THE TWIN IN HIS BED

CHAPTER TWO 

The drive to the hotel felt like the beginning of a crime. 

Or the end of my life. 

Maybe both. 

I sat rigidly in the back of the taxi as we drove through the rain across the city. 

I felt suffocated. 

Each passing second dragged me towards a decision I couldn't escape. Not anymore. 

Not after Arla had sent me the address of the hotel we'd be meeting at, specifically asking me to dress in a disguise. 

“Say Mrs Holland, and they'd bring you up to the room. Say nothing else.” 

I had worn my cleanest baggy jeans, a white tank top, a black jacket, sneakers and a face cap to that effect. 

Rain battered the taxi windows while my fingers clenched tightly around the hand bag in my lap. Inside it lay the envelope Arla had left behind. 

I should have gone to the police. 

Turned myself in, put an end to this madness. Instead, I was on my way to become my sister. 

The envelope and the thought of my mother were the only things that stopped me from turning back at many points. 

The taxi finally came to a halt before one of the most expensive looking hotels I'd ever seen. Gold-lit windows towered high above me, while nice looking cars glided under the rain. 

I hesitated for a second, then fixed my shades and stepped out with an umbrella. 

Outside the taxi, the building was so intimidating I almost ran back. 

I forced my feet to move, one after the other till I reached the entrance. The concierge opened the glass doors before I reached them. 

“Good evening, ma'am.” 

I nodded awkwardly, and entered. 

Warmth engulfed me immediately. 

Marbled floor. Blinding chandeliers. Soft orchestra somewhere distant. 

Everything looked, smelt and felt expensive. 

I gaped at the utter display of wealth before my eyes. A night in this place would cost more than six months of my rent. 

Arla definitely hit the jackpot with this husband of hers. 

I approached the reception desk with shaky hands.

The woman smiled. I tried to smile back, but my lips were quivering. 

“Welcome to Gold leaves. Name, please?” 

“I…uh…Elles…”

I caught myself quickly. 

God!  

“Mrs Holland,” I corrected quickly. 

The woman gave me a once over, then typed on her computer. A few seconds later, she offered that smile that racked at my nerves. 

“Penthouse private suite. You've already been cleared upstairs.”

Just like that?

“The maitre d’ will lead you to the private elevator. Please enjoy your stay with us.” 

Before I could ask who?

Another woman dressed in a crispy navy blue suit and gold headtie materialised by my side. 

“Come with me, ma'am.” 

I nodded, unable to speak. Not that I had what to say. 

I was led to what happened to be the private elevator, which escorted me to the top floor, where another woman, dressed like the former waited just outside. 

“Mrs Holland?” 

My stomach twisted at that name. 

I nodded, not trusting myself to answer positively. 

“Right this way, ma'am.” 

The suite looked less of a hotel room, and more of a luxury apartment. 

Floor to ceiling windows overlooked the stormy city skyline. Dress racks lined one wall, make up kits, jewelry cases and steaming irons covered marble counters. 

And seated calmly in the midst of all these organised chaos was…

Arla Morri…Holland.

For one terrifying second, I felt like I was looking through a mirror.

We were identical in a terrifying manner, I sometimes wondered how our parents could tell us apart. 

However, where cold blue stared unflinchingly, my scared blue stalled behind black sunshades. 

“You're late,” she said.

I glanced around the room, until my eyes fell on a clock. 

“Five minutes late.”

“Still late,” she said rising slowly. The movement looked practiced, and graceful. I wondered if that was something I should learn too. “There's no time, my flight leaves in three hours.” 

“I…” 

“Strip.” 

I nearly choked on my spit. 

“What?!” 

“Strip. The stylists will arrive soon.” 

Heat rose to my cheeks in embarrassing colours. 

“Where should I —” 

“Here,” she said reaching behind her dress. “Do it here.” 

I opened my mouth to object, but Arla had already begun stripping herself. I followed, undressing till I was in nothing but my panties and bra. 

When I turned, Arla was staring at me in nothing but black lacy panties. 

“You'll have to discard those things,” she said gesturing at my bra and panties. “It's an eyesore,” she added turning away from me. 

My face grew redder with embarrassment. 

“Wear this,” she passed me a box. I took it and opened it. Black lacy things stared back at me. “it's a good thing Carlton's away, your breasts and curves are fuller than mine.” 

I frowned at the implication of those words. 

“What if he video calls?” 

“He doesn't,” she dismissed. 

“You sound too certain.” 

I didn't feel certain. 

“Carlton doesn't do unnecessary communication,” she said grabbing my baggy jeans. 

Something about the way she said those words felt rehearsed. 

Like, she had memorized her husband instead of knowing him. 

The remaining changes happened in suffocating silence. In few minutes, I was wearing what Arla had been wearing when I walked in, and she was in my clothes. 

I stared at myself in the dressing mirror. It was just clothes and jewelleries, but I had managed to look like wealth. 

“You're slouching,” she said behind me. “I don't slouch.” 

I straightened immediately. 

God! 

She sighed, then approached me slowly. 

“Ellesmere, if you're going to survive the next seven days, you need to stop looking terrified every five seconds.” 

“Easy for you to say, you're not the one impersonating a rich married woman before her entire mansion staff,” I whispered harshly. 

“You're overestimating them,” she dismissed.

She lifted my hand bag off the bed. 

The visual made me sick. 

My life looked pathetic in her hands. 

 She returned to the seat she'd been occupying when I walked in. Somehow, she managed to still appear elegant and wealthy in my clothes. 

“You're underestimating the riskiness of this whole charade, and prison.” 

She lifted a magazine from the table beside her. “All the more reason you shouldn't get caught.” 

I gaped at her. 

What in the name of psychopathy is this? 

A knock sounded on the door. 

My heart skipped a beat. 

“They're here for you, Mrs Holland,” Arla said with a cold smile that sent a chill down my spine. 

“You called the cops?” 

“It's not the police, fool,” she laughed, clearly enjoying my agony. “The stylists and make up artists. You'll have to answer the door though. Your act begins now.”

Panic surged through me. 

“What do I tell them?” 

“Nothing. I already sent them pictures.” 

The knock came again. 

“Aren't you supposed to be hiding?” I asked. 

“Nah, I'd like to watch,” she said, fixed my shades and continued to her magazine. 

I inhaled deeply. 

You can do this, Ellesmere. 

Then I went for the door.