Replacing A Shadow With My True Billionaire

For five whole years, I broke myself to pieces on motocross tracks, all to chase Chaim Barrett's obsession with extreme sports.

But on the very night I won my race, he sat in a VIP booth and read my viral romance novel aloud to everyone-every humiliating page of my one-sided devotion to him.

"Aislinn, I've only ever seen you as a little sister. Where did this filthy little mind of yours come from?"

My injured skin was still bleeding, while Chaim and his new fling made a joke of my pain, mocking everything I'd ever done.

They all believed I loved Chaim deeply. But no one knew that every time I looked into his eyes, I was really seeing the boy who vanished from my life eight years ago.

The moment I saw the replica ring at Chaim's throat-the same ring the boy used to wear-I finally woke up for good: he was not fit to be mentioned in the same breath as the man I truly loved.

I hurled that black stud earring into the mud, turned my back without hesitation, and never looked back.

Because my real first love-the boy who is now a self-made billionaire-was coming home.

Chapter 1

Aislinn's POV

Yesterday, the indie romance novel I wrote about my five years of pathetic one-sided love went viral, topping the recommendation charts on my publishing platform.

Readers dragged the heroine without mercy, calling her a spineless doormat groveling for scraps.

Total strangers demanded to know what kind of woman would break herself to pieces on a motocross track just for the privilege of being noticed by a rich adrenaline junkie.

I knew the answer, because every word in that book was my own blood and tears.

And tonight-the same night I won my motocross race-the man I'd been chasing sat in a VIP booth, reading its most humiliating passages out loud in front of thirty people.

"Everybody, listen to this part!" Felicity shouted to the whole room.

"She writes: 'Every time his engine roared to life on the dirt track, I stood in the stands silently praying he would look my way-even if it meant breathing in exhaust fumes for three straight hours.'"

The entire VIP booth erupted in nauseating snickers.

Felicity dabbed at tears that didn't exist, then turned to Chaim.

"Chaim, I dug up this little gold mine for you, so you'd better reward me," she said smugly. "Our sweet little Aislinn has been writing a self-insert romance with you as the hero for five whole years."

Chaim lounged back against the sofa, one arm draped carelessly along the backrest behind Felicity.

He wore a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

A silver chain hung around his neck, weighted with a thick black tungsten ring.

He took a slow sip of tequila and looked down at me, his eyes cold with mockery.

"Aislinn, I've told you before-I only ever saw you as a sister," Chaim said, raising his voice. "How did your mind get this filthy?"

"The only person who can keep up with my life and doesn't burst into tears every five minutes is Felicity."

Another round of scornful laughter rolled through the group of rich kids.

Someone near the bar wolf-whistled and heckled me to write a sequel all about my own despair.

Felicity climbed down from the sofa and pouted her way over to my booth.

"Don't be mad at us, Ash," Felicity cooed, patting my shoulder with fake sympathy. "We're only trying to help you face reality."

"A girl like you belongs at home, not chasing after us like a dog."

I rose slowly and brushed her hand away.

The alcohol was buzzing in my ears, but my mind had never been clearer-not once in the past five years had it been this clear.

I walked straight up to Chaim and stopped between his open knees.

I reached out and picked up the black tungsten ring dangling against his chest.

The heavy metal was cold against my fingertips.

"Chaim, do you really believe every word in that book was about you?" I asked softly.

Chaim raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening.

"Who else would it be about, Aislinn?" he shot back. "You followed me to every race in California. At Mammoth you broke your arm just trying to keep up with me on the slopes."

I tilted my head, then let go of the ring and let it fall back against his black shirt.

"You're just the only man in Los Angeles with his face and his ring," I said evenly.

The smirk froze on Chaim's face, then died completely.

His jaw snapped tight, and he shot out a hand and clamped it around my wrist.

"What did you just say?" Chaim lowered his voice, cold all at once.

I leaned in close and looked straight into his deep brown eyes.

"You really think an arrogant bastard like you was worth five years of my pain?" I mocked softly against his ear.

Before he could answer, Felicity grabbed my arm and yanked me back.

"Stop embarrassing yourself, Aislinn!" Felicity shrieked, planting herself between us. "Inventing an imaginary boyfriend is the oldest trick in the book. Is admitting you got rejected really that hard? Just let go, with a shred of dignity, for once."

One of Chaim's riding buddies snickered by the bar and shouted his agreement at the top of his lungs.

"That's right," the guy hollered.

"When she found out Chaim was into the biker look, she cleared out her whole closet and replaced it with leather jackets."

"When he crashed in Baja, she sat outside the ER for eight hours clutching his spare helmet!"

Felicity turned to Chaim, arms crossed.

"You hear that?" Felicity asked sweetly. "Chaim, did any of her pathetic little stunts ever move you, even once?"

Chaim stared at my wrist, then slowly lifted his eyes to my face.

"No," Chaim said, spitting the word out like ice. "It was all her wallowing in her own one-sided drama. I never asked her to do any of it."

"Besides," he paused, "the thing I hate most is emotional blackmail."

He raised a hand and pointed toward the booth exit.

"If you can't accept being a sister, then don't come to our get-togethers anymore," Chaim added.

A sharp memory slammed into my chest like a hammer-those words that had torn my life apart eight years ago, echoing in my ears all over again.

Before I could stop it, a single tear broke free and slid down my lashes.

Chaim caught that tear, and the faintest flicker of hesitation crossed his face.

He set his glass on the table and stood up.

"Come on," Chaim sighed, reaching for his car keys. "Let me drive you home before you make an even bigger scene."

Felicity immediately latched onto his arm, melting softly against him.

"Chaim, the party's just getting started," she pouted, tilting her face up at him. "Just order her a rideshare on the company account. She's an adult, not a three-year-old."

A party? I sneered inwardly. What kind of party needs to humiliate its own guest of honor?

Chaim glanced at Felicity, then pushed the keys back into his pocket.

"Fine," Chaim said, turning to me. "I'll have a car waiting out front."

I spun around and walked straight toward the heavy velvet drapes at the exit.

On my second step, my injured right knee buckled and my shin cracked hard against the brass edge of a low table.

Pain from my old motocross injury flared violently, radiating down my shin.

I sucked in a breath and crouched on the floor, clutching my leg.

"Oh, look," Felicity giggled behind me. "Now she's throwing herself on the floor for attention."

Chaim had just taken a step toward me when Felicity caught his sleeve and stopped him short.

Open impatience crossed his face.

"Get up, Aislinn," Chaim called from the other end of the booth. "I don't have time for these games tonight."

I pulled myself up using the wall, without sparing him a single glance.

Limping, I pushed through the VIP drapes and into the main hallway near the elevators.

Through the double glass doors at the end of the hallway, a tall, upright figure was walking past, wrapped in a perfectly tailored charcoal coat.

The sharp line of his profile, the way those broad shoulders moved, stole every breath from my chest.

I shoved off the wall and sprinted for the end of the hallway on my ruined leg.

Behind me, Chaim's shrill sneer rang out by the velvet drapes.

"Look at her," Chaim muttered to the booth. "Ten minutes from now she'll be waiting by my car like she always does."

Aislinn's POV

I hurried to the elevator lobby, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.

The brushed-steel doors slid open on three businessmen in suits.

None of them was the man from the hallway.

I sagged against the mirrored wall of the lobby and stared at my reflection.

My mascara had smudged into a dark halo around my eyes, and my hair still reeked of the club's stale secondhand smoke.

The woman in the mirror was a wreck-pitiful, hollow, worn through.

Eight years ago, when Brantley Keith looked at me, it was with a burning, total attention, as if I were the only thing in the universe that mattered.

He was the son of my family's head gardener at the Pasadena estate.

He always wore faded flannel shirts, yet he placed in the top one percent of every math competition he entered.

He was quiet, and he was brilliant.

Back then I used to get my calculus homework wrong on purpose, just so my mother would hire him to tutor me in the garden gazebo.

I would sit there for hours, quietly watching his long fingers turn the pencil, listening to that low, steady voice walk me through formulas I already knew by heart.

Then my mother noticed the way we looked at each other by the rose bushes.

She summoned me to the grand dining room and warned me, cold and clear, that a Baxter daughter could never entangle herself with the hired help.

She said that giving a poor boy false hope would only ruin his future.

On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, Brantley and his father vanished from the estate cottage overnight.

Their phone lines were disconnected, and the little brick house was emptied down to the walls, without a trace.

When I demanded the truth through my tears, my father froze my trust fund and confiscated my phone for three weeks.

He told me coldly that people like Brantley knew exactly what they were worth to people like us; the moment they faced reality, they'd run faster than anyone.

That unfinished disappearance turned to poison in my veins, gnawing at my heart for the eight years that followed.

Three years after Brantley left, I ran into Chaim Barrett at an amateur motocross track in San Diego.

Chaim had the exact same sharp jawline, the exact same deep brown eyes-and hanging on his chest, the exact same black tungsten ring.

The first time he ever spoke to me, he sneered at my floral dress and said that preppy, polished heiresses did nothing for him.

To fit into his world, I threw out every dress I owned and armored myself in heavy, clumsy riding leathers.

For five whole years, I forced myself onto dirt bikes, wakeboards, and double-black-diamond ski runs, enduring crash after terrifying crash, all for one more look at that familiar face.

At most of his races I hid behind the stands, retching with fear while his entourage howled with laughter.

But when he tossed me a spare bottle of water after every qualifier, I let myself believe it was all worth it.

My phone vibrated violently in my clutch, dragging me out of the swamp of memory.

It was Chaim calling.

I swiped to answer, and before I could speak, Felicity's giggling came through the line.

"Aislinn, Chaim says you'd better stay put in the valet zone," Felicity slurred, tipsy. "He doesn't want you passing out on the street and embarrassing him."

Then Chaim's distracted voice came close to the receiver.

"Get in the black sedan and go home, Aislinn," Chaim ordered. "Felicity wants another round of tequila, and I'm staying."

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

I pushed through the revolving doors into the cold night air.

The valet looked down at my legs, his eyes going wide with alarm.

"Miss, you're bleeding," the valet said, pointing at my right shin.

A dark red streak ran down my leg, staining the laces of my beige heels.

When I'd hit that table, the pain had numbed me so completely that I never felt the skin break.

My phone chimed-a new message in the group chat.

Felicity had just posted a photo-under the neon lights, Chaim's arm was looped around her waist, both of them raising their shot glasses high.

The caption read: "For my real adrenaline partner."

I didn't type a reply. I didn't-like the old me always did-snap a photo of my bloodied shin and send it back, pathetically fishing for a scrap of Chaim's pity.

I pressed the screen dark and got into a taxi.

Half an hour later, I turned the key and pushed open the door of our townhouse.

My mother was sitting in the living room, holding a cup of chamomile tea.

The moment she saw my bloodied shoes, she set down the cup and fetched the first-aid kit from the bathroom.

She knelt on the hardwood floor and pressed antiseptic wipes gently against my shin, saying nothing about Chaim at all.

"Stop throwing yourself at people who don't care about you, Aislinn," my mother sighed.

I leaned my head back against the sofa and stared blankly at the ceiling.

"None of it matters anymore, Mom," I whispered.

My mother's hands paused mid-wrap, and she looked up at me.

"Someone came by the house this afternoon," she said quietly. "He was looking for you."

I looked down at her.

"Who?"

"Brantley Keith," my mother said, biting her lip. "He came back from New York. He built a multibillion-dollar venture capital firm, and yesterday morning he bought out your father's core logistics partner-entirely in cash."

My breath caught in my throat. The boy I had waited eight years for hadn't forgotten me.

My mother reached into her cardigan pocket and drew out a heavy black card, embossed with silver foil.

"He left this for you," she said, her voice trembling faintly. "Aislinn, there are things about what happened eight years ago... things you were never told."

I snatched the card with shaking fingers.

A private number was printed along the bottom.

I typed the number into my messaging app, and had barely sent a single line:

"Is that really you?"

The next second, a message appeared on my screen.

"I'm on the corner of your street, Aislinn. I came back."

Aislinn's POV

I stared at the glowing screen for a full minute, chest heaving, until the tears finally broke loose.

Every swallowed insult, every humiliation, every whispered lie that I didn't deserve to be loved-they all came crashing down at once.

My phone chimed. The same number had sent another message:

"Can we meet at ten tomorrow morning? We need to talk."

I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand and replied at once: "Yes. You pick the place."

He sent me the address of a quiet private café in Beverly Hills.

The next second, another notification popped up-this one from Chaim.

"Motocross practice at nine tomorrow, in Corona. Bring my spare knee guards from your garage, and grab three iced lattes for me and Felicity on the way."

For five years, every one of my mornings had been scheduled around Chaim.

I was used to dragging myself up at five a.m. to scrub mud out of his riding gear and pack his energy drinks, then driving an hour across half of Southern California just to sit on a plastic chair in the dirt and wait for him.

I looked at his text and felt nothing but a bone-deep indifference.

I typed back, cold and final: "I'm not coming."

Less than ten seconds later, my phone rang.

I pressed answer and held it to my ear.

"Aislinn, what the hell is wrong with you tonight?" Chaim's voice was cold with disbelief. "Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over some stupid book?"

"I have qualifying tomorrow. My gear's at your place. Stop being dramatic and bring it over." He rattled off the order like it was his due.

"Your gear is packed in boxes in my front hall," I said evenly. "I'll drop it at the track on my way out. You're getting nothing else."

I hung up before he could argue.

Early the next morning, I pulled on a simple cream knit sweater and dark jeans, leaving every one of those heavy leather jackets behind.

I loaded Chaim's plastic bins of riding gear into my trunk and drove to the Corona track by eight.

When I pulled into the paddock, Chaim was already standing by his bike, adjusting the handlebars.

Felicity leaned against his pickup in tight shorts, sipping coffee and giggling at his phone.

Five years ago, on this very ground, I had climbed a twenty-foot dirt embankment despite a severe fear of heights, just to film his practice runs.

When I slipped, the gravel shredded my palms-and Chaim just rolled his eyes and sneered that I was too clumsy for outdoor sports.

The only thing that kept me going that day was a short video an old rider-coach sent me, telling me I was brave for even trying.

I'd kept that video like a lifeline for years-because before it, no one had ever told me I'd done anything well.

I hauled the heavy gear bag out of my trunk and dropped it in the dirt beside Chaim's back wheel.

Felicity glanced at my beige sweater, her mouth curling into a smirk.

"Look at that-someone's dressed like a frumpy librarian today," she said over her coffee. "Did you come to watch Chaim clear the triple jump, or to keep sulking?"

"I have an appointment at ten," I said, hands in my pockets. "Chaim, your gear's all here."

Chaim frowned, his eyes traveling over my outfit before landing on the thick white bandage wrapped around my right shin.

"What happened to your leg?" he asked, stepping closer.

"Nothing," I said coldly. "And before you say it-no, I'm not fishing for your sympathy."

Chaim's jaw tightened. He bent down, reaching for my bandage.

"Let me see," he said, lowering his voice.

But before his fingertips could reach my shin, Felicity suddenly cried out behind us.

"Ow! Chaim, the tailgate latch just caught my hand!" Felicity gasped.

Chaim's hand shot back from my leg, and he whirled toward her.

"Let me see it," he said, his voice full of urgency and concern.

He took her hand and inspected the faint, trivial red mark, then twisted open a bottle of ice water and poured it carefully over her fingers to cool them.

Watching him fuss over her like she was made of glass, I felt something I had never felt before: relief. I would never have to beg for that bare minimum of care and respect again.

If Brantley were here, he'd have noticed I was hurt before I even got out of the car.

Chaim turned back to me, trying to summon his usual imperious tone.

"Aislinn, we need to talk about that novel you posted online," he said firmly. "People in the racing scene are already sending me screenshots."

"It makes me look like I'm toying with some shameless, clinging woman." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Delete the post today."

"I'm not deleting it," I said calmly. "And rest assured, Chaim-the man in that story has nothing to do with you."

Felicity rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You bought him those black tungsten studs just three months ago. You even said they matched his necklace."

Chaim touched the black stud in his left ear.

He gave a cold laugh, plucked the stud out, and tossed it into the open metal trash barrel beside the pickup.

"Aislinn, I don't need your cheap little tokens," Chaim said icily. "If you want to have a meltdown, pick up your own trash."

The stud clinked against the rusted bottom of the barrel.

My chest tightened-not because I cared about Chaim, but because I had spent three whole weeks hunting down that replica of Brantley's old jewelry.

I stepped forward, bent over the rusted rim, and reached into the filthy barrel to snatch the black stud out.

The barrel's rough metal edge scraped hard against my injured shin, sending a blaze of pain up my leg, but I kept my fist closed around that small black stud.

Chaim's face flushed red with sudden, blazing anger.

He grabbed my shoulder and hauled me back from the barrel.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Chaim barked, darting panicked glances around, terrified of being seen.

"Digging through a trash barrel like some vagrant? Have you completely lost your mind?!"

I shook off his hand and walked straight to the public restroom behind the stands.

I twisted the brass faucet and rinsed the grime off the black stud under the cold water.

Through the thin wooden partition, I heard Chaim on the phone outside.

"Mom, I told you, it's just Aislinn throwing a fit," Chaim fumed. "She's been circling me like a stray dog. I paid Felicity a little attention one time and she had to make a scene about it."

"If she wants to leave, let her. I couldn't care less."

I shut off the water, dried the stud with a paper towel, and slipped it into my pocket.

The phone in my hand buzzed.

It was a text from Brantley: "I'm ten minutes from the café. No rush-I'm already at the table by the door."

I walked out of the restroom with my head held high.

Chaim was waiting outside, blocking my path to the parking lot.