“Stop fidgeting.”Arwen’s hands stilled in her lap, but the urge to touch her newly blonde hair wouldn’t go away.“Sorry,” she murmured, then caught herself. Isolde never apologized. She’d have to remember that.They had spent one frantic day transforming her into Isolde—her hair dyed blonde by a stylist, her mannerisms coached by Celeste who drilled her on how to walk, talk, smile, and eat like her confident sister.“The hair suits you. You look just like her.” Her mother sat across from her in the back of the town car, studying her with critical eyes.But I’m not her. The words sat heavy on Arwen’s tongue, unspoken.“Remember what we discussed,” Celeste continued. “Isolde doesn’t ask permission, she is confident.”“She drinks champagne, not water. Wears Chanel No. 5. Hates roses, loves peonies. Never crosses her legs at the ankle, always at the knee.” Arwen recited the list they’d drilled into her for the past 24 hours. “I know, Mom. I’ve known her my whole life.”She’d spent twenty
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