Seven Years, and Still a Substitute

The first thing I noticed was the mark on the assistant's neck.

The second was the shopping bag in Adrian Sterling's hand.

Noah Vale stood in the doorway of the penthouse I had called home for three years, wearing a white shirt too expensive for his salary and an expression he couldn't quite arrange into innocence. Behind him, Adrian leaned against the doorframe in a navy silk robe, damp black hair falling over his forehead.

I'd flown home a day early. Six hours in a cramped airline seat, a delayed train from the airport, and one foolish idea: I wanted to surprise my boyfriend.

Instead, I had apparently surprised his assistant.

"Mr. Carter." Noah's eyes darted to my suitcase. "You're back."

"So I am."

Adrian barely glanced at me. He held out the Cartier bag. "You forgot this."

Noah accepted it with a smile that turned sharp when Adrian looked away. "Thank you, Mr. Sterling."

The elevator doors closed on him. For a moment I stared at the bronze numbers above them, waiting for the sick sensation in my stomach to pass.

"Why are you back early?" Adrian asked.

"The presentation finished ahead of schedule. I thought I'd surprise you."

He rubbed his temple. "Don't do that again. You know I hate disruptions."

"Right. Sorry."

The apology arrived automatically. It always did.

I followed him inside, wheeling my suitcase over polished marble. Seven years ago, I would have thought the view from this penthouse was the most beautiful thing in New York. Tonight the windows looked like black mirrors.

"Have you eaten?" Adrian asked without turning around.

"On the plane."

It was a lie. I'd bought the cheapest ticket I could find, and the flight had offered nothing but coffee. My stomach was painfully empty. In my suitcase, beneath two shirts and a pair of work shoes, was a watch I had saved six months to buy him. It wasn't Cartier. It wasn't even close.

"Fine," he said. "I'm going to bed."

We hadn't kissed hello.

I took my suitcase upstairs to the guest room. That was where I kept my work clothes now, ever since Adrian had decided my early alarms disturbed his sleep. I showered, put on an old T-shirt, and sat on the edge of the bed staring at the watch box.

When the door opened, I knew the rhythm of his footsteps before I looked up.

Adrian sat beside me and caught my wrist. "Still sulking?"

"I'm tired."

He touched my cheek, then drew me toward him. For one terrible second, I wanted to forget everything. His hands were familiar. His mouth was familiar. I'd spent most of my adult life learning every change in his breathing.

But there was a faint rose scent on his robe. Adrian had always hated rose cologne.

I put my palm against his chest. "Why was Noah here?"

"Documents."

"At ten at night?"

"We work late."

"And the shopping bag?"

"He left something here after a business trip. I brought it back for him."

"You carried his personal things? Adrian, you won't even carry your own suitcase."

His face closed. "Are you interrogating me?"

"I'm asking a question."

"Then ask it without making yourself ridiculous."

He got up. The bed rose where his weight had been, and the door clicked shut behind him.

I could still smell roses.

When we met at Columbia, Adrian Sterling was twenty-three, already the heir to an investment empire and the center of every room. I was eighteen, an awkward design student who had somehow mistaken his occasional smiles for promises.

I pursued him for years. I celebrated his promotions, learned his coffee order, waited outside parties where I wasn't invited. When he finally kissed me, I thought persistence had turned into love.

Only later did I learn that I resembled Sebastian Ashford, the beautiful man Adrian had loved before me.

At first I told myself resemblance didn't matter. People fell in love for strange reasons. Maybe Adrian would eventually see me clearly.

Seven years later, I was still waiting.

My phone buzzed. Claire Morgan, my closest friend at the design firm, had sent a message.

HOME SAFE?

I typed YES, deleted it, and typed it again.

Then Instagram opened to a photograph posted by Marcus Hale. Adrian and Noah stood shoulder to shoulder at a private shooting range, both smiling. Adrian had one hand resting casually at Noah's waist. The picture was from that morning, while I'd been struggling through a client presentation in Chicago.

Underneath, Marcus had written: OUR BOY FINALLY KNOWS HOW TO HAVE FUN.

I put my phone facedown.

In the bottom of my suitcase, the watch lay wrapped in tissue paper. I closed the lid without taking it out.

For the first time, I wondered whether going home had ever meant the same thing to Adrian as it did to me.