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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 9

The Vault was dark, smelling of expensive cigars and aged leather. Jazz music played softly.

Brittain sat in his usual corner booth. He nursed a glass of scotch. He was brooding. He hadn't heard from Cara in three days. The silence was deafening. He was starting to get worried, though he would never admit it.

Miles Turner sat across from him. Miles was looking at his phone, grinning.

"Damn, Austin," Miles said. "Your little bird flew the coop and found a new nest."

Brittain frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Miles turned his phone around. "Look."

It was a clip from the press conference. Cara in the red dress. Brady brushing her hair back. The look in her eyes.

Brittain felt his blood run cold. His stomach twisted into a knot.

"That's PR," Brittain said. His voice was tight. "It's fake."

But he couldn't stop staring. He stared at Brady's hand on her arm. He stared at the way she leaned into him.

Just then, Caryn arrived. She was wearing white lace. She slid into the booth next to Brittain and looped her arm through his.

"Sorry I'm late," she cooed. "Jordon is being a nightmare again."

Brittain barely acknowledged her. He was fixated on Miles's phone.

Caryn followed his gaze. "Oh," she said. Her voice dripped with fake pity. "She looks... desperate. Trying a bit too hard, isn't she?"

Miles signaled the bartender. "Hey, put the entertainment news on the big screen."

"No," Brittain started to say.

But the screen flickered to life. It was a live feed from the premiere after-party.

There she was. Cara. She was laughing. Her head was thrown back, her neck exposed. She looked alive. She looked electric.

Brittain felt a sharp pain in his chest. He realized he had never seen her laugh like that. Not once.

On the screen, the reporter asked them to play a game. Charades.

Brittain watched as they moved in sync. They had a rhythm.

Caryn tugged at his sleeve. "Brittain, can we order champagne?"

Brittain ignored her. He was watching Cara's hand rest on Brady's chest.

The glass in his hand creaked.

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