Chapter8 I won't select her - From Substitute to His Regret

Caspar

Chloe appeared in the doorway. That vintage Cartier bracelet on her wrist—the one I'd given her when we were eighteen.

She smiled. "I know you said seven. But I couldn't wait."

I stood. Crossed the room. Gave her a brief hug. "It's fine. Sit."

She settled onto the leather sofa, looking around with those big blue eyes. "I've missed this. Being here. With you."

I sat across from her. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." She touched her wrist. The thin white scar barely visible. "The new medication is helping."

Three years ago, Chloe had tried to kill herself. Twice. Pills the first time. Slit wrists in a Paris hotel bathtub the second.

She'd been my fiancée. We'd grown up together. Our families had planned our wedding since we were kids.

Then the accident happened. And she left.

I didn't blame her. She'd grown sick, her mother pushing her into treatment against her will.

Now she was back. Healthy. Ready to pick up where we left off.

"I'm glad the treatment's working," I said.

Chloe's smile brightened. "It's because of you. Knowing we have another chance." She reached for my hand. "Caspar, I know I hurt you when I left. Forgive me. I won’t walk away from you ever again. "

"Chloe, it wasn't your fault."

"You're too kind. That's why I love you."

Love. The word sat between us. Familiar. Expected.

Her gaze drifted past me. Landed on my laptop. "What are you working on?"

"Museum partnership. Need to hire a restorer."

She walked to my desk. Looked at the screen.

I'd left Elena's profile open. Should've closed it. Didn't.

Chloe went very still.

"Who is this?" Her tone perfectly natural.

"A restoration specialist. One of the candidates."

"She looks young."

"Twenty-three."

Chloe zoomed in on the photo. Studied Elena's face. "She looks like me." She turned. "We could be sisters."

I shrugged. "Coincidence."

"Is it?" Chloe's eyes sharpened. "Caspar. Who is she?"

No point deflecting. The divorce was public record.

"My ex-wife."

Silence.

Chloe stared. "Your what?"

"Contract marriage. Three years. Ended last week. Divorce finalized Friday."

"You got married?" Her voice rose. "While I was in Europe?"

"You were gone, Chloe. I needed someone to help with recovery. She needed money for medical bills. Business arrangement."

"Business?" She laughed. Sharp and bitter. "You married someone who looks like me. And you call it business?"

"It was convenient. She did the job. Now it's over."

"Was she a replacement?" Chloe's voice cracked. "You couldn't have me, so you found a substitute?"

I looked at her. Direct. "Does it matter? She's gone. You're here."

She covered her face. Shoulders shaking. "Seeing her photo. Knowing you were with someone else..."

I put a hand on her shoulder. "It wasn't real, Chloe. It was a contract. Like having a live-in nurse."

"So you don't have feelings for her?"

"No."

The word came out flat. Certain. My fingers tapped the desk edge twice. An old tell. I stopped.

What I'd felt for Elena was habit. Familiarity.

Chloe searched my face. Seemed to find what she needed. She leaned in. Kissed me.

Her lips were soft. Familiar. Tasted like the lip gloss she'd worn since high school.

I kissed her back. Comfortable. Easy. Like slipping into an old jacket.

Elena had been an anomaly. A temporary arrangement.

I pulled back. "I have the London call in ten minutes."

Chloe nodded. Stood. Smoothed her suit. "Dinner tonight? Seven?"

"Sure."

She kissed my cheek. Headed for the door.

Paused with her hand on the handle. "Caspar? That woman. Elena. You're not going to hire her, are you?"

I glanced at the laptop. At Elena's credentials staring back. Youngest master restorer certified by the International Institute. Fifteen impossible restorations. Six-month waiting list.

"Probably not," I said. "The Met board will want someone with more institutional track record."

Chloe's shoulders relaxed. "Good. I think that's wise."

She left.

I sat back down. Stared at Elena's profile for a long moment. My hand moved to close the laptop. Stopped halfway. Pulled back.

The screen stayed open.

My phone buzzed. Email notification.

"Mr. Hathaway, this is Marcus Weber from Traces of Time Workshop. Elena Sawyer has availability and would be honored to discuss the project. Best regards, Marcus."

I stared at the email.

"Would be honored."

Four days ago, she'd left five million on the table. Walked away without taking a single thing I'd bought her.

Now her boss was reaching out.

This was Marcus Weber trying to land a high-profile client. Elena probably didn't even know he'd sent this.

I hit reply. Typed quickly.

"Mr. Weber, thank you for reaching out. After reviewing all candidates, we've decided to move forward with Hans Müller. Best regards, Caspar Hathaway."

My finger hovered over send.

That photo. Taken in her workshop. Loupe in one hand. Ruby bearing in the other. Eyes focused. Completely absorbed.

I'd seen that look a thousand times.

I hit send.

Leaned back. Looked out at Manhattan's skyline.

The divorce was finalized. The contract was over.

Time to move on.

I closed the laptop.

This time, it stayed closed.

Chloe

I sat in the back of my Rolls-Royce. Hands shaking.

That photo. That fucking photo.

I pulled out my phone. Searched "Elena Sawyer."

Articles popped up immediately. "Young Prodigy Completes Impossible Restoration." "A Modern Miracle."

I clicked on an image gallery. There she was. In her workshop. Blonde hair pulled back. Blue eyes focused. Delicate features.

She looked like me. Not identical. But close enough.

Caspar had married my fucking doppelgänger.

Rage burned through me.

He'd said it was just business.

But I'd seen his face when I asked if he had feelings for her. That split-second hesitation before he said no. The way his fingers tapped the desk—twice, quick—before he stopped himself.

An old tell. One I knew from a decade of watching him.

He was lying. Maybe to me. Maybe to himself.

But he was lying.

I kept scrolling. Found her workshop's Instagram. Photos of restored pieces. Glowing reviews. Comments everywhere.

"Genius." "The best in the field." "Worth every penny."

People loved her.

And Caspar had lived with her for three years. Breakfast together. Dinner together. Coming home to her every night.

That wasn't just business. That was intimacy.

My chest tightened. Pain sharp and familiar. The kind that used to send me reaching for pills. For razors. For anything to make it stop.

But I'd fought too hard to get back here. To get him back.

I wasn't that broken girl in the Paris hotel anymore. I was stronger now. Smarter.

And I knew how to fight.

If Elena kept rising like this, she'd be in our circles soon. At the same galas. The same auctions. The same charity dinners.

Standing next to Caspar. Reminding him of what they'd had.

I couldn't let that happen.

I opened my messages. Texted my mother.

"We have a problem."

Her response came immediately.

"What kind of problem?"

"Someone who looks just like me and works in Brookhaven."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

"I'll handle it."

I smiled. Leaned back against the leather seat.

Evelyn Sinclair didn't fail. And neither did I.

Elena Sawyer thought she could walk away from Caspar and build a new life? Thought she could shine brighter and brighter until he noticed?

She was wrong.

I'd already lost him once. To that fucking helicopter.

I won’t give him up to anyone.

Even if she did have God's hands.

I pulled up her workshop's address. Saved it.

Time to meet this brilliant restorer.

Face to face.