His Dead Stand-in

Weightlessness.

Screaming.

Fire swallowing the cabin whole.

The day after Kingsley Voss got engaged, his assistant handed me a plane ticket.

Leave. Don't ever show your face in New York again. Or Mr. Voss has a hundred ways to ruin you.

I boarded clutching a five-million-dollar check, sure it was my ticket out. My ticket to freedom.

Turns out it was never a ticket to a good life.

It was a ticket to my death.

And the man who bought it never knew he was sending away two lives that day. Not one.

Chapter 1

I never planned on dying.

The plan was clean. Take Kingsley Voss's five million, get on a plane, put an ocean between me and every miserable thing his name ever cost me.

The rest of my life was supposed to be one long, easy exhale.

Then the plane dropped out of the sky, and there was nothing left to exhale.

I was so angry.

Because that ticket he'd booked for me? It was never a send-off to a better life.

It was a send-off. Period.

Our last conversation, we sat at opposite ends of a table long enough to seat a board meeting. Two months of silence between us, and it showed. He'd been busy pushing through Genevieve's divorce, getting her settled, getting her daughter settled. It took him a long, long time to remember he still had a girlfriend somewhere.

So he carved out one whole hour and came to my place.

Not that it was mine. The most expensive block in New York, where the air costs money. Without Kingsley I'd never have set foot in a building like it.

Not long before, we'd been tangled together in that apartment, his arm hooked around my waist while I dragged my nails down his back just to be a brat about it.

Strange, how a little time apart can turn two people into strangers.

"What do you want," he said.

Not a question. A line item.

So I gave him a number. Three years of my life, itemized. Five million.

I'd loved him once. I'll give myself that.

But that love had gone bankrupt the day I learned what I actually was to him.

A stand-in. A cheaper print of someone else's face.

He nodded. Fine. Cold as a closed account.

"But you can't stay in New York." A beat. "She doesn't like breathing the same air as you."

Ha.

What was I going to do? What I always did. Lowered my head and took it. Fighting Kingsley Voss only ever ended one way, with me looking more pathetic on my way out the door.

He named a city on the other side of the world. Said he had properties there. Pick one, it's yours.

Generous.

"Sure," I said, and smiled.

That small nod of his. "And we don't see each other again. You can manage that?"

My existing was an inconvenience to the happy couple. I understood.

"Of course."

Truth is, I wanted out too. There was nothing holding me here to begin with.

Orphan. Put myself through college, barely. Came to New York because that's where the money was, did some modeling, liked the lights well enough.

Then Kingsley came after me like a hostile takeover, and half a month later I was his.

He didn't like me out where people could see me, so I made my world smaller. And smaller. Until the only name in my phone that wasn't his friend was mine.

No ties. Nothing holding me here. I wanted out too. Far away, and never coming back. Never seeing him again.

The universe has a sense of humor.

I'm dead. And the first face I get to see is his.

He can't see me back, though. I'm nothing but a ghost now.

I always loved looking good. Before the flight I had my hair done, put on a little makeup. Light. Natural.

I hadn't worn it light in years.

Because he didn't like it that way.

Back then I was young enough, soft enough, to make everything about what he liked.

I never once asked why light makeup, of all the things in the world, was the one he couldn't stand.

Chapter 2

Later, I found out the answer.

It wasn't that he hated it light.

It was that I only looked like her under the heavy kind. Winged liner, bold lip, the whole practiced glitter. That was when my face finally matched the one he actually wanted.

Genevieve Beaumont. A-list. Loose waves, bright eyes, red mouth. The kind of face that sold out theaters for a while.

Small mercy from whoever runs things upstairs: I still look the way I did the second I died. Not a scratch on me.

I stood in Kingsley's office and studied myself in the mirror a while, then let out a long, satisfied sigh.

Then I looked around the room.

Here. There.

We'd christened just about all of it.

Not my finest memories.

Finally I let myself look at him.

Twenty-seven years old. Money and power, both fists full. The biggest faceplant of his life was watching the woman he loved marry another man.

And now? The spilled milk was back in the glass. The broken mirror, whole again.

A happy ending. If you're him.

Even his assistant walked in already smiling.

"Mr. Voss. The nursery's finished."

"And we picked up the clothes and the jewelry Ms. Beaumont wanted yesterday. All of it."

Kingsley hummed. Set down the contract, pressed two fingers to his brow, picked up his phone.

Whatever was on that screen, he stared at it a long time.

I got curious and leaned in to see, but he'd already gone and darkened it.

Then: "How is she?"

Preston blinked, then caught up fast. "Ms. Beaumont's on set right now, not far from here. Did you want to swing by later?"

I'd caught one of Genevieve's shows once. A dethroned princess who out-schemed every man who'd wronged her and clawed her throne back by the finale.

If I'd been an ordinary viewer, I'd have fallen for her too.

I wasn't.

My first time meeting her was one of the most humiliating hours of my life.

Because the first thing she asked me was, "You do know you look just like me, don't you?"

I nodded. Sure. Big star. People told me I resembled her all the time. I'd always taken it as a compliment.

She gave me a little smile I couldn't read. "You've been with him almost three years now."

Yes, I said.

She lifted one eyebrow. "Let me put it this way, sweetheart. Three years ago, he wanted me first."

Funny. Three years with him, and not one person had ever bothered to tell me.

I'd been the knockoff the whole time and never even knew there was an original.

I found out later, too, that every drama she ever starred in, Kingsley had hand-picked. Quietly steered each one to her. He couldn't stand to watch her struggle for anything, so under his cover her career never once hit a bump.

And me?

Three years, and I'd built nothing. I looked like I had the world. To everyone watching, I was exactly one thing: the woman beside Mr. Voss.

Preston finished talking. Kingsley said nothing for a long moment.

He tapped his pen on the desk. Once. Twice.

Then: "She should have landed by now."

It came out of nowhere.

But Preston hadn't handled Kingsley Voss this long for nothing. It clicked. He checked his watch.

"She should have, yes."

Chapter 3

It took me a second. The "she" Kingsley had been asking about was me.

Credit where it's due, I suppose. A flicker of conscience.

Shame about the part where I never made it across the ocean. I'd died the night before.

He heard Preston out, then lit his phone again. This time I was standing right next to him. I saw it clearly.

Our chat, open on the screen.

Half an hour ago, he'd sent me a message.

Kingsley: [If you run into any trouble from here on out, reach out to Preston.]

There was a time I'd never have left him on read for more than thirty minutes.

Kingsley heard Preston's answer and let out a cold little laugh. Leaned back.

"Good."

"Has she reached out to you at all?"

Preston shook his head. "No. After I dropped off the ticket that day, none of us heard from her again."

Kingsley said nothing. No expression at all.

But for one second the air in the room seemed to stop moving.

Preston noticed. Hesitated. "Mr. Voss, would you like me to give Ms. Merrick a call?"

Kingsley lifted his eyes. The look in them was faint. Unreadable.

A long moment passed before he spoke.

"No."

"And anything to do with her, don't bring it to me anymore."

Then he looked at our chat one more time.

Silent on my end. Still no reply.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then he wiped me out. Number, name, three years of messages. Gone in one clean swipe.

That's when it landed.

He hadn't been worried about me at all. Those two messages were just the polite little knock before he shut the door for good.

I was furious.

How did I even manage to die?

Here's the kicker. I'd been planning to block him too. The second I moved into whatever palace he handed me overseas, he was getting cut off.

He just beat me to the door.

Took all the fun out of it.

I lifted my foot and kicked him in the thigh.

Back when things were still good, Kingsley was decent to me. No airs. And me, I've always been the type to push my luck, throw a little tantrum. When he got on my nerves, this was what I did. One kick to the leg.

So the motion came easy. Muscle memory.

Difference was, back then a solid kick would've landed. Might've even stung.

Now my foot went straight through him.

Nothing. I couldn't touch him at all.

Great. Angrier now.

After Preston left, Kingsley worked a long while. I spent it trying to walk out of that office.

I never even reached the door handle before I was yanked right back to his side.

Twice was enough to get the point.

I couldn't get far from Kingsley Voss.

Maybe because he was the one who got me killed. Indirectly.

Pity I hadn't come back as a vengeful spirit. I'd have collected.

That was when a voice dropped into my head.

[Found you. Finally.]

I jumped. "Who are you?"

[I'm with the other side. Our department had a glitch. That whole batch of you who went down with the flight, for now you're stuck lingering beside the person you were closest to in life.]

Chapter 4

I pounced on that.

"Then hurry up and take me with you. Oh, and all the money I never got to spend this life. Any chance I can roll it over to the next one?"

God knows I wanted to be a proper rich widow.

The caseworker sounded a little put-upon.

[That's above my pay grade, honestly. But hey, you died ugly this time around. Maybe you'll get to die pretty in the next one.]

...

"Fine. Then take me now. I'm in a hurry to get reincarnated."

[Can't yet. Not until your funeral's done.]

"Why?"

[Your soul's tangled up with the living now. Once the funeral happens, the knot comes loose. Though from what I can see, everyone else's is already underway. You're kind of a sad case, aren't you. Looks like nobody much cares that you died.]

Nobody cares that you died.

Cold. Kick a girl while she's down. Or, you know. Dead.

The voice blinked out.

I sighed and ran through everyone I knew, one face at a time. Landed on the same answer every time.

Looked like I'd be a lonely ghost for the rest of forever.

A long while later, Kingsley finally got ready to leave. Genevieve had called two minutes before, asking him to come get her.

I trailed him down and got in the car.

I didn't look at him. I looked out the window.

Towers, traffic, the whole glittering rush of it, pretty as a dream.

Not that I had no regrets. My best years, and I'd spent them on one failed romance and ended up like this. It didn't sit right.

And that five-million kiss-off? Didn't touch a single cent. The nerve, honestly.

I wanted to cry.

Turns out that's one more thing ghosts don't get to do.

We pulled up. Kingsley got out, and a moment later Genevieve came sweeping through the doors and threw herself into his arms.

His body went stiff. Then he laughed, soft and low.

"How'd it go? You tired?"

She nodded and started in on her day. That voice of hers could make watching paint dry sound like a plot twist.

Their fingers were laced together. Matching engagement rings.

Genevieve had racked up a hundred hot on-screen couples over the years. But standing there next to Kingsley, I'll give it to them. They matched.

Then two women came out, mid-conversation.

"Did you see what's trending? A flight went down last night. Hundred-plus people. Not one survivor."

"Saw it. I'd booked a trip abroad, same flight, if you can believe it. Thank God this shoot came up last-minute. I'm telling you, I am blessed."

Something in me perked right up.

Kingsley, for all his sins, could be generous. If he found out I was dead, he might actually throw me a funeral.

And sure enough. The second those words landed, he froze halfway into the car.

He turned. Slow. Let go of Genevieve's hand and walked toward them.

Looked at the two women.

Calm. Perfectly calm.

He still had no idea the flight with no survivors had been carrying me.

"Last night?" he said