressed as Isabelle's near-perfect double, even Lawrence had frozen.
For one brief second, he'd looked like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
So Emma knew she'd done her job properly.
It wasn't really surprising that people were talking about her tonight.
Her arrangement with Lawrence was confidential.
Only a handful of people knew about it.
He had never brought her to an event this crowded before.
Most of the time, Emma simply went to his house when he needed company.
And honestly?
The food there was incredible.
His private chef deserved a raise.
Unfortunately, Isabelle was supposedly elegant and refined.
So whenever Emma ate dinner with Lawrence, she barely touched her food.
One forkful here.
Two bites there.
A graceful little sip of wine.
Then she'd wait until she got home and raid the leftovers she'd secretly packed from his kitchen.
Professionalism had its limits.
Hunger was not one of them.
Tonight, however, Emma was standing beside Lawrence in a white dress.
Her long, silky hair fell softly over her shoulders.
One delicate hand rested around Lawrence's arm.
She looked at the glamorous ballroom around them.
The chandeliers.
The champagne.
The designer gowns.
The endless sea of wealthy people.
Then she lowered her eyes slightly.
A hint of vulnerability appeared in her expression.
Around her, whispers continued.
"She's really trying to look like Isabelle."
"She's obviously after Lawrence's money."
"Can you believe she's actually showing up here?"
Emma tightened her fingers around Lawrence's arm.
Her shoulders drew in slightly.
She looked like a little rabbit that had accidentally wandered into a forest full of predators.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
Lawrence glanced down at her.
Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Protectiveness.
She was only twenty-three.
Still in college.
And she had probably never been surrounded by this many people openly judging her before.
His large hand settled over hers.
Then his voice turned cold.
"Are you finished?"
The nearby women immediately went quiet.
Lawrence's gaze swept across them.
"If you have something to say, say it to my face."
No one did.
They quickly scattered.
Emma looked up at him.
Her big eyes filled with gratitude.
"Thank you, Mr. Vance."
Lawrence looked into her eyes.
And frowned.
Why did she look at him like that?
She was an amateur.
She wasn't even an actress.
How was her expression this convincing?
"You're with me."
His voice softened slightly.
"No one gets to treat you like that."
He lifted a hand and gently brushed the tip of her nose.
Emma turned her face away with a shy smile.
On the outside:
Sweet.
Touched.
Almost overwhelmed.
On the inside:
What the hell are you doing?
You just messed up my makeup.
Her foundation was expensive.
That single swipe had probably cost her at least a dollar.
A dollar!
And why did that gesture look so painfully scripted?
She could practically hear the background music.
Then a sharp female voice cut through the room.
"Lawrence Vance! What are you doing?"
Emma's eyes moved immediately.
She had already noticed the woman watching them from across the room.
Trace Donovan.
Isabelle's friend.
And Lawrence definitely knew she was watching.
Which meant that stupid nose-touching move had been deliberate.
Emma nearly died of secondhand embarrassment.
That was awful.
Absolutely tragic.
Somebody call the acting police.
Lawrence turned.
His expression became politely unpleasant.
"Ms. Donovan."
He gave her a faint smile.
"Long time no see."
Trace ignored him.
Her eyes were fixed on Emma.
"Who is she?"
Then she turned back to Lawrence.
"You told me you'd wait for Isabelle."
Emma immediately understood.
So this was one of Isabelle's friends.
Perfect.
Time to earn her paycheck.
Emma tightened her fingers around Lawrence's sleeve.
Her eyes widened.
She looked nervous.
A little frightened.
Like she didn't understand what was happening.
Lawrence had never told her much about his history with Isabelle.
He wasn't exactly the sharing type.
But Emma had been working with him for six months.
She knew enough.
Lawrence and Isabelle had apparently fallen in love years ago.
But Isabelle's parents had strongly opposed the relationship.
They'd eventually sent her to another country to study.
Lawrence had taken the breakup like a man in a revenge-romance novel.
Instead of moving on, he started a company.
Three years later, he'd supposedly built a fortune worth two billion dollars.
He'd publicly declared that he would wait for Isabelle.
No matter how long it took.
Emma had always been impressed by one particular part of the story.
Three years.
Two billion dollars.
How?
Seriously.
How did this man make money so easily?
She'd secretly spent months trying to figure out his business secrets.
Then she learned the truth.
Lawrence's version of "starting from nothing" apparently meant:
He didn't inherit the family business.
Instead, his family gave him one million dollars, connections, resources, and access to people most entrepreneurs would spend their entire lives trying to meet.
Emma had stared at the information for a full minute.
......
Right.
Sure.
So that's what "self-made" means when you're rich.
She suddenly wanted to be reborn as a trust-fund baby.
Preferably an only child.
Preferably with a family office.
She'd happily spend the rest of her life doing absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately, life had other plans.
Lawrence wrapped an arm around Emma's shoulders.
Then he looked at Trace with a cold smile.
"What?"
His voice was almost mocking.
"Isabelle is seeing someone else while she's away, and you're acting like you're the only one allowed to move on?"
Emma blinked.
Oh.
Interesting.
So Isabelle was seeing someone else.
That explained a lot.
Lawrence was using a replacement to make her jealous.
For one brief moment, Emma felt sorry for him.
Then she stopped herself.
Never feel sorry for a rich man.
It only encourages them.
And feeling sorry for a billionaire was particularly dangerous.
Trace immediately shook her head.
"Isabelle is only lonely! She's not serious about him!"
She looked Emma up and down.
Then suddenly smiled.
"So that's what this is."
Her voice dripped with contempt.
"You found yourself a replacement."
Emma remained perfectly calm.
She was being paid to handle this.
And she was very, very good at her job.
She lifted her chin.
Her eyes became stubbornly determined.
"Even if I'm a replacement, I don't care."
She looked at Lawrence.
"All I care about is being by your side, baby."
Then she turned back to Trace.
"Please don't blame him."
Her voice softened.
"This is my fault."
A tiny pause.
"I was the one who pursued him first."
Perfect.
The goal was simple.
Make Isabelle jealous.
But don't make her hate Lawrence.
If Isabelle decided Lawrence was a cheating jerk, the entire operation would fail.
So Emma had to take all the blame.
She was, in her professional opinion, incredibly talented.
Lawrence, however, had gone completely still.
By my side?
And what was with that ridiculous nickname?
He frowned.
She was getting a little too comfortable.
He would have to talk to her about that later.
Trace, meanwhile, looked like Emma had just personally insulted her entire bloodline.
"How shameless are you?"
She raised her hand.
And swung it toward Emma's face.
Emma didn't move.
In fact, she was almost excited.
Workplace injury.
Her contract was very clear.
Physical injuries caused by a client or someone involved in the assignment were subject to ten times the compensation.
If this woman slapped her, Emma could buy a thirty-dollar tube of ointment and potentially collect three hundred.
That was a very respectable return on investment.
And Trace's arm looked skinny.
How bad could it be?
Emma was ready to take one for the team.
Unfortunately—
The slap never landed.
Lawrence caught Trace's wrist.
His expression turned cold.
"Don't touch her."
Trace stared at him in disbelief.
"Lawrence!"
He released her wrist.
"You have no right to hit anyone."
Trace's face flushed with anger.
"You'll regret this!"
She rubbed her wrist.
"I'll tell Isabelle everything."
Emma's eyes immediately lit up.
Mission accomplished.
Perfect.
But the tiny flash of satisfaction in her eyes looked very different from the other side of the room.
To Trace, it looked like a smug little victory.
Trace glared at her.
"Don't think you can actually replace Isabelle."
Her voice rose.
"A sparrow dreaming of becoming a princess?"
She scoffed.
"Get real."
Emma looked up at Lawrence.
Her eyes were huge and innocent.
Inside, she was already thinking about dinner.
I'm going to be starving after tonight's next job.
Maybe pizza.
Definitely pizza.
Outside, however, her voice was soft.
"None of that matters."
She leaned slightly closer to Lawrence.
"As long as I can stay with you."
Trace:
"......"
She had never met anyone this shameless.
Emma, meanwhile, had one thought.
Pretty girls can make money.
But shameless girls make money for life.
Lawrence frowned.
There it was again.
That ridiculous nickname.
She was getting too comfortable.
He was going to have to remind her where the boundaries were.
Then someone hurried over.
"Trace! Adrian Mercer just arrived!"
Trace's head snapped around.
She immediately forgot about Emma.
"Where?"
Emma froze.
Her eyes widened.
Wait.
Who just arrived?
Adrian Mercer?
Here?
Tonight?
The man she'd just quit chasing less than a few hours ago?
Emma slowly turned toward the entrance.
For the first time that evening—
her professional smile disappeared.