TWO | Hadley

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 ten 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 ten 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 a decade 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.