SIX | Hadley

We camp the living room.

I laugh, tension finally loosening as I watch Britney failed at her third attempt to hack the WI-FI. Britney has that effect on people. Her presence is like a serotonin shot.

“Here,” I say as I hand her the iPad full of all Harper information she handed me before leaving, without telling me where she was going. “The Wi-Fi password is probably inside, MacGyver”

When sheʼs connected, she turns and look at me. “You know, thatʼs not quite what MacGyver does, right?”

“Same to me” I shrug.

“Here’s the deal,” she says. “If you’re gonna pretend to be Harper, you can’t just look like Harper. You have to think like Harper. Breathe like Harper. Be absolutely mean like Harper.”

Britney spends the next hour giving me a crash course in Being Harper™. It involves watching Harperʼs interviews, studying her walk (less like a human, more like a panther), and perfecting her “resting I-don't-give-a-damn face.” She forces me to say things like “Ew, no carbs” with a straight face.

Spoiler: I suck.

“Try the walk again,” Britney says, coaching me from the couch while popping popcorn. “More hips. Less... accountant.”

“I don't walk like an accountant.”

“Youʼre giving W-2 energy.”

I try again. This time, I channel my inner mean girl. Back straight. Shoulders back. Eyes like I'm judging everyone in the room for not owning a Birkin.

“Better,” she says. “Now say something bitchy, but classy.”

I toss my hair. “Is that your real face or is Sephora suing?”

Britney shrieks with laughter. “YES. Now thatʼs Harper.”

By midnight, I know harper uses five emojis max per post. Mostly the star one, the sparkle one, and the black heart. She never types LOL. Only ‘Lmao’ or nothing at all. I know all her passwords and Iʼve get used to using her phone. More importantly I can almost fake the resting bitch face. Almost.

Britney is proud. “You’re evolving. Like a Pokémon. Next step: learning how to be mean on cue.”

We take a break for ice cream and watch old interviews of Harper and Matthew together. We fall into a black hole of research—fan accounts, Reddit threads, fashion blogs.

#Harttew is everywhere. There are accounts dedicated to their outfits. Their body language. Their astrological compatibility.

It’s disturbingly thorough. Entire threads on how they met at a charity auction two years ago where Harper was modeling and Matthew was a keynote speaker. He funded her eco-fashion line (which flopped). The designer clothes Harper wore to events, the books Matthew pretended to like for her (classic move). There are multiple slow-motion edits of their first public kiss. Some fans legit think they’re soulmates. Others think Harper used him for clout and of course—the breakup.

“MODEL HARPER BENNETT PUBLICLY DUMPS TECH BILLIONAIRE MATTHEW JONES AT A UNICEF GALA.”

“INFLUENCER HARPER BENNETT ENDS BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE WITH A MIC DROP.”

“#Harttew: RIP To Our Favorite Power Couple.”

“Yikes,” Britney mutters, watching the clip. Harper breaking things off at a live-streamed charity event like she was ordering from Starbucks. “She really just... iced him on stage. Respect.”

I stare, mouth dry. “He looked gutted.”

“Oof. That’s cold, even for a Virgo.”

“She’s not a Virgo,” I reply.

“Damn Hadley. If you don't accidentally fall in love with this man, make him fall for the real you and get your fairy tale, I'm personally writing to N*****x.”

Sure Brit, Sure. Hey I'm Hadley and I was impersonating Harper this whole week. But I'm in love with you now, hope you too. Let's fuck in an Elevator.

I simply reply: “Hard pass.”

It’s around 2 AM when we start crafting the Britney-meets-Harper story. Because she's sure we need it.

“She saved me from a burning building,” Britney offers.

“No and no one’s going to ask.”

She ignores me and goes on. “She paid off my student debt in exchange for a blood pact.”

“If you really want to do this, try again.”

“I was hired to style her dog and then we bonded over astrology.”

We settle on: met at a wellness retreat in Sedona, became friends over matcha lattes and a shared disdain for small talk.

Perfect.

By the time we collapse into bed—because yes, Britney is absolutely sleeping over—I’ve got a notebook full of notes and enough intel to fake my way through a casual conversation.

“Tomorrow morning,” I mumble, face smashed into a silk pillow. “Fundraiser. Restaurant. Eight sharp.”

Britney groans from the other side of the bed. “What even is the event?”

“Something about raising money for underprivileged STEM students.”

She groans louder. “You’re going to have to talk about math. God help us all.”

"Very relatable."

She grins. "You're doing amazing, sweetie."

Again, perfect.

The next morning, I’m in full Harper mode—hair straight, lips lined, eyes iced—when I slide into the black car waiting downstairs. Britney waves from the curb like a proud mom sending her kid to first grade.

The restaurant is posh. Quiet. Filled with more expensive watches than I’ve seen in my entire life.

The fundraiser committee is already seated—six high-powered people in suits and blazers, sipping espresso and barely acknowledging me as I sit beside Matthew. The table is covered in hydrangeas and more forks than I know what to do with.

High-profile guests smile and sip wine while a violinist plays in the corner like we're at the goddamn Met Gala. I try to remember which spoon is for tea and which is for... whatever rich people eat at 8 a.m. Caviar? Unicorn tears?

God—

Matthew leans in slightly.

"You're quiet," he murmurs.

I flash my best Harper smile. "Just tired."

He arches a brow like he doesn't buy it.

Everything is going okay. Not great but okay. I’m nodding and smiling and pretending to know what the hell “equity-driven scholarship funding” means.

The woman across from us-something-something from Forbes-turns to me. "So, Miss Bennett, what made you want to focus on STEM?”

I blink.

Then panic.

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

But Britney's voice echoes in my brain. W-2 energy, my ass.

Why the hell will model Harper know about STEM. She never once in her life liked science. Maybe it's because when we we're eighteen and talking on every roof we could I use to tell her about how I'll save the world from cancer.

No Hadley, she didn't check on you in eight years if not she'll know your passion was writing and that's the way you took.

So stop flattering yourself.

Breathe and answer this question, you prepared remember?

I toss my hair, smooth my dress, and smile like I'm holding the world's juiciest secret. “Well,” I say, too loudly. “STEM is very… STEM-y. And—and underprivileged children need more, uh, engineering. You know? Math. Robots."

Shut up.

“And it’s… incredibly important to give back to the young science… people.”

Just. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

There’s a silence. Like, pin-drop silence.

I can feel Matthew turn his head.

And then—because fate hates me and I’m physically incapable of keeping my anxiety in check—I bounce my leg under the table.

And accidentally kick it.

Hard.

Water goes flying.

All over Matthew.

The entire table stares.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “I am so—”

He holds up a hand. His shirt is soaked. His expression is unreadable.

“Don’t,” he says, low and warning. “Don’t say sorry. You’re not sorry.”

Right Harper is never sorry.

He dabs his shirt with a napkin. The rest of the committee politely pretends not to be horrified.

Dead. I'm dead.

And I might need a time machine.

Or just bury me, already.

It’s going to be a long, long week.