The Billionaire's Stand-In Wife Is A Genius

Johnna pressed the buzzer. "Johnna Hayden to see Simon Vance." The lock clicked open with a heavy thud. She walked into a long hallway that smelled intensely of turpentine, varnish, and old canvas. It was a scent that made her brain light up. It smelled like purpose. At the end of the hall, the space opened up into a massive, industrial studio. North-facing skylights flooded the room with consistent, diffused light. Workstations were set up with surgical precision-microscopes, suction tables, trays of pigments. A man in a sharp blazer approached her. Simon Vance. He looked more like a hedge fund manager than an artist. "Ms. Hayden," he said, shaking her hand. His grip was firm, his eyes scanning her simple black trousers and white blouse. "You didn't list any recent employment." "I was... on a sabbatical," Johnna said smoothly. A snort came from the nearest workstation. A man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from a microscope. This was Sterling, the studio's lead restorer. He looked at her with open disdain. "Sabbatical," Sterling mocked. "Three years? In this industry, that means your hands have turned to stone." Johnna ignored him. Her eyes were drawn to a large easel in the center of the room. On it sat a 17th-century Dutch still life. It was a disaster. A jagged, ugly tear ran right through the center of a floral arrangement, shattering the illusion of depth. "The Van Aelst," Simon said, following her gaze. "Transport accident. The client is... displeased." "It's ruined," Sterling said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Structural integrity is compromised. We're discussing damage control, not restoration." "I can fix it," Johnna said. The room went silent. Sterling laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You? Based on a portfolio from three years ago?" Simon looked at her, calculating. "That's a bold claim. If you touch it and make it worse, I'm liable for millions." "I won't make it worse," Johnna said. She walked over to the painting, leaning in close but not touching. She studied the weave of the canvas, the brittle flaking of the paint around the tear. "The canvas needs a thread-by-thread re-weave. The loss is minimal if you align the warp and weft under magnification before bonding." She looked back at Simon. "Give me a test. Any scrap canvas. I'll show you the bond." Simon hesitated, then nodded. "Sterling, give her the practice piece." Sterling threw a slashed piece of old linen onto a table. "Knock yourself out, sweetheart." Johnna sat down. She put on the magnifying visor. She pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. The moment the tools were in her hands, the world narrowed. The noise of the studio faded. The anxiety about Chadwick, the divorce, the money-it all evaporated. There was only the fiber, the adhesive, and the problem. She worked for two hours. She didn't drink water. She didn't shift in her chair. She aligned broken threads with a dentist's pick, applying microscopic dots of adhesive to a two-inch section of the tear, reconstructing the grid of the fabric with painstaking slowness. "Done," she said, pulling off the visor. "With the stabilization sample, at least." Sterling strolled over, smirk in place. He picked up the canvas, holding it up to the light to find the flaw. The smirk vanished. He frowned. He brought the canvas closer to his face. He ran a finger over the surface. It was smooth. "Where was the tear?" Simon asked, stepping closer. Sterling lowered the canvas slowly. He looked at Johnna with a mixture of hatred and begrudging awe. "It's... seamless." Simon took the canvas. He whistled low. "This technique... the micro-bridging. I haven't seen weave manipulation like this since the old Master in Florence passed away. You have his hands, Ms. Hayden." Johnna kept her face impassive. That was my father, she thought, but she said nothing. The Dyers had never asked about her father's profession, only his bank account. To them, he was a nobody. To this room, he was a legend. "You're hired," Simon said. "Double the standard rate. Can you start on the Van Aelst now?" "Yes," Johnna said. "Get her a station," Simon barked at a junior assistant. Johnna stood up, feeling a rush of dopamine. She was back. She was The Ghost. She was powerful. She walked toward the break room to get a glass of water. Her phone, tucked in her pocket, began to vibrate against her hip. She pulled it out, expecting her mother. The screen lit up with a name that made her blood run cold. Chadwick. The joy of the last hour shattered. The reality of her other life came crashing back in. She stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the decline button. ---