I Spent Millions on a Lookalike

After I pulled every string to secure Caleb as my exclusive protégé during the faculty-student matching round.

He laid out three terms before agreeing to work under me.

First, cover all his grad school expenses.

Second, blank check for every mess he makes.

Third, no questions asked about his personal life.

The other department tutors watching nearby thought his demands were totally absurd.

But I only gave a slow, quiet nod.

“Take good care of that face of yours.”

"I will take Caleb Bennett."

My voice echoed through the grand auditorium of the Hale School of Fine Arts.

Dozens of elite faculty members and top-tier students stared at me in disbelief.

I was Diana Voss, tenured professor, heir to the Voss Gallery, and the undisputed "Genius Goddess" of the contemporary oil painting world. My waiting list was filled with prodigies.

And I had just chosen a junior whose portfolio was a chaotic, uninspired mess.

But as I stood at the podium, I only saw the sharp line of his jaw. The precise curve of his brow.

God. It was like seeing a shadow come to life.

An hour later, the door to my private office clicked shut. Caleb stood near my desk.

I walked up to him. The scent of cheap turpentine clung to his jacket.

I raised my hand, my fingers pausing a millimeter from his skin before brushing lightly against his cheekbone.

Caleb’s breath hitched. His muscles locked. His eyes darted to my lips.

He said that he would only be willing to be my exclusive student if I agreed to his three conditions.

"No problem," I replied. "But I have one rule for you, Caleb."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Take extremely good care of your face. Don't ruin it."

Over the next three years, I poured the Voss family’s limitless resources into him. I gave him a private, sunlit studio in Manhattan.

I bought him 19th-century handcrafted pigments that museums fought over. I fully funded his 'inspiration' trips across Europe.

People whispered that Diana Voss was losing her mind over a pretty-boy student.

To the public, I called him my "Live Model," my "Muse."

I launched an exhibition titled Phantom, a series of massive canvases featuring nothing but his side profile.

The paintings sold for millions. I told the press my financial support of Caleb was merely a dedication to art.

I remained immersed in the illusion I had created for myself, until...

The hospital called at ten in the morning. My father, Harold Voss, the titan of the art collecting world, had suffered a massive heart attack.

By the time I reached the emergency room, the monitor was a flatline.

Before the tears could even dry on my cheeks, my phone buzzed. The gallery director of the National Student Exhibition was frantic.

Caleb had gotten drunk at the preview and shoved another student, tearing a massive hole through a loaned, priceless Renaissance sketch.

Then, I turned around, postponed the funeral arrangement meeting, and drove straight to the gallery.

When I reached the VIP lounge of the exhibition center, the door was slightly ajar. I reached for the handle, but Caleb’s slurred laughter stopped me.

"Diana is an old woman," Caleb spat, his voice dripping with arrogance. "She actually thinks she has a chance with me? Please. She is nothing but a walking ATM. I snap my fingers, and she comes running."

“Hahahaha...”A burst of laughter came through.

"Hi,bro, but you still need to chill," a male voice warned. I know she 'dotes' on you, but if people actually find out about this twisted relationship between you and the professor... it's going to be a massive scandal."

"Let them talk!" Caleb sneered. "You think she's a genius? Every single painting in that Phantom series is just me. I'm her entire career right now. She can't live without me! "

My grip on the brass handle tightened until my knuckles turned white.

I pushed the door open smoothly, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

The room instantly went dead silent. Caleb’s friend went pale. Caleb dropped his glass.

I walked straight up to him. I reached out, my thumb swiping across a smudge of blue paint near his temple.

"As long as your face is fine," I said softly, my voice devoid of any emotion.

"P-Professor," Caleb stammered, his eyes wide with panic. "Did you... did you hear..."

I looked him dead in the eye. "Hear what?"

He exhaled a massive breath, his shoulders instantly dropping.

It was past midnight when I finally returned to our private studio.

I had written a massive check to silence the gallery and spent the last four hours agonizing over my father's morgue paperwork.

I was entirely hollowed out.

Caleb was lying on the Italian leather sofa, playing on his phone. When I walked in, he sat up, looking vaguely guilty about the gallery incident.

To compensate, he walked over, grabbed my waist, and pressed his lips against mine.

It was a clumsy, arrogant kiss. A cheap reward out of a vending machine.

I didn't push him away immediately.

My father was dead. “He” was dead. The two people who loved me most in this world are both gone. The two people who loved me most in this world are both gone.

I closed my eyes, desperately trying to find some warmth from Caleb’s mouth.

But the moment he pulled back, he completely ruined it.

"Diana," he murmured, his face flushed, thinking he had completely seduced me. "Lila’s birthday is next week."

Lila. His sweet, calculating childhood friend who called me "Teacher" while stealing my perfumes.

"And?" I asked, stepping back.

"She really wants that 19th-century handmade sable brush in your glass display case," Caleb said casually, pointing toward my desk. "You never paint with it anyway. Just let me give it to her. It’ll make her so happy."

The air in the studio froze.

That brush wasn't a tool. It was Julian’s last gift to me before the avalanche.

"No." The word left my mouth like a bullet.

Caleb blinked, genuinely shocked. "What? Why not? It’s just an old brush! You give me literal millions, and you're being stingy over a piece of wood for my friend?"

I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. " I said no."

He violently kicked a wooden stool across the room and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The silence rushed back into the studio. I stood alone, wiping the residue of his kiss from my mouth with the back of my hand.

It was the first time in three years I had ever told him no.