The email glowed in the darkness like a wound refusing to close.
Selena sat on the edge of the bed in her Monaco suite, the silence around her so sharp it felt like it might cut skin. The red gown still hugged her body, the hem pooling around her bare feet like blood spilled across marble, her phone trembled in her hand though she wasn't sure if it was the vibration or her fingers shaking.
"Savannah Leclair was originally confirmed for the Wolfe campaign before Selena Hart's team was approached…"
That one sentence shattered something she hadn't realized she was still holding onto.
Her lungs locked. She forgot how to breathe.
The message was official—clinical even. No apology, no hesitation just a dry summary of business decisions and branding shifts as if her entire world wasn't shifting beneath her in real time.
She scrolled.
There, in the attachment was the proof.
Savannah Leclair.
Poured into a crimson dress like it had been sewn onto her skin. Wolfe Global's logo stamped beside her name. The same tagline, the same aesthetic, the same luxury sheen. Real Beauty for Real People.
Selena's chest constricted.
It was the campaign she had built her hope on, the one that had pulled her back from the digital gallows. That kiss on the balcony, that dance beneath the stars, that fake romance that was starting to feel frighteningly real—it had all been sparked by this deal. And this deal had been hers.
Except… it hadn't.
She had been a replacement.
A plan B in lipstick.
The second choice all along.
The air in the room seemed to tighten. Her gaze remained locked on the glossy image of Savannah smiling flawlessly beside Julian posed like power and perfection had fallen in love, his arm around Savannah's waist in the mockup mirrored the way he'd held Selena just hours ago.
But that had been a copy.
Not a first draft.
Her fingers hovered over the phone screen. For a moment, she considered deleting the email. Pretending she hadn't seen it letting the illusion live just a little longer but pretending was what had gotten her here in the first place.
She tossed the phone onto the bed, where it landed face-up, Savannah's image still glowing on the screen.
Selena stood slowly, her feet icy against the marble floor. She walked to the mirror, the one framed in gold leaf and imported from Italy—everything in Monaco was imported and stared at herself.
The woman looking back wasn't broken, not yet but she was no longer intact either.
Selena touched the place on her cheek where Julian's fingers had brushed earlier that night. Where he'd looked at her like maybe she wasn't just useful—but wanted.
God, had she believed it?
Had she really allowed herself to hope?
The laughter, the glances, the kiss.
It had all felt like something shifting into place, like maybe—maybe—this wasn't just strategy. That behind the perfectly curated headlines, they were writing something unscripted, something raw.
But it was all paper.
Paper lies, printed in ink and approved by PR departments. Carefully folded and sold as reality. And she, fool that she was had taken it as truth.
She closed her eyes.
Just once she had wanted to be someone's first choice, not the understudy brought in after the star collapsed, not the spin, not the salvage, not the consolation prize in couture.
But life had a habit of handing her almosts and calling them miracles.
Behind her, the ocean whispered against the cliff like it knew all her secrets. A breeze crept in through the open balcony doors and she let it wash over her as if it might cool the anger beginning to rise in her chest.
Not rage, not yet.
Just the slow, sick burn of betrayal.
He didn't even tell me she thought. Julian knew.
Of course he had, Julian Wolfe didn't not know. He had known from the very beginning that she wasn't their first choice and yet he had stood in front of her night after night, playing the part of the man who had seen something in her others didn't.
He'd kissed her.
Touched her like she was the only thing in the room.
Made her believe—if only for a moment—that she wasn't just part of the campaign.
That maybe she was the campaign.
But the data had been clear all along.
Selena Hart: secondary candidate
An acceptable replacement
Marketable in crisis
Clickable
Sellable
Forgettable
She turned back toward the bed, eyes locking once more on the email. It sat there like a ghost, reminding her what she was worth in the currency of Wolfe Global: less than Savannah Leclair but more than nothing, that wasn't going to be enough not anymore.
Selena moved with quiet purpose grabbing her phone, pressing it to her chest, grounding herself. The fake relationship might still be on but the rules had changed. She would still play the game—but this time, it would be on her terms.
If Julian wanted to lie with his eyes, she would match him with her smile.
If Wolfe Global wanted to turn her into a story, she would write the ending herself.
And if Savannah Leclair wanted to make a comeback?
She'd have to come through Selena Hart first.
Because second choice or not—Selena wasn't finished.
Not even close.
Julian looked up from his glass of whiskey as Selena stormed into his penthouse.
"You lied to me."
He didn't flinch. "I didn't lie."
"You just failed to mention that Savannah was your first pick and I'm just… the filler, the rebound. Your PR duct tape!"
Julian stood. "You're being dramatic."
"I should have known!" Her voice cracked. "You never looked at me like I mattered, only like I worked."
He exhaled. "Savannah dropped out last minute. You were the best fit after that, It wasn't personal."
She laughed bitterly. "That's exactly the problem, Julian none of this was personal." And with that, she walked out.
He didn't chase her.