The Billionaire Paid For My Face

I was Hudsons paid lookalike. His contracted distraction.

While he used my body to kill time, I lay beneath him and thought of someone else.

Right up until the day Hudson supposedly flew out of state to comfort his untouchable first love.

I logged into my burner account and saw a message from a guy I only knew by his screen name, Nomad:

[I want to see you.]

I took a breath, steeled my nerves, and agreed to meet him. I was ready to finally sever my ties to the past.

But when I pulled open my front door at the exact time we'd agreed upon...

Standing on the other side of the threshold was Hudsonthe man who was supposed to be halfway across the country.

He arched an eyebrow at me, a dark, playful smirk playing on his lips.

"What's wrong?" he murmured. "Waiting for your internet crush, but got me instead?"

My relationship with Hudson was, at its core, painfully simple: he wanted my face, and I wanted his money.

As for why my face specifically caught the attention of a New York tech billionaire?

Its the oldest clich in the book. Hudson was haunted by the ghost of a girl he couldn't have. Margot. Hollywoods current A-list darling.

And I happen to look a good seventy percent like her. I even used to be her body double on set.

But Margot had a high school sweetheart shed been dating for eight solid years; they were Hollywoods golden couple, completely impenetrable. So, Hudson had to settle for the next best thing. He plucked me out of absolute obscurity.

When he formally offered to make me his "kept woman," his lawyer slid a non-disclosure and lifestyle agreement across the mahogany table that was thicker than my college thesis.

But boiled down, it really only had three rules:

One, don't ask questions.

Two, be available whenever he calls.

Three, never cling.

I followed them religiously. Not because I had some profound sense of professional integrity as a sugar baby, but mainly because my heart was already occupied.

Nomad.

A guy I met on an anonymous forum.

At the time, Hudson had just hired me. My pride was in tatters, the brutal reality of the contract sitting heavy on my chest. I had bowed to the almighty dollar, and I felt suffocated by it.

Late one night, scrolling mindlessly through Reddit, I stumbled upon a post Nomad had written about traveling to Iceland alone to see the Northern Lights. His prose was breathtakingly good. He wrote about isolation with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

Like a ghost guiding my hand, I sent him a private message: [You write beautifully.]

He replied almost instantly: [Thanks. That cat in your profile picture is pretty chunky.]

I couldn't help but brag: [He's a rescue. I adopted him.]

And just like that, we started talking.

Hudson kept me for over two years, and I talked to Nomad for over two years.

I sent Nomad texts about my 3:00 AM insomnia. I sent him pictures of the incredible greasy diner downstairs, and the oak tree outside my window that budded in the spring and went stark bald in the winter.

He never sent a photo of himself.

He only ever sent one sixty-second audio clip.

When I pressed play, it was just the roaring, crackling sound of howling wind.

"The wind in Iceland," his voice murmured through the static.

I played that goddamn audio clip thirty-seven times on a loop.

And then there was Hudson.

How do I even explain Hudson?

He was a bizarre anomaly in the world of wealthy benefactors. He wasnt the ice-cold, domineering alpha billionaire you read about in airport paperbacks.

During our late-night arrangements, while I was literally lying naked in his bed, he would suddenly ask:

"What do you think of this pajama shirt? Does it make my shoulders look weird?"

Id say, "No."

Hed sigh. "You didn't even look. You're just saying no."

I searched for a polite excuse. "Hudson, you're currently pinning me to the mattress. My field of vision is a little restricted."

He paused, considered this, and decided it was a valid point. He deliberately pulled me up by the waist, sitting me right in front of him so I could get a good look.

I stared at him with excruciating patience for thirty seconds. "Okay, yeah. It does."

He went entirely silent out of sheer indignation. He ripped the pajama shirt off, exposing his ridiculously sculpted abs.

I had no choice but to reach out and comfort his bruised ego. He caught my hand, pinned it, and ended up keeping me awake the entire night until my lower back throbbed.

The next day, a substantial bonus hit my bank account.

I understood the game. Overtime required overtime pay. When your boss occasionally short-circuits, you don't complain; you just cash the check.

He used my body to search for the shadow of someone else, and I lay beneath him dreaming of the wind in Iceland.

He used me as a distraction. I used him as a magic lamp. Whenever my bank account ran low, I just gave him a rub.

Fair trade. Everyone got what they needed.

I stepped out of the steaming shower, towel-drying my hair. Hudson was leaning against the tufted headboard, scrolling through his tablet.

We used to live separately. I had my cramped Brooklyn studio; he had his sprawling Manhattan penthouse.

Usually, whenever he saw a billboard with Margots face on it and felt a sudden pang of nostalgic longing, hed call his trusty stand-in. Sometimes just a text. Id take the subway to his place.

Once, he called me at three in the morning.

I assumed he was deep in the throes of a late-night emotional crisis, shedding tears into his silk sheets over his lost love.

I rushed over. He wanted me to help him pick out new bedroom curtains.

"Charcoal or slate grey?"

It was 4:00 AM. I was standing in his massive bedroom, dead on my feet, staring at two identical squares of fabric.

"Charcoal," I mumbled.

"Why?"

"Hides the dirt."

He tilted his head, thinking it over. "Solid logic."

I turned around, eyes completely shut, navigating by pure muscle memory toward the front door, and nearly crashed right into his chest.

Hudson caught me by the waist. He opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something.

But I had already rested my cheek against his sternum, found a comfortable groove, and passed out instantly.

That was the first time I ever slept at his apartment without engaging in any sort of physical transaction.

The next morning, I was still buried under the duvet, dreaming of soaking in a geothermal lagoon in Iceland, when my landlord called.

"Fallon, honey," she said. "My son is getting married and he needs the apartment. I'll refund your deposit, but you need to find a new place. Your boyfriend already packed up all your stuff and moved it out."

I just lay there, my brain stalling for a solid minute.

"Brenda... didn't you tell me last month that your son couldn't even get a date to save his life?"

"Oh, he found someone!" she chirped. "A Vegas wedding. Very sudden."

I opened my eyes.

Hudson had just walked into the bedroom. He was carrying several cardboard boxes and a squirming cat. My entire worldly possessions.

I had never allowed Hudson to visit my apartment.

I preferred to keep our cold, transactional relationship strictly within the confines of his penthouse. I didn't want to bring my work home with me.

Well, now my work was my home.

I obediently crawled into the center of the massive bed.

My cat, Smudge, who had been perfectly content lounging in Hudsons lap, immediately jumped off the mattress to go shred the brand-new charcoal curtains.

Hudson had never been to my apartment. So why my cat acted like Hudson was his long-lost father was entirely beyond me.

As soon as I lay down, Hudson suddenly spoke. "Come here."

I turned to look at him.

He patted the empty space beside him. "Closer."

I shimmied over.

"Lower your head," he instructed.

I dropped my chin.

The next second, the nozzle of a matte-black Dyson hairdryer was pointed directly at my face.

"..."

"Your hair is soaked," he said matter-of-factly. "You'll wake up with a migraine if you sleep on it like that."

I stared at him. He stared at me.

I was mostly just wondering where the hell he had been hiding a full-sized hairdryer. He couldn't have been holding a cat, reading corporate files on his iPad, and hiding a Dyson under the duvet all at once.

He clicked it on, and a rush of warm air hit me.

Hudson was surprisingly good at this. His long fingers combed smoothly through my wet strands, occasionally brushing my scalp. It tingled.

I kept my eyes fixed on the buttons of his pajama shirt. One. Two. Three.

"Hudson."

"Hmm?"

"Have you dried someone else's hair before?"

His fingers paused in my hair for a fraction of a second.

"No."

"Then how are you so good at it?"

"I watched a tutorial."

Well then. I suppose being a body double had its perksI was getting the premium, customized service the sugar daddy had been practicing for someone else.

I generously gave him a five-star review: "Your technique is incredibly professional. Your future wife is going to love it."

Hudson didn't say another word.

It wasn't that I was actively trying to ruin the mood.

It was just that the very first time Hudson brought me to one of his social circles, his best friend, Chase, had pulled me aside with genuine pity in his eyes. He told me about the untouchable first love.

Chase told me that a framed still from Margots breakout indie film sat squarely on Hudsons study desk.

That was the moment I understood exactly why Hudson had chosen me out of the lineup.

Logically, I should have figured it out sooner. But Hudsons particular brand of attentiveness was dangerously deceptive. Even when its written in black and white that your relationship is a paid sham, you can still catch traces of a gentleness that exists outside the contract. It makes you foolishly believe you hold a special place in his world.

In college, an injury destroyed my dancing career. A scout saw me crying in a diner and told me I had the face for Hollywood.

A year later, a sleazy producer told me that if I slept with him, hed make me a star.

Young, arrogant, and foolishly proud, I threw my vodka soda directly into his greasy face.

And just like that, I was blacklisted.

No fame, no auditions. I scraped the bottom of the barrel until I finally landed a gig on a massive studio setas Margots stunt and lighting double.

Life really is just a poorly written script. I used to be a physical stand-in; now I was a professional emotional one.

I wasn't heartbroken. I was just thrilled to have a job with solid job security and zero competition.

"You guys are best friends," I heard myself say to Chase back then, my voice remarkably steady. "If he finds out you told me this, he's going to be pissed."

Chase crushed his cigarette under his shoe, looking utterly righteous. "That's exactly why I'm telling you while he's at the bar."

He wanted me to know my place. Take the money, but guard my heart.

I downed the rest of my champagne in one gulp. "Chase, you're a good man."

By the time Hudson found us on the terrace, Chase was drunkenly sobbing into my shoulder.

"Fallon, stop friend-zoning me, my heart can't take it anymore, man... sob..."

The next second, Hudsons hand clamped onto my arm, yanking me out of Chases tearful embrace.

He scooped me up effortlessly into his arms, his grip around my waist tight and possessive.

"Done playing around?" His voice was absolute ice. "We're going home."

I rested my chin on his shoulder. Looking past him, I saw Chase struggling to sit up, tears still streaking his flushed face. I gave him a little wave.

Hudsons footsteps stopped dead.

His arm tightened around me like a vice. He lowered his head, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear. "Look at him one more time, and I guarantee you aren't sleeping tonight."

I didn't believe the threat. I had seen how much scotch he threw back at the bar. The internet said guys had performance issues when they drank that much.

I woke up the next morning drenched in sweat.

Mainly because a human furnace was plastered to my back.

Hudsons heavy arm was slung across my waist, his breath ghosting over the nape of my neck, one of his legs thrown heavily over mine.

Back when our interactions were strictly nocturnal and purely physical, I didn't think much of it. But ever since I was forced to move in, Hudson had undergone a bizarre personality shift. He suddenly loved simply sharing a blanket, holding hands, and sleeping. It was putting immense pressure on me as a professional contractor.

This was a workplace hazard I did not have the experience to navigate.

I braced myself and tried to inch my body toward the edge of the mattress.

His arm tightened.

I shimmied again.

He tightened his grip further.

I took a deep breath, preparing to utilize my dancers flexibility to slide out from under him like a greased eel.

"Don't move."

His voice was thick and gravelly with sleep, his lips brushing directly against the sensitive skin of my neck.

I froze.

Because I was suddenly hyper-aware of something pressing against my lower back that I really shouldn't be feeling this early in the morning.

"Hudson."

"Mmm."

"You're poking me."

He was quiet for two full seconds.

Then, I felt him start to laugh. The deep, rumbling vibration of his chest against my spine sent a shiver down my arms.

"I know."

"..."

When I didn't say anything, he gently bit my earlobe. "You little menace."

I tried to hold my tongue, but failed. "I'm not a menace. Please don't give me a negative performance review for no reason."

A boss like this was terrible for an employee's mental health. Thank God I compartmentalized.

He propped himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His dark hair was a messy bedhead halo, his eyelids slightly puffy from sleep. He looked nothing like a ruthless tech mogul.

He stared at me, his eyes silently accusing me of ruining a perfectly romantic moment.

I stared right back, silently reminding him that we do not catch feelings on company time.

Finally, I heard him take a sharp intake of breath. He threw the covers back and marched toward the master bathroom, bare-chested.

The scratches I had left on his back last week were almost completely healed. I hadn't exactly had the opportunity to add new ones recently.

From the back, he looked a little sulky. Maybe even a little rejected.

He stopped halfway across the rug and looked over his shoulder at me.

"What do you want for lunch?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Lunch," he enunciated. "To eat."

Lately, Hudson had been utterly obsessed with having me eat lunch with him. Sometimes hed book a reservation at a Michelin-starred spot; other times I was required to carry a packed lunch to his corporate headquarters.

Hudson was an incredible cook. He prepped and plated the gourmet bento boxes himself. I was literally just the delivery driver for my own lunch.

As far as I was concerned, as long as the direct deposits kept clearing, Id deliver whatever he wanted.

I just couldn't fathom why he didn't just take the damn food with him when he left for work in the morning. Why force his sugar baby to parade through his corporate lobby just to drop it off?

The only logical explanation was that the ultra-rich were completely unhinged.

I batted my eyelashes at him. "Whatever you make, I'll love it."

Hudson leaned down and kissed me. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly reverent. "Can you promise to love it forever?"

All I can say is, nothing in this world lasts forever.

After Hudson left for the office, I sat at the kitchen island eating my breakfast. I suddenly remembered my burner accountthe one I used to message Nomadwhich I hadn't checked in ages.

Ever since I moved in with Hudson, my screen time had plummeted.

For a busy billionaire CEO, Hudson had a terrifying amount of energy. Hed come home and drag me out to grocery shop, cook, watch indie films, listen to vinyls, drink wine, and play video games. My schedule was packed tighter than a diplomat's.

A teenager in the honeymoon phase of his first relationship wouldn't be this clingy.

As soon as I logged in, a message popped up.

Nomad: [Been busy lately?]

Timestamp: Two weeks ago.

Me: [A little.]

Nomad replied instantly: [Rest if you're tired.]

I had never told Nomad I was a paid mistress. I just vaguely referred to it as my "job." It was a pathetic lie I told myself to preserve my dignity.

Me: [Can't rest. Gotta grind.]

Nomad: [Didn't you say your boss was actually a decent guy?]

Me: [You can't just look at the present.]

Nomad: [What do you mean?]

Me: [My performance reviews are fine for now, but you never know when the boss will get sick of me and decide to downsize my position.]

My current job offered zero upward mobility, and the expiration date was always looming. For this particular role, Hudson always had a more qualified candidate in his heart. I had to be ready to pack my bags and vacate the premises at a moment's notice.

It took Nomad a long time to reply: [Why would you think that?]

I typed out my ultimate corporate wisdom: [Always have an exit strategy.]

My workplace paranoia was validated before noon.

A massive headline detonated across Twitter and the gossip blogs.

#A-ListDarlingMargotBetrayed

#BoyfriendCaughtCheating

#MargotSpottedCryingInLA

#EightYearsDownTheDrain

I hadn't even finished reading the article when my phone buzzed. It was Hudson.

"Fallon, baby. Are you at the office yet?"

"Not yet."

"Something urgent came up at work. I have to fly out to Atlanta for a few days."

"Okay."

"Make sure you're eating properly while I'm gone."

"I know."

"Wait for me to get back."

I didn't say anything.

He repeated it, his voice tight. "Wait for me."

"Okay," I whispered.

I hung up the phone and tipped my head back, looking up at the towering glass skyscraper in front of me. What floor was his corner office on again? I was just a tiny ant on the pavement. He couldn't see me from up there.

A cold drop of rain hit my cheek. The sky opened up.

Clutching the insulated lunchbox, I turned and walked away in the downpour.

Late that night, I tossed and turned in the center of the massive king-sized bed.

Hudson claimed it was a business emergency. But the timing of this sudden trip out of state? Even an idiot could put two and two together.

I had seen the tracking updates on the gossip blogs that afternoon. Margot was currently filming a new movie down in Atlanta.

Hudson was flying a thousand miles through a thunderstorm to rush to her side.

Honestly? It was incredibly romantic.

Even if the man was completely morally bankruptkeeping one woman in his house while harboring another in his heart. But he had been unfailingly generous with his money, and surprisingly, with his emotional care. He treated a cheap stand-in with such meticulous, tender devotion that you could almost fool yourself into thinking it was real.

That was why I had to constantly remind myself: do not fall for his gentleness.

The prettier the illusion, the deadlier the trap.

I had no right to judge Hudson. He wasn't some villain threatening Margot's career to force her into his bed, and he never tried to be the other man while she was happy. He simply waited in the wings, rushing in to offer his shoulder the moment her heart broke.

It was just a transaction. I sincerely wished him the best.

As for the final clause in my contractnever clingI was prepared to exhibit flawless professional etiquette. I would quietly evaporate from his life. I wouldn't cause a single ripple of drama on his journey to win back his true love.

I stared at my chat history with Nomad.

The last message had come through that morning.

He said: [I want to see you.]

I want to see you.

I stared at those five words for a very long time. Long enough for the phone screen to dim, go black, and be tapped awake again. Over and over.

I typed: [Okay.]

Then I sent a second text: [Tomorrow. The Astor Residences. 3:00 PM.]

It was Hudson's address. He was supposed to be gone for a week. I figured I'd borrow the lobby. I didn't actually want to meet Nomad at Hudson's apartment, but since my old landlord had evicted me, I literally didn't have anywhere else in the city to go.

When the doorbell chimed, I had just finished taping up my last moving box.

Compared to the deliberately sparse belongings I had in my old studio, my possessions had multiplied like a virus since living with Hudson. My closets were overflowing with dresses, jewelry, and shoesall things Hudson bought because he "thought I'd like them."

I wasn't taking any of it. It would all end up exactly like me: discarded in the trash the moment he was done with it.

Three o'clock exactly.

Punctual guy.

I took a deep, shaky breath, and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Hudson stood in the hallway.

He smelled like jet fuel, rain, and exhaustion. In one hand, he was holding a canvas grocery tote. A bundle of crisp celery and onions peeked out from the top.

We stared at each other.

My mind went entirely, violently blank.

Internet crush.

Meetup.

My doorstep.

Sugar daddy.