The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin

My life peaked at free Wi-Fi and half-off banana bread. It's 10:47 PM, my socks are wet inside my sneakers, and my back is doing this fun thing where it spasms every time I breathe too hard. Welcome to the glamorous existence of Hadley Russell: coffee-slinging, book-shelving, twenty-something years old disaster with a chronic caffeine addiction and the emotional range of a half-squished goldfish cracker. "Double whip, half-caff, soy latte with a pump of organic lavender and three ice cubes." The customer blinks at me expectantly, as if she didn't just order a beverage that sounds like it belongs in a fairy tale written by a yoga instructor. "Coming right up," I chirp, even though my soul is actively trying to abandon my body. I've been on my feet since 7 AM. Seven. A. Freaking. M. The espresso machine wheezes like it's dying in solidarity. I jam the portafilter in with more aggression than necessary, foam the milk with the last shred of my patience, and slide the monstrosity acro

There’s a moment—right between Harper shoving her makeup bag in my face and me sitting half-naked in a towel—where I genuinely consider faking a seizure to get out of this.“This is illegal,” I mutter as she parts my hair and holds up a bleach bowl like she’s about to perform a chemical lobotomy. “Like, definitely illegal.”Harper rolls her eyes. “Relax. This is high-end product. It barely even smells like regret.”Easy for her to say. She's already platinum blonde, glossy as a magazine ad and smug as a cat in cream. Meanwhile, I’m about to fry my scalp to impersonate someone I haven’t spoken to since Twilight was still trending.“If I go bald,” I warn, “I’m moving into your penthouse and suing you for emotional distress.”“Technically, you’re already moving into my penthouse.”“Then I’ll sue you from the penthouse.”She snorts, but doesn’t argue. Instead, she goes to work, brushing the bleach through my chestnut hair like an artist preparing a canvas. And I do mean artist—this whole

The door clicks shut behind Matthew, and I exhale like Iʼve just escaped a hostage situation. Which, okay, maybe I have. A psychological one. Because there is no way that man wasnʼt trying to psych me out. The staring. The tone. The borderline X-ray-level eye contact. It was like he was playing Guess Who in real-time and about three seconds from yelling, Youʼre not Harper! I donʼt move until I hear the elevator ding. Then I dart. Straight to the living room. Straight to the bar cart, because Iʼm going to need liquid courage if I'm going to survive this week. Scratch that—this day. I pour myself something amber and expensive-looking, then wander back through the apartment, finally letting myself snoop. And when I say snoop, I mean full-on recon. If Iʼm going to pretend to be Harper, I need to know her life better than I know my own—and unfortunately, that means diving headfirst into a world that makes me feel both wildly out of place and a tiny bit nauseous. The bedroom is immac

I want the earth to open up and swallow me. That’d be great. Ten out of ten. No notes. Instead, I’m sitting here drenched in humiliation, while Matthew Jones—the human iceberg, tech billionaire, and apparently now also water victim—dabs his expensive shirt with a linen napkin like he’s suppressing the urge to flip the entire table. He hasn’t said a word in at least thirty seconds. Just slow, composed dabs. Like a serial killer politely cleaning up after a murder. The woman from Forbes coughs gently. Someone else takes a delicate sip of espresso. The violinist keeps playing like it’s the fucking Titanic, and I just keep smiling like a manic Barbie doll who short-circuited in the humidity. "So sorry,” I finally mutter, trying to mop up the table with my cloth napkin. Which I quickly realize is not absorbent. Or useful. Or dignified in any way. "It’s fine," Matthew says, without looking at me. Lie. It’s not fine. The meeting rolls on like nothing happened, which somehow ma

By the time the sun claws its way up over the skyline, I’ve already lost three hours of sleep, an entire bag of Harper’s overpriced chamomile tea, and whatever shred of self-respect I had left.I’ve replayed everything from last night at least a dozen times.The jolt of the elevator.The way his voice dipped just before he caged me in.The look in his eyes. That hot, helpless, angry kind of stare that says, I hate that I want you.And then, just as my body started to short-circuit like a knocked-over vending machine, the elevator dinged, and we both pretended like we hadn’t been one breath away from doing unspeakable things in a very expensive steel box.I’m sprawled on Harper’s painfully chic couch, staring at my phone like it’s a nuclear device. Because, in a way, it is.I drag myself upright just as her fancy email ringtone dings. There’s something deeply offensive about a someone who still uses custom ringtones in 2025.Subject line:New Instructions + $$$ BonusI open it with a s