Chapter 53 Like Her but Not Her
By the time Eugene left the hotel that night, the city was already deep in darkness. The wine from the banquet still lingered in his veins, so instead of driving himself, he called for a designated driver.
He leaned back in the Porsche's rear seat, eyes closed, letting the hum of the engine fill the silence. But his mind refused to rest. The image of Francis carrying Jennifer away kept replaying, vivid and unwelcome. The thought of them together—right now, in some bed—made the vein at his temple pulse.
All of it traced back to Layla. That foolish woman had slipped Jennifer an aphrodisiac, and instead of working in his favor, it had handed Francis exactly what he wanted.
His headache was building into a pounding throb when the car suddenly jolted to a stop. Eugene's temple slammed into the window. He hissed, rubbing the spot. "What the hell happened?"
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Bailey," the driver blurted, voice tight. "Someone ran into the road. I… I think I hit them."
Eugene's frown deepened. "Go check."
Outside, Jasmine Parker in a white dress lay on the pavement, her knee scraped and bleeding. Tears shimmered in her eyes. When the car door opened, she looked up hopefully—only to see an ordinary-looking driver. Disappointment flickered across her face before she masked it.
The driver offered her a hand. "Ma'am, you're hurt. How do you want to handle compensation?"
Jasmine Parker let him help her up, head bowed, silent. She'd recognized the Porsche from a distance and deliberately stepped into its path, hoping to meet the man behind the wheel—not haggle over medical bills.
She was a student at the local film academy, coming from a middle-class background but yearning for more. She envied her roommate, who was already adorned in designer clothes and carrying handbags worth more than most people's rent.
Inside the car, Eugene was growing impatient with the delay. He glanced out—just once—and froze.
"Jennifer?"
The girl outside, with her lowered head and shy glance, looked enough like Jennifer to trigger the memory of their first meeting. She'd worn a plain white dress then too, but her elegance had made her stand out in a crowd. He remembered the way men had turned to her, calculating their approach.
Eugene straightened his tie and stepped out, his stride smooth, his smile polished. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry my driver hurt you. If you don't mind, I can take you to a hospital for treatment."
Jasmine stole a quick look at him. Luck was on her side tonight—handsome, young, well-dressed, and driving a luxury car. She covered her knee with a small cry of pain, voice soft. "That's very kind of you. What should I call you, sir?"
"Mr. Bailey," he said, opening the door for her. He caught the flicker of admiration in her eyes—she couldn't have been more than twenty, and her ambitions were written plainly across her face.
When she climbed inside, she winced and twisted her ankle. Eugene steadied her with a brief, gentlemanly touch to her waist before letting go. Jasmine's cheeks flushed; she bit her lip. "Thank you."
He didn't answer, just settled into his seat. From certain angles, her resemblance to Jennifer rose from fifty percent to seventy—especially in the dim glow of streetlights slipping through the windows.
The ride passed in silence. Jasmine kept stealing glances, calculating how to draw his attention.
At the hospital, when the doctor cleaned her wound, she gripped Eugene's hand, eyes wide and wet. Eugene felt the pull—he'd always had a weakness for women who cried.
When it was over, she noticed the crescent-shaped nail marks she'd left in his palm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bailey," she murmured, brushing her fingertips over the marks as if to erase them.
The touch sent a faint spark through him. He closed his hand over hers. "It's fine. Doesn't hurt. Where do you live? I'll take you."
She hesitated, eyes dropping. "It's late; the dorm's locked by now." Then she looked up, gaze soft and suggestive.
"Then I'll take you to a hotel," Eugene said, pausing deliberately before adding, "We'll make sure you're comfortable." His hand slid to her waist, squeezing lightly.
Her thigh brushed against his leg. "Okay," she whispered.
Eugene's smile deepened. She wasn't innocent, not really.
The moment they stepped into the hotel room, pretense fell away. Eugene's touch was rough, nothing like the gentlemanly mask he'd worn earlier. Jasmine flinched at first but adapted quickly. The scrape on her knee stung when it was jostled, but the promise of an LV bag was enough to make her bite down and endure.
He told her to keep her head bowed, eyes lowered. She obeyed, inexperienced in her movements but eager to please.
When he climaxed and shouted "Jennifer," the truth landed—she was a stand-in. But it didn't matter. She was there for the money, and as long as he paid well, she'd play the part.
She even thanked the real Jennifer in her mind. If Jennifer had taken Eugene, this opportunity wouldn't have fallen into her lap.
When it was over, Eugene lay back against the headboard, cigarette between his fingers. Jasmine was like her, but not her—sweet water to a man dying of thirst. It didn't satisfy; it only made him thirstier.
By morning, Eugene was gone. On the nightstand sat a check for two hundred thousand dollars and his business card. Jasmine smiled as she kissed the check. She hummed under her breath as she dressed, saving his number and sending a coy greeting—just in case he wanted her again.
At the same time, Jennifer was still asleep. Francis had driven her to exhaustion last night, yet he'd left for work looking fresh, while she didn't stir once.
Before leaving, he'd told the servants not to clean the bedroom until she woke, not to disturb her. The maid had never seen him smile so softly, so tenderly. He looked satisfied.
When Jennifer woke up, it was already eleven o'clock. She picked up her phone and saw a string of missed calls, all from Mia. Worried there might be something urgent, she quickly called back. The phone rang once before someone answered.