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FIVE | Hadley

last update Last Updated: 2025-06-07 21:06:33

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 immaculate, which is funny because Harperʼs childhood bedroom used to look like a Sephora exploded. But this one? This one looks like a P*******t board threw up luxury. Pale blush silk sheets. Gold-framed art. A walk-in closet that could house a small family.

I peek inside.

And immediately regret it.

Rows of designer clothes, shoes lined up like they're in a museum, and—oh god—luggage with actual initials on them. Monogrammed leather. Custom Chanel. I blink at a drawer full of sunglasses. Who needs twelve pairs of identical black shades? Who is this girl?

Thereʼs a photo on the nightstand. Silver frame. Two people: Harper and Matthew.

Theyʼre outside somewhere—maybe Italy, maybe Spain—and theyʼre laughing. Like, really laughing. Arms around each other, her hand on his chest, his head tilted toward her like he can't help it.

And for a second, I stop breathing.

Because... yeah. That? Thatʼs not a casual “we're dating for PR” moment. Thatʼs a we were in this kind of photo. Thatʼs intimacy caught in 4K.

So what the hell happened?

Before I can spiral any further, my phone buzzes with a message.

Hadley: Don't use my vibrator—it's blue, in the drawer—I'm dead serious.

I take a minute to process while I'll text myself before remembering of the whole phone swap with Harper.

I reply:

Harper: First of all eww. And secondly I have my pink dildo, that's what is for.

My phone buzzes again and I'm about to scream I don't need your fucking vibrator when I noticed is a video call. Britney.

Thank god.

So much had happened in less than 10 hours and I was just able to half-filled her in through text after taking my only worth contact from my phone.

Scratch that—I know her number to my finger tips.

“Girl. You better not be dead. If I donʼt get a status update in the next two seconds, Iʼm reporting you missing and demanding a N*****x docuseries,” she says as soon as I answer, her face popping up with a full sheet mask and hair in two buns like sheʼs about to summon spirits.

I turn the camera around to show her the view from the penthouse windows-skyline, river, the whole billionaire fantasy. Britney's jaw drops.

“Oh hell no.”

“Right?” I say. “Itʼs like The Devil Wears Prada and Succession had a love child.”

She lets out a long whistle. “Either you murdered Harper and took over her life, that will explains why you're suddenly blond—it's gorgeous by the way, or she finally snapped and gave you her place in the will.”

“Option C,” I mutter. “She showed up at my apartment last night with a bag, no explanation, and asked me to pretend to be her for a week.”

Britney blinks. Then grins like it’s her birthday.

“Shut up. Shut up. Hadley, this is literally every rom-com I’ve ever binged at 3 a.m.”

“Except I don’t have a lovable personality quirk or a hot neighbor with a six-pack.”

Britney whistles again, pushing a strand of her curly hair out of her face. “And youʼre just casually living in her place like itʼs your actual life?”

“Yep.”

“Youʼve gone full 'Freaky Friday.'”

I flop onto the massive white couch, phone propped up in front of me. “Harper left me no concise instructions. Just a duffel bag full of designer clothes and a list of events she apparently RSVPʼd to while half-drunk on PR fumes.”

Britney smirks. “Which is exactly why Iʼm coming over.”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me. You need backup. Iʼm your backup. You think you can pretend to be a glamorous influencer alone? You lived off canned ravioli last week.”

“Okay, rude.”

“You donʼt even know what serum does. I know what serum does.”

“Wait—what? You don’t even know the address—”

“I’m tracking your phone.”

“You’re what?”

She shrugs. “You’re impersonating your estranged twin sister who used to date a billionaire. I think a little casual surveillance is the least of our worries.”

Twenty-three minutes later, sheʼs at the door with an overnight bag, oversized sunglasses, and a copy of The Princess Diaries.

“This is what generational wealth looks like,” she murmurs, eyes wide. “I feel like I should curtsy or something.”

“Damn. This is like the Gossip Girl reboot if it had an actual budget.”

“Don’t touch anything,” I warn.

She’s already touching everything. “It smells like YSL”

“That's Harper scent.”

“Youʼre Mia Thermopolis,” she declares, marching into the penthouse like she owns it. “Except instead of being a princess, youʼre a mean supermodel with a criminally hot ex.”

“I donʼt even know how to model!”

“Bitch, you worked at a coffee shop. Youʼve been fake smiling at Karens for three years. You were made for this.”

I laugh—truly laugh—and feel some of the tension bleed out.

Britney looks at me—no, she examines me.

“Fuck—he was here, wasnʼt he? Oh my God. Did you kissed? Howʼs the voice of Matthews fucking Jones in person?”

“You know him?”

Britney looks at me like I just told her I don't believe in sex therapy. “Every girl with ovaries and an I*******m page knows him. So tell my everything. Every syllable. Donʼt lie, your face will give you out.”

So I tell her everything till the “What game are you playing now?” and I'm not sure we're on the same line.

“Fuck—” Britney mutters, removing her laptop from her bag. “He still loves her!”

“No. No, he hates her. Me.”

“He loves her. We need a plan.”

“What plan?”

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  • The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin   TWENTY TWO | Matthew

    I haul her into the backseat, my mouth crashing against hers, groaning when her thigh brushes my cock. Her dress is bunched up around her hips, her legs wrapped around my waist. She gasps against my mouth and I deepen it, tongue sliding against hers, hands in her hair, her fingers tugging at my shirt like she needs more.Tinted windows. Best fucking invention ever.I slide my hand up her thigh and feel her tremble.“We shouldn’t have had wine tonight,” I mutter against her neck.She moans. “We’re not drunk.”“Then what’s our excuse?”“Desperation.”She’s right.“You’re making it hard not to fuck you,” I growl.“Matthew,” she moans, grinding into me, “if you don’t fuck me, I’ll fuck myself.”My cock twitches so hard I nearly black out.“Fuck.”And that’s the last coherent thought I have.My fingers yank the neckline of her dress down, exposing her lace-covered tits. My mouth finds one, then the other. Sucking. Biting. Marking. I want to ruin her for anyone else. Want her walking into r

  • The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin   TWENTY ONE | Matthew

    7:35 p.m. sharp. I’m at her door.She opens it like she’s been waiting behind it for ten minutes—and the second I see her, I stop breathing.Holy fucking hell.The dress is red.Short enough to make me wonder what I did right in a past life, but long enough to make it worse. It hugs her in every place I’m trying not to look. The kind of dress that should be illegal in public if men are expected to think straight.I want to fuck her against the wall.Thin straps. Low back. Low neckline. Minimal makeup. Her hairʼs half-up, just a few loose strands teasing the curve of her jaw.And her legs.Jesus. Those legs.It’s Harper, but it’s also not. It’s like looking at a dream I forgot I had.She smiles when her blue eyes meet mine, then bites her lip. Like she’s nervous.She shouldn’t be doing that.Not if she wants to make it through dinner.“Hi,” she says.Jesus fucking Christ.I should say hi back.Instead I stare.“You okay?” she laughs softly.No.I’m not.“Uh huh.” I offer my arm. “Letʼs

  • The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin   TWENTY | Matthew

    Board meetings are hell.And I’ve sat through a lot of them. Multi-billion dollar mergers, tech acquisitions, shareholder tantrums—none of them ever tested my patience like this one.There’s a man across from me talking—Slovak accent, maybe Czech—about quarterly returns like they’re an aphrodisiac.I want to kill him.Not because he’s saying anything wrong—he’s not. He’s actually making some decent projections. Our quarterly profits are up, the Prague expansion is moving faster than projected, and the board members are practically jerking themselves off over the latest valuation increase.But I don’t give a damn about quarterly returns right now.All I can think about is her.Harper.God—I lean back in the leather conference chair, force myself to blink, to nod, to pretend like I haven’t been mentally replaying last night for the last seven hours straight.Her mouth. Her hands in my shirt. Her breath against mine. Her soft gasps. The exact way she melted when I whispered, Then don’t

  • The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin   NINETEEN | Hadley

    The next morning, I wake up early—because apparently fake Harper is a morning person now—and decide to lean into the influencer thing.I throw on a sports bra, some Lululemon leggings Harper didn’t even take the tags off, grab a smoothie, and record a reel for Harper’s IG page.Organic matcha, fake yoga stretches, a three-step cleanse. I even toss in a wink at the camera and say something about “alignment and ambition.”“New morning routine🌞✨” I caption it. I tag some PR brands and make a mental note to send them traffic stats later.It’s obnoxious. Edited. Slightly out-of-sync with reality.But hey—it’s what she’d do.The followers eat it up. Likes roll in. Comments, too.I reply to none of them. Because my thoughts are still in last night memory.I think of our messages. Feeling sixteen all over again.And stupid. So stupid. At noon, Britney walks in unannounced, tosses her purse on the couch, and sighs like she’s lived ten lives since I saw her last.“Okay. So. Morning orgasm? Am

  • The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin   EIGHTEEN | Hadley

    The first thing I do when the door closes behind Matthew is lean against it and let my knees try—and fail—not to give out. The second thing I do is laugh. And Wednesday—out of all days—might just be my favorite now. Yes, Iʼm including the day I found out I didnʼt actually fail sophomore bio and the day I scored a free cherry pie at that highway diner in Ohio because the waitress thought I looked “tragically sad and probably needed sugar.” This one still wins. Because I can still feel Matthewʼs lips on mine. I can still taste him. It wasnʼt supposed to happen, not like that. But holy God, did it happen. And now Iʼm walking around this penthouse like I've been possessed by the spirit of a woman whoʼs had really, really good sex, except we didnʼt even get to the sex part. I float through the rest of the day. Like literally float. I water a succulent I don’t remember Harper having, rearrange her skincare by pH level and expiration date, and then go full psycho and alphabetize the pa

  • The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin   SEVENTEEN | Matthew

    “Then don’t stop,” I murmur, thumb still brushing the soft hollow beneath her jaw.Christ, I mean it. I mean every goddamn word—And fuck me if she doesn’t kiss me again.There’s this tiny sound she makes—this desperate little breath that’s halfway between a sob and a plea—and then her mouth’s on mine and I’m drowning all over again.Her fingers claw at my shirt like she’s trying to hold herself together. Like she’s been starving and I’m the only thing on the goddamn menu.I groan, because I’m not any better.God help me, I kiss her back.Harder this time.Greedy. Needy. Every part of me ignites like I’ve just stepped into a damn inferno, and she’s the only oxygen left in the world.It’s too much and not enough all at once.Her hands claw at my shirt, fingers curling like she wants to memorize my chest through fabric. My body reacts like it’s been waiting for this exact moment—for her heat, her scent, her sounds—for months.I press her harder against the wall, and she moans, and the s

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