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Billionaire's Placeholder: Now Watch Me Shine Novel Cover

Billionaire's Placeholder: Now Watch Me Shine

For two years, I was the perfect shadow of another woman. I wore the silk robes Brittain Austin bought, styled my hair exactly how he liked, and spoke in a voice pitched half an octave higher than my own. I was a placeholder, a living statue in a minimalist Manhattan penthouse, waiting for a man who looked at me but never actually saw me. Everything shattered when a news alert flashed on my phone: "Caryn Newman Spotted at JFK." The original was back. The woman I was hired to mimic had returned to claim her throne, and my secret two-year contract as her stand-in was set to expire in three days. Brittain didn't even give me the courtesy of a phone call. While he was supposed to be on a business trip, photos surfaced of him shielding Caryn from the paparazzi, his hand on her waist with a tenderness he never showed me. When I walked into his office to return his keys, he didn't look guilty; he just looked annoyed. He pulled out a checkbook and asked, "How much for the hurt feelings?" When I refused his money, he coldly ordered his assistant to freeze every one of my accounts before I even reached the elevator. I stood on the sidewalk with zero dollars, realizing that to him, I wasn't a partner—I was just an expired lease. I had spent two years erasing my soul to fit into his world, only to be tossed out like trash the moment the real thing came home. But Brittain forgot one thing: before I was his doll, I was an actress. I pulled my secret weapon from under the bed—a notebook and a raw film cut he never knew existed. I called my agent and launched a high-profile "showmance" with my co-star that set the internet on fire. As I blocked Brittain's number and moved into a dusty apartment in Queens, I realized the show wasn't over. For the first time, I was the leading lady.
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Chapter 7

Cara walked into Zack's office holding a bodega coffee. Her eyes were puffy, but her hands were steady.

Zack was pointing at a large monitor. The line on the graph was going up. Vertical.

"Brady's like has the fans spiraling," Zack said. He rubbed his hands together. "The strategy is simple. Ambiguity. We don't confirm. We don't deny. We let them connect the dots."

Cara nodded. She knew how to play this game.

She opened Instagram. She scrolled back through her camera roll to the set of White Poplar. She found a photo. It was her and Brady sitting on apple crates, reading scripts. But the angle... the angle made it look intimate. They were leaning in.

She uploaded it.

Caption: Found this one. The energy that day was... intense. @BradyRoy

She hit share.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was a direct violation of the spirit of the NDA, even if the letter of it was expiring.

One minute later. A comment appeared.

BradyRoy: That's because you were stealing my scene, Clay.

The wink. The wink was lethal.

The comments section exploded.

OMG ARE THEY???

CaraBrady

Finally a guy who appreciates her!

She saw a comment from a user named HaliFan123: She's just a rebound.

It was immediately buried by fifty replies defending her.

Zack laughed. "Look at that! Austin can blacklist you from the Met Gala, but he can't blacklist you from the internet."

She watched the follower count tick up. 10k. 50k. 100k. It felt like power.

Across town, in the Austin Media tower, Burrel sat at his desk. He had a sentiment analysis tool open on his screen. The heat map was red.

He saw the photo. He saw the wink.

He swallowed hard. He looked at the closed door of Brittain's office. He could hear Brittain shouting on a conference call.

Burrel closed the tab. "He's in a bad mood," he muttered to himself. "I'll tell him later."

Back in Queens, Cara posted a Story. Just two coffee cups on a table. No faces. But in the corner of the frame, slightly out of focus, was a man's wrist wearing a vintage Rolex.

The internet detectives went to work. Within ten minutes, a fan account posted a side-by-side photo of Brady wearing that exact watch.

PopCrave tweeted: Cara Clay and Brady Roy spark dating rumors with cryptic coffee date.

Her phone buzzed. It was Brady.

DM: Nice touch with the watch. Dinner tonight? Somewhere public?

She typed back: Deal. Pick a place with big windows.

She closed her eyes. She navigated to her contacts. She found Brittain Austin.

She hovered over the Block Contact button.

Her thumb hovered. This was the digital equivalent of slamming the door.

She pressed it.

Block Contact.

She looked at Zack.

"Get me a dress," she said. "Something that says 'I'm not mourning.'"

Zack grinned. "I have just the thing."

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