The Stand-In's Sweetest Revenge

My half-a-million-dollar-a-year job as a live-in personal trainer for billionaire Connor Smith was demanding, but simple. I managed his health, he paid me handsomely.

That all went up in flames the moment his ex-girlfriend, Bella, walked back into his life. She took one look at me and decided I was her "stand-in"-a cheap imitation he'd hired to fill the void she left.

Her mission became to destroy me. She framed me for theft, tried to humiliate me in front of his friends, and staged a bloody scene, screaming that I had stabbed her.

Connor, the man I was paid to keep healthy, was too weak to stop her, offering me more money to just "be discreet."

Bella's delusions escalated until she was lying in a hospital bed, demanding one of my kidneys as compensation for her fake injury.

I was a professional with a degree from Cornell, not a villain in her twisted romance novel. My career, my reputation-everything was on the line.

I quit. But when she followed me to social media, posting lies to ruin my name forever, I knew I was done being quiet. She thought she was the main character, but she forgot one thing: I had the receipts.

Chapter 1

The moment Bella Salazar walked back into Connor Smith's life, my meticulously planned, five-hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year job went up in flames.

She stood in the doorway of Connor' s minimalist mansion, a vision in a white sundress, her arm looped possessively through his. Her long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her eyes, wide and doe-like, fixed on me.

I was standing in the middle of the living room, clad in my standard work attire: black Lululemon leggings, a fitted navy-blue quarter-zip, and my hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. In my hand was a digital caliper, which I had just used to measure Connor' s body fat percentage.

A gasp, sharp and theatrical, escaped her perfectly glossed lips.

"Connor," she whispered, her voice trembling with what sounded like manufactured betrayal. "Who is she?"

Connor, a man who could command boardrooms and make billion-dollar decisions without blinking, suddenly looked like a teenager caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He gently disentangled his arm from hers.

"Bella, this is Clementine Peters," he said, his voice strained. "She' s my... she helps me with my health."

Bella' s eyes narrowed, sweeping over my athletic frame, my plain face devoid of makeup, and the professional equipment laid out on the coffee table. A flicker of something ugly and calculating crossed her face before it was replaced by a look of profound, heart-wrenching sorrow.

"A stand-in," she breathed, a single tear tracing a perfect path down her cheek. "You found a stand-in."

I blinked. I looked down at the caliper in my hand, then at the heart rate monitor and the detailed nutrition plan I' d been finalizing on my tablet. I am Clementine Peters, an elite personal trainer and nutritionist. I specialize in rehabilitative fitness for high-stress executives. My methods are unique, my results are proven, and my price tag is astronomical.

I was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a "stand-in." For what, I couldn't even begin to guess.

"While I was away, finding myself," Bella continued, her voice rising with dramatic flair, "you couldn't even wait for me. You just had to find someone who looks a little like me to fill the void."

She gestured toward me with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "You hired an imitation."

I glanced over at the full-length mirror by the door. Bella was petite, with soft curves and a delicate, almost fragile air. I was taller, with the lean, defined muscle of a lifelong athlete. We both had brown hair and brown eyes. That was where the similarity began and ended.

"I..." Connor started, but Bella cut him off.

"It's okay," she said, her voice now tragically magnanimous. She took a step back, as if preparing for a final, noble exit. "I understand. I left, and you were lonely. I won't stand in the way of your new life. I'll go."

She turned, her shoulders slumping in a pantomime of defeat.

I stared, utterly dumbfounded. This entire scene felt like it was ripped from the pages of a terrible romance novel. I was hired to manage Connor Smith' s chronic back pain and stress-induced gastritis, a job that required me to be on call 24/7 and live on-site. The half-a-million-dollar salary was for my expertise, not for being someone's emotional support lookalike.

"Bella, stop," Connor said, rubbing his temples. The gesture was all too familiar; it was the precursor to one of his stress-induced migraines, the very thing I was paid to prevent. "Clementine is my nutritionist and trainer. That's all."

Bella turned back, her eyes wide with disbelief. "A nutritionist? For half a million a year? Connor, do you think I'm a fool?"

She pointed a trembling finger at me. "Look at her! Same hair, same eyes. You probably even made her dress in my favorite color."

I glanced down at my navy-blue top. "My favorite color is navy blue," I stated, my voice flat.

"See!" Bella cried triumphantly. "It's a sign!"

I felt a headache of my own forming. I held up my tablet. "Ms. Salazar, I have a signed, legally binding employment contract. I have certifications from the National Academy of Sports Medicine and a degree in nutritional science from Cornell. I am not a sign. I am an employee."

Bella waved a dismissive hand. "Forged documents. A classic trope. He paid you to pretend, to ease his broken heart. I've read all about it."

Connor looked utterly exhausted. "Bella, what will it take for you to believe me?"

Her chin lifted. "Fire her," she said simply. "If she's just an employee, it shouldn't matter. Get rid of her, and I'll know you still love me."

She was quoting a movie. I was almost certain of it. One of those terrible, low-budget ones that play on daytime television.

Connor was trapped. He looked from Bella' s tear-streaked, expectant face to my own impassive one. He knew his health had improved more in the three months I'd been here than it had in the past five years. He couldn't fire me. But he also seemed incapable of disappointing this woman.

He let out a long, defeated sigh. "Clementine," he said, turning to me. His eyes were apologetic. "There's a guest house on the far side of the property. It's fully furnished, two bedrooms. I'll have Apollo move your things."

He paused, then added, "And I'll double your salary for the inconvenience. One million. You'll just have to... operate more discreetly. For a while."

My eyebrows shot up. One million dollars a year. To live in a separate, private house and continue doing the exact same job, just with less visibility.

All to appease a delusional woman who thought she was the main character in a Hallmark movie.

"Okay," I said immediately.

Connor looked surprised by my quick agreement. A flicker of something-disappointment? relief?-crossed his face before he masked it.

"I'll start packing," I said, already mentally calculating my new tax bracket.

I turned to leave, gathering my equipment. As I passed Bella, she gave me a smug, victorious smile.

"Don't feel too bad," she whispered conspiratorially. "The stand-in never gets the guy. It's just a plot device to make the hero realize how much he misses the real thing."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a notification from my bank. Connor had already wired the first installment of my new, upgraded salary. A very, very large number flashed on the screen.

I smiled back at her, a genuine, happy smile.

"You're so right," I said cheerfully. "I'm sure he'll realize it any day now."

She preened, puffing out her chest as she walked back to Connor's side, looping her arm through his again.

As I walked toward my room to pack, I glanced at Apollo, Connor's long-suffering house manager, who was watching the scene unfold with an expression of quiet horror.

I could only feel pity for him. My job just got easier. His was about to become a living hell.