Page 18 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Anneliese took a shaky breath. “Mrs. Peterson’s history final.”

Erika froze. The flu. The sweater. Acing the test while wearing her sister’s face. No one had ever known.

“Annie, no.”

“You did it then,” Anneliese said, steadier now. “You can do it now.”

“This isn’t a history test, Anneliese—it’s fraud,” Olivia said. There was no horror in it, just grim pragmatism. “Voice coaching. Media training. Learning to walk and talk and laugh like her. On a set with the most notoriously difficult director in Hollywood?” She shook her head. “You’d be discovered in five minutes.”

“But the principle is the same!” Anneliese shot back. “She can do it. She’s me. We’re identical. Those are logistics, Liv! The important thing is the face. We have the same one.”

Olivia let out a short, incredulous laugh. “And Bradley Smart? You think a Temmy winner isn’t going to notice that his leading lady suddenly has a different energy? A different timing? He’ll know something is off the second he sees her.”

“Bradley’s never even met me in person,” Anneliese said. “We were cast two weeks before the accident—everything’s been over Zoom. He’ll see me when he looks at her.”

She turned to Erika, reaching for her hand with a surprisingly strong grip. “Erika, please.” Her voice broke into a sob, but something strategic had already replaced the panic. “You’re the only one who can do this. This isn’t just about a movie. It’s about everything I’ve built. Stefan already cost me the Forde campaign. The LaMode cover. Two years of my life fighting his narrative that I’m some talentless influencer.” Her chin trembled. “If I lose this role, he wins. He’ll have taken everything from me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please. Don’t let him win.”

Erika looked from her sister’s tear-streaked face to Olivia’s calculating one. This was the story of their lives. Anneliese building an empire, Erika filling in the cracks. “Annie, I-I can’t. I’m not you. I don’t know how to . . . be you.”

“We’ll drill you,” Anneliese said. “I’ll be your coach. I’ll be in your ear through a hidden mic if I have to.”

Olivia leaned forward. “The bigger problem is Martin Blackwell. He notices everything—the way you hold your coffee cup, the way you breathe between takes. One wrong move, one flicker of hesitation that isn’t in the script, and he’ll know something’s off.” She met Erika’s eyes. “This isn’t just a performance. It’s the con of a lifetime.”

The weight of their words pressed down on Erika. Anneliese saw it in her sister’s face, and her manic energy deflated, replaced by shame. “No,” she whispered. “You’re right. It’s a crazy idea. Forget I said it. It’s too much to ask of you.”

Seeing her sister defeated was a pain sharper than her own disappointments. This time felt different.

It was terrifying. It was reckless. Her hands felt cold. Could I pull this off?

“You’re not asking,” Erika said, quiet but steady. “I’m offering.” She looked at Olivia, her fear giving way to resolve. “I’ll do it.”

Silence. Anneliese stared at her, mouth open.

“Are you sure about this, Erika?” Olivia asked.

ERIKA

“Again!” Her sister jabbed the remote at the TV. On screen, Anneliese froze mid-red-carpet, caught in a moment of effortless perfection—shoulders back, chin lifted, smile from a magazine cover.

Erika tried to mirror the posture. Her shoulders hunched. Her chin jutted forward.

“Christ.” Olivia circled her, stilettos puncturing the white carpet. “You’re folding in on yourself like you’re trying to disappear.”

“She’s right, Bean.” Anneliese shifted in her nest of pillows on the sofa, wincing as her cast caught on the velvet. “The real performance—the part you can’t fake from behind a keyboard—comes down to three simple pillars: The Look, The Walk, and The Talk.” She pointed the remote at the screen. “We start with The Look. Presence. Stillness. The way you hold space before you ever open your mouth.”

On screen, frozen Anneliese radiated calm authority.

“Imagine a string pulling you up from the crown of your head,” Anneliese said. “You’re not standing. You’re arriving.”

Erika’s cramping fingers found her pen. Her notebook page had become a frantic taxonomy of her sister: Chin tilted fifteen degrees when smiling. Hands NEVER fidget. Right eyebrow slightly higher than left.

“The Walk,” Anneliese commanded, switching the input. Red carpet footage filled the screen—Anneliese in white silk, moving like the frame was hers. “You own that carpet. Photographers don’t capture you; you allow yourself to be witnessed. You’re not a celebrity—you’re the sun.”

Olivia gestured toward their makeshift runway between sofa and windows. “Fireplace to window. Be the sun.”

Erika crossed the room like a marionette someone had abandoned. Her shoulders hunched forward as if bracing for impact, arms swinging in desperate counterbalance. Three steps in, her hip collided with the marble side table. The Ming Dynasty vase teetered. Shit.

Olivia lunged, catching the porcelain treasure against her chest with a sharp inhale. “For God’s sake! Your shoulders are practically apologizing for existing!”