All Chapters of The Billionaire's Ex is My Twin: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

“You will not believe what this man did with his tongue.”That’s how Britney announces herself, heels clicking dramatically across the penthouse floor like she’s on a Paris runway and not dragging her hungover self into my temporary identity crisis at 8:42 a.m.“Oh my God, H. His tongue. I’m not exaggerating when I say the man speaks fluent orgasm. Italian and oral are clearly synonymous.” She does an obscene gesture with her fingers and tongue. “I saw stars. Planets. A whole fucking galaxy.”She throws her purse down, flops onto the couch like a winded cat, and grins at me with the kind of afterglow I’ve only ever read about in erotica novels or imagined—very vividly—last night.I sip my coffee and pretend I didn’t just moan Matthew’s name into my pillow hours ago. “Good morning to you too.”“I’m not kidding, H,” she breathes out, eyes wide. “He’s Italian. Like... Sicilian. Palermo. The accent is a threat. And he has this one move where he—okay, listen.” She leans forward like she’s

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.

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

“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 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