Page 4 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Charming. Dangerous. Erika filed that away. The warning didn’t sound like protection.

Anneliese disappeared into her walk-in closet, emerging with a garment bag held high like a trophy. “And now,” she announced, “for the pièce de résistance.”

Erika’s breath caught as her twin unzipped the garment bag. The dress inside shimmered under the vanity lights: deep emerald silk that seemed to absorb and reflect light at once, a color she’d mix for hours and never quite get right. The signature asymmetrical neckline was unmistakably Kristi LaDor.

“Annie . . .” Her fingertips hovered an inch from the fabric, afraid to leave prints. “I can’t.”

“You absolutely can.” Anneliese lifted it free with practiced hands. “Arms up.”

The silk slid over her skin, cool and settling. In the mirror, a stranger stared back—someone with her face but none of her hesitation, a woman who belonged in galleries.

Anneliese pressed a shoebox into her hands. “These will murder your feet, but they’re worth it.”

“There she is,” Anneliese said, fastening diamond drops to Erika’s ears. Her sister’s reflection appeared beside her own, Anneliese in a white so pale it looked silver under the vanity lights, Erika in emerald.

The necklace clasp clicked shut. Erika couldn’t tell if it felt like a collar or a lifeline.

“Ready?” Anneliese asked.

Erika inhaled, tasting hairspray. “Ready.”

ERIKA

The limousine slowed outside Terry Von Plump’s new West Hollywood restaurant. Paparazzi flashes pulsed against the tinted windows. Fans pressed against the velvet rope, phones raised.

Inside, Anneliese’s thumbs never stopped moving across her phone screen. “Martin Blackwell just arrived,” she said, not looking up.

“You’re not worried?” Erika asked, though in twenty-six years, she’d never seen her twin sister genuinely worried about anything.

“Worried? Bean, please. He needs me more than I need him.” Her laugh was bright and a little cold. “It’s all part of the fun. Keeps things interesting. Besides, I’m just excited to finally celebrate the Love in Paradise news. And . . . Bradley Smart is going to be there.” She finally looked up, and the screen’s glow was nothing compared to the sparkle in her eyes. “I saw on his story that he’s wearing custom Thom Forde. Can you even imagine? I heard his agent has been talking to my agent. This could be huge, Eri.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You excited, Bean? Isn’t it all just terribly exciting?”

She tugged at the emerald dress where it pinched under her arms, the borrowed Delacroix already numbing her smallest toes. The morning’s rejection email still burned: “We regret to inform you that your portfolio, while promising . . .” Anneliese’s hand found the door handle. “Showtime,” she murmured, and then she was gone, emerging into the light in that pale gown gone iridescent under the flashes, catching it like oil on water, each movement calculated. She paused—three seconds, no more—and blew a kiss that would appear on seventeen magazine covers by morning.

Erika remained frozen on leather upholstery, heart slamming against her ribs.

The limousine door cracked open. Heat, sound, and chemical ozone slapped Erika’s face. The air tasted of exhaust, and the sour-sweet rot of dumpsters baking in the heat. Erika tugged at her emerald hem, trying to look less deer-in-headlights, when Anneliese’s hand appeared—steady, certain—beckoning her forward.

She reached for it. Their fingertips nearly brushed.

“Anneliese, sweetie.” Olivia Grey materialized between them, five-foot-two of sharp angles in a black pantsuit so pristine it repelled the very concept of lint. “We need to stage this entrance.” Her smile tightened as she glanced at Erika. “If you could, please step off the carpet. Anneliese will do solo photos first.”

Three feet away, the velvet rope sagged between brass stanchions. Erika’s throat tightened.

“She’s my twin,” Anneliese said, her voice slipping into the register she only used when nobody was filming. “She should be with me.”

“Absolutely, darling, but we need to debut you solo to maximize impact.” Olivia’s smile was a thin red crack in her face. “Five minutes, then your sister can join the group shots. It’s all about narrative.”

Narrative. The word stuck. She’d spent years making other people’s visions look better than they deserved.

She stepped onto the narrow curb. Her borrowed Delacroix sank into decades of gum and spilled champagne. Olivia’s hand on Anneliese’s back propelled her forward like a prize racehorse. The crowd surged, a wall of upraised phones glowing like votive candles.

“We love you, Annie Banana!” someone screamed, and Erika’s stomach twisted at the nickname they’d shared in the womb, now trademarked and hashtagged. A thousand screens reflected Anneliese’s face at her—those familiar features polished to a high gloss.

Exiled to the carpet’s edge, Erika catalogued the absurdities: a Real Housewife announcing that her chakra specialist confirmed the universe wanted her to buy a second yacht. Terry Von Plump in a retina-burning fuchsia tuxedo. A frantic PA protecting a gown that probably had its own insurance policy from spilled champagne.

Erika’s stomach knotted as her sister pivoted between cameras—each smile a different product, each angle calculated for maximum impact. The paparazzi got the three-quarter profile she always gave them.

Twenty-six years of the same face. Anneliese had figured out how to wear it.