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SEVENTEEN | Matthew
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2025-06-20 17:07:30
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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
The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin SIXTEEN | Hadley
The silence after my outburst is oppressive. The kind that squeezes your lungs, not letting you breathe unless you break it.Matthew doesn’t say a word. He’s just standing there, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon—or like he’s barely restraining the hurricane that’s tearing through him. My palms are clammy, adrenaline crackling under my skin. I want to step toward him again, but he already pushed me once.And maybe the most pathetic part is that it hurt more than it should’ve.He runs a hand through his hair, glances away like he’s trying to pull it together. I cross my arms over my chest—more shield than attitude. The garage feels colder than usual, and for a beat, all I can hear is the echo of you don’t even know me ricocheting through the air.Finally, he speaks. Quiet. Controlled.“I shouldn’t have yelled.”I blink. “You definitely shouldn’t have pushed me.”His eyes meet mine again. There it is—that look. That devastating, soul-stripping look. “Yea
The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin FIFTEEN | Hadley
It’s almost nine when I open my eyes, and the first thing I notice is the cold side of the bed.I reach for him instinctively, hand gliding across smooth, expensive sheets that smell faintly like his cologne—crisp, masculine, and entirely too comforting. But he’s not there.Of course he isn’t.The vulnerability of last night must’ve evaporated with the dark. It always does. It’s easy to talk in the dark. Easy to confess things you pretend you don’t carry in daylight. But now the light is brutal, and the sheets are cold, and I’m just a girl pretending to be someone she’s not, in a bed that doesn’t belong to her.I sit up slowly, groggy and sore in ways I don’t fully understand, and my eyes land on the nightstand.A note.Just a single sheet of thick white stationary folded in half with Harper’s name written on it. “Didn’t want to wake you. Got pulled into a meeting. There’s coffee if you want it. Also, donʼt worry about anything. Youʼre safe here. - M” I stare at it longer than I sh
The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin FOURTEEN | Hadley
I’m running before the door even closes behind me.Matthew calls my name once—sharp, low—but I keep going, heels clicking like panic across the marble floor. If I stop, I’ll start crying. If I look back, I’ll lose every shred of control I faked at that damn dinner table.I press my back to the cool marble wall and just stand there, one hand splayed over my chest like that might steady my heart.He almost kissed me.I almost let him.God. I almost wanted him to.No—I did want him to. Which is exactly the reason I bolted like Cinderella post-curfew, minus the pumpkin carriage and talking mice. It’s stupid how I can still feel him. His hands on my waist, his breath in my hair, the echo of his voice saying It could be our song. As if songs are promises and not landmines when you're impersonating someone else's life.I slide down until I’m crouched, forehead pressed to my knees. What the hell am I doing?I pull out my phone. I need air. I need space. I need to go somewhere that isn’t wrap
The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin THIRTEEN | Hadley
Between an after-party with la crème de la crème of the fashion world and a private dinner with my twin sister’s blue-eyed billionaire ex, the choice is obvious.Unfortunately, so is the stupidity of that choice.The after-party has overpriced champagne, hollow small talk, and a terrifying number of men who try to flirt by name-dropping their hedge fund portfolios.Dinner?Dinner is with Matthew. Just him. Just me.Me: Where and when?Matthew: My penthouse. Two hours. Come hungry.I nearly drop my phone.Not gonna lie, I expected something dramatic. Like him flying me to Paris on his private jet or something psychotically billionaire-y. Thankfully, we’re staying grounded—literally.Because faking my way through haute couture is one thing. Faking a working knowledge of French geography is another. I can barely say bonjour, magnifique, sexe, bon-appétit and merci. Which, I guess, technically covers the essentials.But still. Paris would’ve exposed me faster than a YouTube apology video.
The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin TWELVE | Hadley
It's Tuesday.I’ve officially survived one week in Harper Bennett’s life.Seven days of pretending to be a woman who wears designer heels like they’re house slippers and speaks in emojis half the time.Seven days ago, I was dragging my overworked ass from the coffee shop to the library, pulling double shifts that left my soul wrung out like a dishcloth. Tuesdays used to be the worst. Always long, always loud, always a reminder that the universe did not, in fact, revolve around me.But this Tuesday?This Tuesday starts with me wrapped in silk sheets, sitting cross-legged in Harper’s ludicrously plush king-sized bed, eating overpriced kale salad—yes, a salad, me—and watching the greatest sitcom of all time."They don't know that we know that they know we know."God, I love Phoebe Buffay.I’m also wearing a hydrating sheet mask and drinking cucumber water, and my legs are smooth enough to qualify as crime evidence if anyone ever wanted to fingerprint them.This isn’t me.This is Harper’s
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