His to Ruin: Breaking Chelsea
I dropped my keys in the foyer bowl, ready to sprint up the stairs and bury my face in a pillow.
"Well, if it isn't Saint Emma."
I froze.
Matilda was lounging on the living room sofa, scrolling through her phone.
She was wearing a silk robe that I knew she had stolen from my closet, and her nails were freshly painted a shade of red that looked exactly like the one Valerie Prescott wore.
Of course. They were clones.
"Hi, Matilda," I said, keeping my voice neutral. I started toward the stairs.
"Mom said you were at the shelter again," she drawled, not looking up. "Did you save the puppies? Did you shovel the poop? You know they have actual employees for that, right?"
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