Now She Chases Her Paid Stand-In

When the adopted golden boy discovered I was the actual biological heir, he left a cynical little memoir titled The Stand-Ins Guide to High Society on my bed and caught the next flight to Europe.

He claimed he needed to find the meaning of life. What he really meant was that he was leaving me to fulfill his contractual obligationmarrying into the Sinclair dynasty.

My biological parents, too terrified to discipline the boy theyd raised as their own, simply yanked me out of the working-class diner Id grown up in. They spent an exorbitant amount of money on etiquette coaches to scrub the blue-collar off me in a month, just in time to hand me over as the sacrificial lamb for the Sinclair corporate merger.

Ten years later, having bled the world dry of its thrills, the golden boy returned.

He was just as reckless and radiant as he was a decade ago.

He walked right up to thirty-two-year-old Valerie Sinclair and handed her a glass jar filled with sand.

"Every grain in here is a moment I spent missing you," he whispered.

I watched Valeries spine turn to steel, her entire body rigid.

Then, Tristan turned his blinding, confident smile toward me. "Im back. You can clock out now, understudy."

When Tristan left ten years ago, twenty-two-year-old Valerie Sinclair had lost half her soul.

I couldn't help but wonder. How would the cold, ruthless, notoriously bloodthirsty CEO of Sinclair Enterprises react to him now?

Valerie tossed the jar of sand onto the passenger seat without a second glance.

Taking the cue, I opened the rear door and slid into the back.

Valerie froze, her hand hovering over the door handle. "What are you doing?"

I knew exactly what she was asking. It was a silent language we had forged over ten years of surviving the trenches together.

"We had an agreement when we got married," I said evenly, looking out the tinted window. "I told you I would never delude myself into thinking I could take Tristans place."

A decade ago, Tristan vanished on the eve of the engagement. Panicked, my biological parents dragged me out of obscurity, hastily introduced me to society, and shoved me down the aisle to save the merger.

On our wedding night, Valerie drank herself into oblivion. She spent the entire night curled on the bathroom floor, sobbing Tristans name into the tiles.

Over the next ten years, while Tristan was dancing at luaus in Hawaii, I was swallowing my pride, playing the submissive husband to appease her wicked stepmother.

While Tristan was taking selfies with penguins in Antarctica, I was drinking myself into a bleeding ulcer at corporate dinners to secure the first major contract for her new subsidiary.

He chased the Northern Lights. He watched sunsets over the Serengeti.

I, meanwhile, navigated the lethal crossfire of the Sinclair family succession wars. In the process, I lost our first unborn child. Then our second. I even had a kidnappers blade pressed so hard against my throat it left a silver scar.

Tristan got ten years of unbridled freedom, and now he had the audacity to waltz back in and tell me to pack my bags.

He always wanted the fruit without planting the tree.

What gave him the right?

Valeries lips parted at my words. "Cole, actually, we..."

Before she could finish the sentence, her phone rang. Tristans name lit up the dashboard console.

The Bluetooth was connected. Valerie tapped the screen to answer.

"Val," Tristans voice filled the quiet of the luxury sedan, breathless and practically vibrating with shy excitement. "Mom and Dad said you guys still don't have kids."

A pause. "Is it... is it because you were waiting for me?"

"Tristan, what on earth are you talking about!" My mothers voice panicked in the background, trying to snatch the phone.

The topic of children was a graveyard in my mind. A permanent, suffocating taboo.

When Valerie was twenty-five, she got pregnant for the first time. Her stepmother had her prenatal vitamins swapped with abortifacients.

At twenty-eight, she got pregnant again. I was paranoid. I guarded her like a hawk, keeping her isolated and safe until the six-month mark. But somehow, a slow-acting toxin made its way into her system. The baby's heart simply stopped beating.

The day they induced labor to deliver our stillborn, I collapsed in the sterile hospital room, screaming until my vocal cords tore.

Valerie had held me on that linoleum floor, her tears soaking my hospital gown, swearing on her life that she would never let anyone hurt us again.

And she kept her word.

In three years, she orchestrated a corporate massacre, exiling her stepmother and half-sister, seizing total control of the Sinclair empire.

This year, at thirty-two, she was named the countrys top CEO. In her first major broadcast interview, she looked right into the camera and offered a polite, sanitized expression of gratitude for my "unwavering support."

A week after that interview aired, Tristan came home.

In the rearview mirror, Valerie saw the color drain from my face. She jammed her finger against the screen, killing the call.

"Cole," she started, her voice tight. "Tristan doesn't know what happened during those ten years. Don't take it to heart."

"He's always been sheltered," she continued, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "He speaks without thinking. He's just impulsive..."

"Enough," I snapped, the exhaustion settling deep into my bones.

"Since when does the ruthless Valerie Sinclair stumble over her words?" I let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Look at you... bending over backward to make excuses for a grown man."

Valeries jaw clenched. She swerved the car violently, throwing it into park on the shoulder of the road.

"Cole. Are you still punishing me for what happened back then?"

During our first year of marriage, Valeries half-sister suddenly broke out in severe hives.

Diane, Valeries stepmother, immediately pointed the finger at me, claiming I had snuck peanut oil into the kitchens baking supplies.

Dianes private security detail dragged me into the foyer. They forced me to my knees on the cold marble floor.

I looked up at Valerie. I pleaded with my eyes. She had been with me the entire afternoon; she knew with absolute certainty that I was innocent.

But Valerie just stood there, staring at the floor, absolutely silent.

That day, two overgrown thugs slapped me across the face twenty times.

By the time they were done, my mouth was pooling with blood, my vision swimming, my cheeks swollen and bruised purple.

When we finally returned to our bedroom, Valerie handed me two ice packs, her eyes brimming with guilt.

"The timing isn't right yet to strike back. I hope you can understand."

Understand. That single word forced me to swallow a mouthful of blood and humiliation.

Later that night, the throbbing pain woke me. I padded downstairs to the kitchen for more ice.

Thats when I heard Valerie on the phone in the study.

"Thank God it wasn't Tristan... he wouldn't have been able to handle it."

I froze in the dark hallway.

The idea that love could be cultivated, that shared trauma forged an unbreakable bondwhat a pathetic, laughable delusion.

To this day, Valerie had no idea I heard her say that.

Now, stinging from my sarcasm in the car, she stepped out onto the asphalt, running a frustrated hand through her hair.

Right on cue, Tristan called again.

She answered, but in her flustered state, she forgot to switch off the Bluetooth.

Trapped in the backseat, I was forced to listen to Tristans sickeningly sweet voice in surround sound.

"Val... can you come over and keep me company tonight?"

She scrambled to kill the audio.

Through the tinted glass, I watched Valerie pacing on the shoulder of the road, phone pressed to her ear, kicking at loose gravel.

That nervous, frantic energyshe looked exactly like the lovesick twenty-two-year-old girl I met a decade ago.

So this was the power of the ghost of her first love. It reduced a titan of industry to a blushing teenager.

Ten minutes later, she climbed back into the drivers seat, looking drained.

"Cole, I'm going to drop you off at the house first."

"Tonight, I might need to..."

"Save it," I cut her off, my voice like ice.

I really didn't want to hear whatever garbage excuse she was about to invent to go see him.

Realizing my tone was slipping, I took a breath and forced a mask of indifference.

"You're the CEO, Valerie. You don't have to report to your subordinates."

The cold, corporate distance in my voice wasn't lost on her.

She slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel.

"Cole, you have spent ten years building walls against me. Are you really that desperate to draw a line in the sand the second things get complicated?"

It was comical, really. She was the one dancing on the borders of our marriage, yet she was casting me as the villain.

I turned my head toward the window, fiercely swallowing the lump of emotion rising in my throat.

If there was one thing ten years in this viper's nest had taught me, it was that you can lose the battle, but you never lose your dignity.

While the silence in the car thickened, my mother called.

"Cole, sweetheart," Helens voice was cloying. "Your father and I aren't very good with words, so we had to ask Valerie to come over and help talk Tristan off the ledge."

"Can you just give your brother a little grace? He's still young. He'll understand eventually."

I scoffed. It was genuinely absurd. Thirty years old, and hes still a child?

Then why, ten years ago, when they were shoving me into this arranged marriage, did they tell me: "You're a grown man now, Cole. It's time you learned to shoulder the family's burdens."

When I spoke, my voice was dead.

"Mom. It's comforting to know that you and Dad haven't changed a bit. Still bending over backward to wipe Tristans messes."

"Though, I have to admit, your tone is a lot gentler than it used to be."

I was eighteen when they tracked me down and brought me back to the Prescott estate.

But Tristan couldn't tolerate my existence.

He framed me, repeatedly. His tactics were sloppy, almost childish, but my biological parents chose to believe him every single time.

The final straw was when he threw himself down a flight of stairs and claimed I pushed him.

My father didn't ask a single question before he backhanded me across the face.

My mother wept, calling me vicious, screaming that they never should have brought the trash out of the gutters.

Without asking what I wanted, they packed my bags and exiled me back to my adoptive mother's diner.

It wasn't until their precious Tristan ran away from his wedding that they remembered their real son was available for emergency use.

Looking back, my actual time living as a member of their family amounted to little more than a year.

"Cole, do you really hate us that much?" my mother asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

Her question stunned me.

I thought my utter apathy toward them was glaringly obvious.

Had a decade of peace without Tristan really caused them to forget who did what to whom?

Valerie didn't come home that night. I wasn't surprised.

My head throbbed relentlessly until dawn as I sat in the dark, drafting a divorce agreement that finally felt fair.

Switched at birth, dragged into high society, discarded like trash, then blackmailed into marriage... I never had a choice in my own life.

At the very least, checking out of this marriage could be my decision.

At 9:00 AM, Valerie called.

"About last night..."

"Val, come eat! I made your eggs exactly how you like them."

Tristans voice drifted through the receiver, close enough to make my stomach turn.

"I'm not interested," I interrupted, my tone flat.

I had imagined a hundred different scenarios of what their "last night" entailed, and I didn't want to hear a single one confirmed.

"Cole, do you have to be this cold?"

I stayed silent, letting the dead air hang. Through the line, I heard Tristan step closer to the phone.

"Val, don't fight with him."

"If my brother really can't stand the sight of me, I can just leave for another ten years."

"Don't be ridiculous," Valerie said softly, her voice laced with comfort. Then, directing her words back to the phone: "There's a Prescott family dinner in a few hours. I want you there."

"You have to come, Cole!" Tristan shouted in the background, his voice practically singing with triumph.

I hung up. My grip on the phone was tight enough to crack the screen.

Go? Of course Im going.

They were my parents, my wife. What the hell did I have to be afraid of?

Two hours later, draped in bespoke Tom Ford, I walked into the Prescott family estate like I owned it.

I found Tristan sitting cross-legged on the plush sofa, barefoot, wearing silk pajamas with his hair perfectly tousled. He was holding a stack of glossy photographs, animatedly describing his worldly adventures to the three people hanging onto his every word.

When Tristan saw me, he paused. Then, he covered his mouth and let out a bright, mocking laugh.

"Cole, its just a family lunch. Why are you dressed in full battle armor?"

"Don't tell me you're so insecure you feel the need to compete with me over Sunday brunch?"

I stopped in my tracks. My fingers twitched, curling into fists at my sides.

But I forced the corners of my mouth up into a condescending smirk.

"Well, seeing as you spent at least forty minutes blending your tinted moisturizer this morning, someone is clearly competing."

"I'm not like you, Tristan. If a paparazzo snaps a photo of me looking like I just rolled out of a frat house, Sinclair Enterprises' stock takes a hit."

"You!" Tristan shot up from the sofa. His eyes instantly went red, tears welling up with practiced precision.

"You're nothing but a thief who stole my life while I was gone! How dare you stand there and flaunt it?"

Hearing the word thief fall from the lips of the fake son was the height of black comedy.

I glanced at my biological parents, who looked utterly paralyzed, and let out a genuine, booming laugh.

"A thief? Let's get the record straight on who stole what."

"When it suited you, you paraded around as the Prescott heir, claiming the trust fund and the legacy belonged to you."

"But when things got tough, suddenly you were 'just Tristan,' a free spirit who needed to find his own path."

"You bolted, leaving me to clean up your mess and marry into a goddamn warzone! You think I wanted any of this?"

"Cole!"

Valeries voice cut through the room like a whip. She had been silent until now.

"Do you have to be so vicious about your regrets?"

Her eyes were bloodshot. She stormed across the rug, closing the distance between us, and raised her right hand high in the air.

I tilted my chin up, locking eyes with her, refusing to back down an inch.

Do it, I thought. One slap to wake me up from a ten-year nightmare.

"Val, don't!"

Tristan threw himself at Valerie from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist, his voice choking with sobs.

"We cleared the air about our feelings last night. That's enough for me."

"If you fight with my brother because of me, I'll never forgive myself."

Our feelings? My brain short-circuited. Why didn't she step away from his touch?

The words bypassed my brain and tore out of my throat.

"Youre real tough when it comes to me, Val."

"But the second Tristan whimpers, you roll over like a well-trained dog!"

SMACK.

The sound echoed through the high ceilings of the living room. The sting blossomed hot and sharp across my cheek.

From behind Valeries shoulder, Tristan peeked out. The corner of his mouth twitched into a victorious smirk.

"Cole," my mother gasped, rushing forward, her trembling hands reaching for my bruised face.

"Don't touch me!"

I roared, stepping back so violently I nearly tipped over. I put ten feet of distance between me and the rest of them.

I locked eyes with Valerie, articulating every word with venomous clarity.

"I want a divorce, Valerie. Ten years of my life. Two hundred million dollars. I think that's a bargain."

Valeries pupils blew wide. She froze in place, staring at me as if the ground had just opened up and swallowed her.

"Two hundred million! Are you out of your mind?!"

Tristan was the first to recover.

"Valerie made that money. With Dads help. What did you ever do?"

"You got to play billionaire playboy for a decade. You've taken enough. You have no right to ask for a dime!"

I didn't even acknowledge Tristan's existence. My eyes were fixed on Valerie.

"Two hundred million, Val. It buys you a clean slate, total control of your empire, and the freedom to marry the love of your life. It's the perfect ending. You're getting a steal."

"Cole..."

Valerie took a step toward me, her movements frantic but hesitant, like she was approaching a wild animal.

I steadied my breathing and held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

"Let's just rip the band-aid off."

"This was a transaction from day one. Now, the contract is up. We go our separate ways."

Before I turned toward the grand mahogany doors, I looked at the four of them one last time.

"The greatest tragedy of my life wasn't growing up poor. It was being found by the Prescotts."

If I had never been given this cursed last name, I would have stayed in that small town. I would have helped my adoptive mother run her diner.

Maybe she wouldn't have been working the late shift alone. Maybe the carbon monoxide leak wouldn't have taken her.

If I hadn't been dragged into this gilded cage, the one person in the world who actually loved me would still be alive.

When I woke up in my hotel room the next morning, my phone was bricked with notifications. 99+ missed calls. 99+ texts.

"Cole, honey, I know you were just speaking out of anger." Helen.

"Cole. I am not agreeing to a divorce. This is not a unilateral decision." Valerie.

"Son, about the past... your mother and I are deeply sorry." Arthur.

I scoffed at the ceiling.

A slap rings loud enough to shatter glass, but they think a text message can sweep up the shards.

I kept scrolling until I hit a message from Tristan.

"You think walking away makes you the bigger person? Playing the tragic victim just to get her attention? Pathetic."

"If you actually think ten years of a fake marriage means you own her heart, you're delusional."

"She told me everything last night. She only married you to use you as a human shield until it was safe for me to come back."

"You were never going to win, Cole."

I stopped breathing. She said that?

Tristans text was a serrated blade, cutting away the last scraps of my dignity.

To soothe her fragile first love, she had completely obliterated me.

Everything I did yesterday, my desperate attempt to leave with my head held highin Tristans eyes, I was just a dancing clown in a circus he owned.

I forced my hands to stop shaking. I opened my email and forwarded the finalized divorce agreement and power of attorney to my legal team.

Then, I booked the first international flight out of JFK.

When I was done, I took a screenshot of Tristans text and sent it to Valerie.

"Your taste in men is slipping, Val. And so is your subtlety."

Block. Power off.

I was in the back of a black car heading to the airport when my oldest friend called me on a burner line.

"Cole. Look at Twitter. Right now."

I clicked the link. A high-res photo of Tristan wrapping his arms around Valerie from behind was plastered across the front page of every gossip site.

#TrueLoveReturns: Heir Cole Prescott Replaced? was trending at number one.

The comments were a bloodbath.

"I mean, what powerful woman wouldn't want to go back to her high school sweetheart?"

"Rumor has it she slapped Cole right in front of Tristan yesterday. Tell me who the real alpha is."

"Tristan was her first love. I bet Cole orchestrated some dark twisted shit to run him out of town ten years ago."

The photo was too crisp, the angle too perfect to be a paparazzo hiding in the bushes. Someone inside that house had leaked it.

I switched over to a local news livestream.

A swarm of reporters had barricaded the gates of the Prescott estate.

"Tristan! Why did you leave ten years ago?"

"Are you back to reclaim Valerie Sinclair?"

On screen, Valerie emerged from the gates. One hand firmly shielded Tristans face, while the other physically pushed a microphone away.

She personally escorted him into the back of her Maybach, guarding him like he was made of spun glass, terrified the world might crack him.

I locked my phone and threw it onto the leather seat. Breathe in. Breathe out. Do not cry. Crying just gives the vultures better lighting.

The second I stepped out at the departures curb, I made a beeline for the VIP security checkpoint.

But a voice pierced the chaos.

"There he is! That's Cole Prescott!"

It was an ambush. A tidal wave of bodies, cameras, and microphones crashed over me.

"Mr. Prescott! How does it feel to be publicly discarded?"

"Is it true Tristan is the real heir and you're the fraud?"

"Are you running away because you're scared of a fight?"

Without Valeries private security to shield me, the press turned feral.

"Back off!" I yelled, pushing my suitcase forward like a battering ram.

They didn't budge.

"Mr. Prescott, sources say you used blackmail to force Tristan out ten years ago so you could marry into the Sinclair fortune. Care to comment?"

My eyes went wild. I glared at the reporter holding a mic to my chin.

"That is defamatory garbage, and I will sue you for everything you own!"

"Touched a nerve, Mr. Prescott? Is the guilt getting to you?" another shouted, fanning the flames.

"What's your strategy now that the real golden boy is back?"

A hundred mouths. A hundred knives plunging straight into my chest.

The flashes strobed, blinding me, waiting for me to crack, waiting for the money shot.

I didn't know how to fight this. The family that was supposed to protect me was currently playing bodyguard for the man who ruined my life.

I gritted my teeth, shoving blindly toward the sliding glass doors, shouting for airport security.

Travelers stopped, pulling out their phones, pointing and whispering.

"Is that the guy whose billionaire wife is cheating on him with his brother?"

"Look at him run. You marry for money, you get thrown out with the trash. What did he expect?"

Suddenly, someone in the crush shoved me hard from behind.

My ankle gave out. I lost my center of gravity and went down hard.

My palms hit the concrete, ripping the skin, and I landed squarely on my knees in front of thirty rolling cameras.

In that split second, a decade of degradation, grief, and unadulterated rage clawed up my throat.

I knew exactly what the headlines would say in an hour. Trophy Husband Begs on His Knees.

A single, heavy tear broke free, splashing onto the gray pavement.

I swiped it away instantly. I pushed myself up, brushing off my suit with agonizing slowness, acting as if I had just tripped over my own shoelaces.

They had their photo. The mob backed off slightly.

My ankle screamed with every step, but I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and walked through the terminal doors like absolute royalty.

May we never cross paths again, Valerie Sinclair.