Chapter 2

On my first day, my entire job was watching videos at his penthouse.

The footage showed Clara participating in a college debate tournament.

On screen, she was sharp-tongued and relentlessly logical, yet her demeanor remained soft, her eyes clear and unwavering.

I sat cross-legged on the sofa, clutching a bag of chips and watching with pure fascination.

"When she makes an argument, she has a habit of tapping her right index finger against the table."

Ethan’s voice drifted out like a ghost behind me.

I jumped out of my skin, nearly dumping chips all over the floor.

"Mr. Vance! Do you always walk without making a sound? You're going to give me a heart attack!" I clutched my chest, complaining.

He ignored me, his gaze locked onto the screen with a depth of longing I couldn't read.

"There's a gala tonight. You're coming with me," he ordered.

"Right away, Mr. Vance," I instantly pivoted into work mode. "Any dress code specifications? What persona should I adopt? The demure, understanding socialite, or the aloof, untouchable ice queen?"

My words seemed to choke him up. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his brow knitting tight. "Shut up. Just dress like her."

In the walk-in closet, Leo had already laid out an evening gown.

It was an exact replica of the white chiffon dress Clara wore in the video.

I slipped into the gown, facing the full-length mirror and trying to mimic Clara’s otherworldly, serene smile.

"Not it," Ethan's voice came from behind. "Her smile came from her eyes. Yours looks completely fake."

I turned to face him, dropping the smile in an instant and switching back to my deadpan professional facade. "Mr. Vance, may I remind you that authentic, heartfelt smiles fall under the smile service category? A thousand dollars a pop. Would you like to place an order now?"

His face darkened again.

He glared at me as if trying to bore a hole straight through my skull.

After a thirty-second standoff, he whipped an American Express card from his wallet and slammed it onto the vanity table.

"Charge it ten times. Tonight, I want you smiling so naturally that not a single one of her old friends can spot a flaw."

"Understood, boss! Mission guaranteed!" Beaming with genuine joy, I swiped the card off the table.

Ten grand just like that! Talk about easy money!

At the charity gala, I slipped my arm through Ethan's, my smile a masterclass in perfection.

Clara’s old circle of friends quickly crowded around us, their eyes full of shock and mixed emotions.

"My God, Ethan, where did you find her? She looks... identical," gasped a man with sandy-blond hair.

Ethan gave no answer, silently sipping his champagne.

Relying on my memorized dossiers, I addressed each of them by name with absolute precision, casually reminiscing about "our" shared past.

"Tyler, long time no see! The succulent you gave me is still thriving on my windowsill."

"Chloe, that bakery you recommended last time? I finally checked it out. The pastries were incredible."

I handled every conversation with effortless poise, slipping through every detail without a single slip-up, as though Clara had truly risen from the dead.

The looks they gave me shifted from initial bewilderment to profound nostalgia and belief.

Standing beside me, Ethan remained quiet, watching me the entire time.

Halfway through the night, a woman in a sweeping red gown stepped forward holding a glass of wine. Her name was Rachel, Clara's former best friend.

She studied me for a long time, her eyes razor-sharp.

"You're not her," Rachel said coldly. "Clara never wore perfume. She always said natural skin was the best scent."

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Crap. That wasn't in the briefing files!

In a split second, every pair of eyes in the circle locked onto me.

Ethan’s expression instantly clouded over.

My brain worked at lightning speed. Then, I lifted my chin to meet Rachel’s gaze, letting a soft layer of tears instantly pool in my eyes while my lips forced a frail, trembling smile.

"Rachel... did you forget? The doctors told me that after my illness, my sense of smell became completely dulled. I can’t pick up faint scents anymore. I just... I just wanted to smell like who I used to be."

My voice carried a subtle, heartbreaking tremor—just the right touch of wounded pride and vulnerability.

It was half-truth, half-fiction, woven together seamlessly.

Rachel froze. Seeing the tears glistening on my lashes, her own eyes reddened.

"Clara..." She reached out a hand, looking as if she wanted to touch me, then pulled back.

Crisis averted. Flawlessly.

The ride home in the back of the town car was steeped in heavy silence.

"That was a solid performance back there," Ethan suddenly spoke up, shattering the quiet.

"You flatter me, Mr. Vance," I replied, instantly dropping back into contractor mode. "Thinking on my feet to de-escalate a PR crisis counts as extraordinary service. That warrants a bonus, right?"

He turned his head toward me, the neon city lights casting shifting shadows across his sharp jawline.

"Harper, are you really this obsessed with money?"

"Absolutely," I answered without a hint of shame. "Money pays for my dad’s private care. Money keeps my mom from working herself into an early grave. Money gives me dignity. To me, money is life."

He didn't argue. Instead, he pulled out a checkbook and handed me a slip.

I looked down: twenty thousand dollars.

"Crisis management fee. Plus... the cost of that look in your eyes back there," he murmured.

Staring at the check, my mood soared.

That look in my eyes?

Oh, the teary-eyed, fragile routine.

Looks like my acting chops just leveled up again.