Fake Model by Cassie Mint

One

Coral

I’m icing a vanilla cupcake in our kitchen when my sister bursts through the front door. She’s a whirlwind of color, her sapphire blue top slipping down one arm, and our signature red hair escaping from the messy bun on the crown of her head.

“Coral! Oh my god. I’m so glad you’re here. You won’t believe it. Coral.”

Where else would I be? I’m not larger than life like my twin sister. She goes to parties and gallery openings and red carpet events. She meets with fashion designers and struts down catwalks.

Me? I clean a billionaire’s house, and I hang out here. In our sunlit kitchen. The afternoon light filters through our big windows, washing over my potted herbs nestled on the windowsill. The wall tiles are white and sparkling clean, and the room smells like warm cupcakes.

Seriously. Why would I leave?

“What is it?” I murmur as Billie charges toward me, weaving between our sofa and coffee table with a big grin. She doesn’t slow down when she reaches me, barreling into me and throwing her arms around my neck.

“I booked it!” she squeals into my hair, squeezing me and rocking me from side to side. I wince and hug her back, happy for her but still kind of sorry for the smeared cupcake wilting on the countertop.

“Oh.” Billie pulls back, her smile fading into a look of dismay. She looks so sorry when she glances from the cupcake back to me that it’s impossible to be mad. I snort, nudging the warm cake toward her.

“You can have the messy one.”

She bites her lip, eyes shining again.

“I don’t know if I should. I’ve waited so long for this, Coral. I can’t afford to overeat now.”

I nod and shrug, trying not to feel hurt. This is the only physical difference between Billie and I—she keeps her body svelte and slender for her modeling career, always hitting the gym and going on runs and drinking green smoothies, while I…

Well, my hobby is cake decorating.

And hey, I like yoga. Once in a while.

“Save it for me.” She squeezes my arm. “The shoot is in two days. I’ll eat it after that, and I swear, I will savor every bite.”

“You don’t have to do that.” I duck my head, embarrassed, but I can’t help my faint smile. Billie is my biggest fan, and I’m hers. That’s how we’ve always been. We left home together, rented this apartment together, and we’ve had each other’s backs the whole time.

Billie’s the one who keeps nudging me to put my cake designs online. To try and start a following, and maybe even my own business.

She says I can do it. That I’m more than talented enough. That I’m wasted cleaning a rich man’s house.

I’m not so sure. The thought of people looking at me, at my designs, even through a computer…

I shiver, my skin flashing cold.

Billie hops up onto the kitchen counter, her heels bouncing off the cupboards as she chatters away. Telling me all about the man she’s so excited to work with—the photographer Archer Westbrook. He’s famously moody and impenetrable, prowling around shoots, but he’s the best. The man with the unstoppable talent.

The model-maker.

The man who can set your career alight, who holds people’s hopes and dreams in the palm of his hand. Billie is starry-eyed, beaming at the ceiling.

I bite the inside of my cheek as I listen, icing the rest of the cupcakes carefully. What must it be like, working with a man like that? Going toe to toe with a titan? She’s shown me a photo of him before, and the man looks like the reincarnation of Thor. Only grumpier.

Billie is far braver than me. I’d run and hide under the table.

“Oh, Coral.” Billie leans closer, sighing from her seat on the counter. “Seashells? They’re so pretty.”

I shoot her a grin from behind my hair. I’ve been working on this design for a while, and it’s finally perfect. Each cupcake is a different seashell, with cream icing tinted with pale pink and blue. There’s even an oyster, opening wide to show off its pearl.

“You should take a photo,” Billie says suddenly. “Or I could take one for you. We could put it online, start some social media accounts for your business.”

I shrug, grabbing the mixing bowl and crossing to the sink.

Billie doesn’t push me. She lets me run away, hiding in the drumming of the running water and the big stack of washing up. But after a long moment, I hear the smack of her sandals against the kitchen tiles, then the click of her camera.

I don’t say anything. I’m too tongue-tied, my throat tight with nerves.

Another time. I’ll do it another time.

When I’m feeling brave.

* * *

My phone chirps the next day as I’m straining to dust my boss’s bookcase. The tech mogul Eli Koven is a big reader, with bookcases lining the walls of most rooms in his mansion. But this one has his collection of first edition hardbacks, the leather spines lined up neat and perfect.

They’re priceless. Worth more than everything Billie and I own combined.

And they’re freaking dust magnets.

My phone chirps again as I stretch to reach the top shelf. There’s a stepladder I could use, but the cupboard is all the way down the hall, and if I could just reach—

Chirp.

I curse under my breath and rock back on my heels. With a quick glance to check for cameras or prying eyes, I dig my phone out of my maid’s tunic.

No one texts me except Billie, and she knows I’m at work. She wouldn’t interrupt unless it was important.

My heart thumps faster as I read her text, scanning it over and over until my vision blurs.

Billie:At the hospital. Had an accident. Can you come get me after your shift?

I swallow, mouth dry. My boss Mr. Koven is strict. Exacting. He doesn’t employ slackers—or certainly not for long. And while maybe I could try and talk to him, ask if I could leave early…

My throat clamps tight at the thought. My palms grow damp with sweat.

Crap. Crap. I can’t let my sister down like this. But there’s no way on this planet that I could talk to Mr. Koven. Already, I can feel the stutter tripping up my tongue.

My cheeks flush crimson. No. Not an option.

I glance at the clock on the wall of Mr. Koven’s study. 2:03pm. There are two hours left of my shift.

“Screw it,” I mutter, shooting Billie a quick reply and stuffing the phone back in my pocket. I tiptoe out into the hallway, duster clutched in one hand.

Mr. Koven’s housekeeper smiles at me distantly as I speed-walk past, nodding and dropping my eyes. She doesn’t say anything, even when I stuff the duster back into the cupboard and hurry down the main staircase, my shoes thudding on the thick carpet.

That’s the good part of being invisible.

No one sees me leave.

* * *

My poor sister looks rumpled and exhausted in her hospital bed. She’s fully dressed in denim shorts and a light sweater, her body stretched out on top of the covers with her bag perched ready by her feet. But even she can’t disguise her winces of pain as she tries to sit up, her snarled red hair tumbling over one shoulder.

“What happened?”

I rush to her side, checking her over for cuts and bruises. There’s a graze on her cheekbone, but that’s mostly it. She seems almost normal except for one thing: the plaster cast wrapped around one forearm. It’s tucked against her chest with a sling, and the fingers curling out of the plaster are battered and bruised.

“Freaking cyclist,” she grumbles, hissing in a sharp breath as she straightens up. “He came barreling out of nowhere, right down the sidewalk. Coral…” Billie stops and swallows. I know her heart’s breaking when her chin wobbles. She whispers her next words. “I can’t do the shoot. My career is over.”

“That’s not true.” I help her off the bed, my mind spinning. That can’t be right. Can it? “It’s just one canceled booking. It must happen to everyone sometimes.”

Billie snorts, but there’s no humor in it.

“No onecancels on Archer Westbrook.”

I huff, annoyed on her behalf. Who does this Archer Westbrook think he is, the king of England? Of course people need to cancel sometimes. I tell her so too, wrapping my arm around her waist and supporting her stiff steps to the hospital doorway.

“You just don’t get it,” Billie mutters, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “This was it, Coral. My shot. And I already blew it.”

I open my mouth to tell her she’s wrong, that there will be other opportunities, but I swallow the words back when a doctor strides over. His footsteps are loud in the hallway, his white coat billowing behind him, and his confidence is like a hand wrapped around my throat.

He begins to speak to me, clipping out instructions about painkillers and washing my arm. He thinks I’m Billie. It’s only when he looks down and sees the cast on her arm instead that he blinks and gives himself a little shake. Apologizes and talks to the right sister.

She answers his questions, murmuring careful replies, but I’m not fooled. I know Billie.

I can see the wheels turning in her head.

The second he’s gone, she spins to face me, eyes bright and crafty. I hold up my palms, back up against the hospital wall. The corridor is lined with cork-boards and peeling posters about anatomy, and the frayed corner of one tickles in my hair.

“No,” I beg. “I can’t do it. Billie, don’t ask me.”

“It’s just one shoot,” she pleads. “A few hours, tops. It could save my whole career.”

I wave an arm up and down my body. Over my curves, so much rounder than hers, and my maid’s tunic.

I could not be less of a model if I tried.

“No one is going to buy it, Billie! What if I can’t fit into the clothes? And what if they need me to sp-speak—”

“You can do it.” She smooths a palm down my arm. “You’re beautiful, Coral. Clothes need to be adjusted all the time at shoots. And you don’t have to speak. Just say you’ve lost your voice. Take a note.”

I chew on my lip, staring at the floor. At my sensible maid’s shoes, next to my sister’s pretty sandals.

Could I really do this?

Some part of me has always wondered… if things were different… if I were different…

Would I be as magical as Billie?

A thought slams into my brain, crushing those tenuous hopes. I sigh, shoulders slumping.

“I can’t, Billie. I have to work tomorrow. I already skipped out early today.”

It’s not like I can afford to lose this job. Billie’s shoots bring in a lot of money when they happen, but they’re not steady. We can’t rely on them to pay our bills each month.

“I’ll cover for you,” she says at once. “I’ll do your shift. If anyone asks, I’ll say you sprained your wrist at work.” She winks. “Then if they give you a hard time, you can sue.”

She’s joking, but I still squirm. I hate lying. And I like my job, mostly. It’s quiet. Calming. And the views from the mansion windows are so pretty.

“I don’t know…”

She begs me from the depths of her soul. “Please.”

I’ve never been able to refuse my twin sister. And there’s a small, secret part of me that’s curious. That wants to try being Billie for a day.

That wants to be brave.

“Okay.” I screw my eyes shut tight. “Okay. I’ll try. But don’t blame me if we get caught.”

Billie whoops, catching me up in a one-armed hug, then hisses with pain. Her mood isn’t dimmed for long, though. She’s soon beaming at me again, eyes wide and grateful.

I trail her out to the parking lot, fiddling with my car keys, my heart sinking down to my shoes.

I hate people looking at me. I hate speaking in public. And I hate bossy men who shout at me. What if this Archer Westbrook sees through our lie and lays into me in front of everyone? What if—what if he makes me cry?

I’ve always been such a baby. So quick to crumble in scary situations.

Oh god.

What the hell have I done?