FIVE | Hadley

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 cream 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 bad. “He still loves her!”

“No. No, he hates her. Me.”

“He loves her. We need a plan.”

“What plan?”