THE TWIN IN HIS BED

CHAPTER THREE 

The transformation happened in hours, but it felt like a whole lifetime. 

As the stylists moved around, rolling, stretching, curling, painting and pluckering, I could feel Ellesmere disappearing by each hand movement. 

Piece by piece, I was erased. 

When I stared in the mirror, it felt like looking at my sister through disturbed waters. 

Wrong. 

It felt wrong. 

Arla stepped beside me. And for the first time since we reconnected, she looked…satisfied. 

“Hello, Arla Holland,” she whispered. 

Cold licked my spine. 

“Arla…” 

“You'll be fine,” she continued. “The staff do not speak unless spoken to. And I'll be in your ear to ease your entry. Mrs Timothy is the housekeeper. Dinner is served by seven, I hope you haven't forgotten the table etiquette lessons at Lois high.”

Nervous tension licked my bones. The last time I used cutlery was six years ago. 

At a dinner date. 

“I don't miss dinner, even when I'm not hungry. Don't overexplain yourself to the staff. I never explain myself,” she continued. “Carlton calls twice a day whenever he's on his trip.” 

Carlton. 

That name left me with a queasy feeling. 

“Arla…” 

“Here,” she pressed a phone and earpods in my hands. I looked down. “Carlton calls this line and the house phone. You should leave now, my driver is waiting downstairs.” 

“Arla, wait…” 

“My flight leaves in an hour,” she said, consulting her wristwatch. 

Just like that. 

No hesitation. No guilt. No consideration. 

“I don't think this….”

“Well, don't,” she interrupted me sharply. “I'll call you,” she said pushing me towards the door. 

Oh God! 

“Ellesmere,” she called her voice colder than I'd ever heard it. I turned, she raised the envelope that was in my bag. “Try not to mess this up.” 

____________________

The ride from the hotel to the mansion was hell. If I was nervous before, I was a wreck now. I sat rigidly in the sleek black Bentley that had been waiting at the entrance the moment I stepped out of the hotel. 

The driver had stood beside it with an umbrella, and had moved to lead me the moment he saw me. 

My palm felt damp against the cream cotton dress that didn't belong to me. Nothing did. Not the diamonds that clad my earlobes, or pressed cold against the skin of my neck, and wrist.

Nor the designer bag that sat beside me. Nor the life I had been shoved into. 

By the time the car rode into the mansion grounds, I was tethering at death's door. 

The Holland estate looked like something carved right out of some powerful architecture textbook. 

Massive stone walls. Towering windows glowing amber. Black wrought iron balconies. Water cascading from marble fountains.

We drove through an endless stretch of manicured gardens, and the towering stone architecture beneath rain-dark skies. 

“Stay calm,” Arla's voice swept through the earpods. 

“Oh my God!” I whispered too stunned to pretend this was anything near normal. 

“Don't say that inside. It sounds provincial.”

“You live here?” I whispered. 

“It's a dream, isn't it?” 

It was more. 

Staff lined the entrance neatly. 

The Bentley rolled to a stop, and the entrance opened as though on cue. 

My pulse hammered violently. 

The driver, whose name I didn't know, helped me out of the car, his grip steady against my quivering hands. 

Cold air kissed my skin. 

A woman with silver streaked hair approached me. 

“Good evening, Mrs Holland.” 

“That's Mrs Timo…oh shoot!” 

My heart skipped a bit. Dread crawled up my back. 

“I'm sorry, I have to go!” 

NO!

I turned away sharply. 

“Wait, what?!” 

The line went dead. 

Jesus! 

“Mrs Holland?” 

My heart drummed relentlessly. This psychopathic woman! 

I took a deep breath, and turned offering a little smile. The woman frowned. 

“I'm sorry, I'm just feeling a little under the weather,” I said, unable to disguise the shaky notes in my voice. 

The woman's brow twitched slightly. I watched the staff share a look of confusion. 

One staff member stepped forward, I almost backtracked, then she reached for my bag, taking it.

Stay calm, Ellesmere. 

I followed behind quickly. Arla didn't give me a proper house navigation, so I didn't even know where her room was actually located. 

I tried not to look around too much, but it was impossible not to stare. 

God damn it! 

Everything whispered wealth. 

Crystal chandeliers glimmered overhead. Dark oil paintings lined the walls. Marble floors polished to mirrors. Fresh lilies perfuming the air.

Everything looked expensive enough to belong behind a museum glass.

Everything whispered power. 

And somehow, Arla lived here. 

“Would you like your tea upstairs, ma'am?” 

I continued further. 

“Mrs Holland?” 

The maid before me stopped, turning back suddenly. I frowned. 

Why did she stop? 

Then it hit me. 

I was “Mrs Holland”. 

Shit!

“Yes?” I smiled, turning to the silver haired woman.

Sharp eyes assessed my features, and panic nearly strangled me. 

I have been discovered, haven't I? 

“I was asking if you'd like your tea upstairs as usual,” she said calmly. 

Arla's instructions from the hotel rang in my head. 

“Yes, please,” I said softly. 

“Be assertive!” 

“Bring it up in fifteen minutes,” I added, correcting my tone. 

Mrs Timothy nodded immediately. 

“Yes, ma'am.” 

My God. 

It's working! 

The maid led me upstairs, stopping short before an enormous door. She handed me the handbag, took a bow and stepped aside. 

Didn't Arla allow the staff inside her room? 

That's for the best, right?

I pushed the door open, and stepped in. 

Holy cow! 

Her room alone was larger than my entire apartment.

 Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked endless gardens below. A fireplace crackled softly near a sitting area upholstered in ivory. The bed looked untouched, enormous beneath charcoal silk sheets.

There wasn't a single personal photograph anywhere. 

Strange. 

I felt intimidated by the sight of sheer wealth. 

Call Arla! 

I lifted the phone I had clutched like a lifeline. The only access to a manual through this whole madness. 

I had just tapped on her number, when a sudden movement caught my eye somewhere around the room. I turned slowly, my heart thumping. 

Steam drifted outward first. 

Then, a man stepped out, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a white towel low around his waist. 

My entire body froze. 

He crossed into the room slowly. 

Broad shoulders. Dark wet hair pushed back casually. 

Sharp jawline, shadowed faintly with a stubble. 

His gaze found mine, and….

Dear God! 

Cold grey eyes. 

Devastating recognition. This was the first time I had seen him in real life, but I'd recognise that face anywhere. 

Carlton Holland.