The last time I saw Harper Bennett, she was wearing my hoodie and lying through her teeth.
We were eighteen, two weeks from graduation, and sitting on the roof of our last foster home—the nice one. The one with the apple-cinnamon candles and throw pillows on every surface like emotional landmines. Harper had this look in her eyes, glassy and bright, like someone already halfway out the door. "I'll call you when I get there," she said, passing me a half-eaten granola bar like it was a peace treaty. I nodded. "You better." She never did. Now she's sitting in my living room like it's her goddamn Airbnb. Her soaked designer duffel bag is slouched dramatically by the door, and she's taken over my one decent armchair—the one I rescued from a yard sale and Febrezed within an inch of its life. I stand awkwardly by the tiny kitchen island, trying to compute what the actual hell is happening. "You gonna say something?" she asks, tilting her head. Her wet hair glistens under the awful overhead light, and she looks completely unbothered by the fact that she broke a nearly decade-long silence just to crash into my life again like a blonde hurricane in heels. "I... what?" I croak. Harper smiles like she's rehearsed this moment. "You look good. Tired, but good." I let out a brittle laugh. "Yeah, working sixty hours a week will do that. You, on the other hand, look like a Bond girl who just swam through a perfume commercial." "I've had a weird night." "I figured," I say, crossing my arms. "You don't just show up on someone's porch after eight years unless you're dying or about to ask for a kidney." She exhales, that slow, dramatic kind of breath that always meant something messy was coming. "I need your help." "Okay. So kidney, then." "Hadley." "No, seriously." I gesture around my shoebox apartment like I'm on Cribs: Depressed Edition. "You haven't spoken to me in eight years. You ghosted me after graduation, never picked up, never wrote, and now you're here-what, because you ran out of people to screw over?" That lands. Her jaw tightens. "It's not like that." "Then enlighten me." Harper looks down at her hands, long fingers wrapped tightly around each other. She's shaking. Subtle, but it's there. The smallest chip in her perfect facade. "I'm in trouble," she says softly. "I can't tell you everything, but I need to disappear. Just for a week. Maybe two." My eyes narrow. "Disappear from what?" Silence. "Harper." "I can't say," she snaps. "It's... complicated." I bark out a laugh. "No. No, see, you don't get to waltz into my life smelling like Chanel crisis and not tell me why you're on the run." "I'm not on the run." "Bullshit." She stands, suddenly agitated, pacing like the walls are closing in. "There are cameras. Paparazzi. Lawyers. Contracts I can't get out of without setting my career on fire. I'm not asking for your understanding, Hadley. I'm asking for your help." My eyebrows shoot up. "So this is a favor. After eight years of radio silence, you want me—your backup twin—to step in and cover for your mess." She stops pacing and meets my eyes. "Yes." "And what, exactly, does that entail?" Harper swallows. "You pretend to be me. Just for a few days. Stay at my place, attend a couple events, be seen. Smile. Look pretty. Don't talk too much. People will assume I'm fine. And while you do that... I fix what I need to fix." "Pretend to be you," I repeat, deadpan. "As in... impersonate you." "You've done it before." "Yeah, in third grade. For fun. Not in front of the entire internet and, I assume, a lot of suspicious rich people." "I'll coach you," she says quickly. "I'll tell you everything. I already made a list." "Oh, you made a list. That makes this so much more insane." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a manila folder. Of course there's a folder. Inside are printouts—photos of her outfits, brand talking points, names of publicists, and a terrifying number of schedules. There's even a literal mood board. She planned this. Like she knew I'd say yes. "I'll pay you," Harper adds, almost too casually. I snort. "With what, influencer coupons?" She looks up, serious. "Twenty-five thousand dollars." Silence. "You're kidding." "No. It's yours. Tax-free, wired directly. You'll be out of debt. You can quit your jobs. Start over." My throat dries. The number spins in my head like a winning slot machine. Twenty-five thousand. That's... everything. Freedom. Rent paid. Loans gone. I could breathe. I could sleep. I could write again. I could feel like a person instead of a collection of overdraft fees and anxiety. I hate that I'm considering this. I hate that she knows I would. I stare at Harper—the perfect storm of desperation and manipulation. She's still her. Still sharp, still selfish, still glowing with that effortless "main character" energy I never quite understood. And yet... beneath the gloss, she looks terrified. Like she's one wrong move away from crumbling. "Hadley," she says, voice softer now. "Please." God help me. I sigh and rub my eyes. "Just one week?" "One week." "No public speaking. No kissing anyone. No weird endorsements for teeth-whitening gummies." "Deal." I pause. Then: "If I die in a tragic I*******m Live, I'm haunting you." A breathy laugh escapes her, and for a second, it's like we're kids again. Sharing a blanket, whispering secrets, pretending we weren't already losing each other. "Thank you," she whispers. I nod, numb. Already regretting everything. Let the identity theft begin.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
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
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 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 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
“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