Never Loved You, Just A Placeholder

For five years, I paid for his art, his life, and his striking resemblance to a ghost. Karson Willis was my carefully curated substitute, a warm body to fill the space left by the man I' d lost.

Then, my world shattered. My adoptive family found their biological daughter, and my inheritance vanished overnight. I was cut off, exiled.

That' s when I overheard him laughing. "She's broke," he scoffed. "What's the point? She was useful, but that's over now."

He called our five years a "convenience" and mocked the wedding board I' d secretly made. At a company dinner, he kissed another woman in front of everyone, then left me stranded when I fell ill, accusing me of being cruel.

He even brought her into my home, letting her wear my clothes.

I endured it all, a cold clarity settling over me.

So when he finally got down on one knee, ring in hand, begging for a second chance, I didn't even hesitate.

"I never loved you," I said, pulling my hand away. "You were just a placeholder."

Chapter 1

I paid for his art, his life, and his striking resemblance to a ghost. It wasn't a secret, not really, but it was the kind of unspoken truth everyone whispered about behind my back.

For five years, Karson Willis had been my carefully curated substitute.

Every gallery showing, every bespoke suit, every lavish dinner-my money. His studio space, tucked away in a fashionable downtown loft, was mine too. It was a golden cage I'd built, not for him, but for myself.

People mocked me, of course. I heard the snickers, the condescending whispers at charity galas and art exhibitions. "She's buying a boyfriend," they'd say. "How pathetic."

I never cared.

Their opinions meant nothing when I had endless resources. My family's fortune was vast, a seemingly bottomless well that allowed me to dictate my own reality, to numb the ache that had settled deep in my bones years ago.

"I can do whatever I want," I used to tell myself, staring at his perfect profile, a mirror image of the one carved into my memory.

But then, the ground shifted beneath my feet.

The Long family's prodigal biological daughter, a name whispered in hushed tones for decades, was found. Suddenly, my carefully constructed world began to unravel. My inheritance, once assured, was no longer mine. My adoptive parents, overwhelmed by their newfound biological connection, clumsily pushed me aside.

I was being exiled. London. The company's European branch. A polite but firm severance from the life I'd always known.

The news hit me hard. I walked through the familiar halls of Karson's studio, the place I'd poured so much of myself into, feeling a strange emptiness. My footsteps were soft on the polished concrete floor, heading towards the back office where I knew Karson usually handled his "business."

His voice, low and conspiratorial, drifted through the slightly ajar door.

"She's finally getting what she deserves," a woman giggled. Fannie. Karson's art school friend, always hanging around, a wide-eyed ingenue act that grated on my nerves.

My heart began to pound against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

"Karma," another male voice chimed in. "Clare always acted like she owned the place."

"She did own the place, Mark," Karson drawled, his voice laced with a cold amusement I'd rarely heard directed at me. "And everything in it. Including me, apparently."

I leaned closer, my breath catching in my throat. My knuckles were white as I gripped the cool metal of the doorframe.

"So, what's the plan now that her daddy's cut her off?" Fannie asked, her voice dripping with feigned concern. "Are you really going to stick around for the London transfer?"

"Are you insane?" Karson scoffed. "She's broke. Or will be, soon enough. What's the point? She was useful, but that's over now."

A sharp, painful echo resounded in my chest. Useful.

"I mean, you always complained about how clingy she was," Mark added. "Always calling, always checking up. Like she owned you."

"Yeah, and she had this whole Pinterest board for our 'dream wedding'," Fannie snickered. "As if you'd ever actually marry her."

A cold dread spread through me, chilling me to the core. My own Pinterest board. The one I started years ago, filled with images of a life I desperately wanted, a life I was trying to recreate with him.

Karson laughed, a harsh, dismissive sound that tore through me. "Marry her? Please. It was always just for fun. A convenience. I mean, look at her. She just wanted a warm body to fill a space. I was never going to marry her."

My vision blurred. The world spun.

And then, a strange, undeniable sense of relief washed over me. It was like a suffocating weight had been lifted, replaced by a searing clarity.

He was right. He was absolutely, brutally right. I hadn't wanted him. I had wanted a substitute, a stand-in for the man I'd lost, the man whose memory I clung to.

And now, I was truly free, though not in the way I ever imagined. Free from the illusion I'd meticulously maintained. Free from him. The charade was over, and I was grateful I hadn't let myself get any deeper into this pathetic arrangement.

I didn't move. Not then, not when the laughter died down, not when their voices shifted to plotting their next moves without me. I just stood there, a ghost in the hallway, letting their words sink into the deepest parts of my wounded pride.

When I finally turned to leave, my movements were slow, deliberate. My phone buzzed in my pocket, a soft, insistent vibration.

It was the special ringtone, the one Karson reserved for Fannie. I' d heard it enough times to recognize it, a chirpy, irritating melody that used to make my stomach clench.

"Hey, baby," Karson's voice, now syrupy sweet, floated out from the office. A stark contrast to the callous tone he'd just used for me. "Did you make it home okay?"

He promised to be right there. He' d be there in a flash.

His urgency was jarring. He burst out of the office, almost colliding with me as I rounded the corner. His face, usually so composed, registered a flicker of surprise, then something akin to annoyance.

"Clare?" he said, his brows furrowing. "What are you doing here? Still here, I mean."

He thought I was still clinging. Still waiting for him. Still expecting him to come home with me, like I always did.

His eyes darted past me, towards the door, then back to my face with an impatient edge. He thought I was here to drag him away, to make him miss his rendezvous.

He used to say I was possessive, that I followed him around like a shadow. It was true, in a way. I' d clung to him, to the illusion he represented, with a desperation I now recognized as sickening.

I just nodded, unable to form words. What was there to say?

We walked in silence towards the elevator, the tension between us thick and suffocating. His foot tapped on the polished floor impatiently. He kept glancing at his watch, then back at me, as if willing me to disappear.

"Look, I have to go," he blurted out, his voice sharp. "Fannie's in trouble again. Her landlord' s giving her grief about the rent, and she just had a fight with her dad."

He had that worried look, the one that used to fool me into thinking he genuinely cared. Now it just looked performative.

"You can take a taxi, right?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. It wasn' t a question. It was a dismissal. "I' ll see you later."

The elevator doors opened, and he was gone in a flash, the sleek black car speeding away from the curb. I watched it go, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat.

He had never once offered me a ride in that car. Not in five years.

But he was rushing off to save his "distressed" art school junior, the same junior he' d often picked up from late-night classes, the same junior who was now conveniently homeless and, apparently, occupying the space in his heart that I once thought was mine.

I told the driver the address, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. The ride home was a blur. When I pushed open the door to my apartment, a soft melody drifted from the living room.

Fannie was there, curled on my sofa, humming along to a song on the smart speaker. My apartment. My sofa. And in her hands, carefully cradled, was the ceramic mug I' d painstakingly painted for Aidan years ago. The one I' d kept in a locked cabinet, only bringing it out on his birthday.

She was sipping from it, a smudge of chocolate on her cheek, a faint trail of whipped cream on her chin. My heart seized in my chest, a cold, hard knot.

Karson was leaning over her, gently wiping the chocolate from her face with his thumb. Their heads were close, a picture of domestic bliss that screamed betrayal.

I simply put my bag down, the soft thump echoing in the sudden silence.

Then, I walked over, snatched the mug from her hand, and hurled it against the opposite wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces, scattering ceramic shards and leftover hot chocolate across the pristine white paint.

Fannie shrieked, scrambling behind Karson like a terrified child. Her eyes, wide and innocent, filled with tears.

Karson' s face darkened. "Clare! What the hell was that for?" he demanded, his voice laced with venom. "Are you crazy? She didn't do anything!"

"She's just a child, Clare!" he shouted, stepping between us, shielding Fannie with his body. "She hasn't eaten all day. I just brought her home because she had nowhere else to go!"

He waved a dismissive hand at the broken pieces. "And for this? A stupid, old mug? What does it matter?"

Fannie peeked out from behind him, her voice trembling. "I-I'm so sorry, Clare. I didn't know it was... special. I just saw it and thought it looked pretty. I can buy you another one. I promise!"

She then stumbled past Karson, snatching up her small backpack. "I-I'll go now," she whimpered, and then she was out the door, disappearing into the heavy rain that had just begun to fall. A dramatic exit. A perfect performance.

Karson glared at me, his face a mask of furious disappointment. "Are you happy now?" he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "She' s allergic to alcohol, and you just sent her out into that storm, upset and alone!"

He stalked towards the door, not even glancing back at me, not noticing the trembling in my hands, or the way my chest was suddenly tight with a familiar, suffocating pain. He just slammed the door shut, leaving me standing amidst the wreckage.

I walked over to the broken pieces of the mug, a single, larger shard containing the last remnants of the hot chocolate. I picked it up, ignoring the sharp edges, and brought it to my lips. It was cold, bitter.

I called the cleaning service. They' d be here in an hour.

Then, I walked to my bedroom, the silence of the apartment heavy around me, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.