Page 19 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Jesus Christ.” Anneliese pressed her fingertips to her temples. “You’re walking like you’re searching for a contact lens in a minefield. The sun doesn’t shuffle—it blazes.”

After Erika’s third failed attempt, Anneliese slapped the remote against her thigh. “Moving on. We’ll circle back to The Walk.” She switched the input again. “The Talk.”

On screen, Anneliese sat perched on a white couch across from Mikey Rhodes, who leaned toward her with the eager posture of a retriever. He said something—Anneliese cranked the volume just in time to catch it: “So what’s the secret? How do you stay so grounded?”

TV-Anneliese’s head tilted back. Her laugh spilled out—two perfect notes that made Rhodes’s face light up as if he’d won a prize.

“There,” Anneliese said, freezing the frame. “First, the bright note—” she demonstrated, a crystalline sound that seemed to hover in the air “—then the intimate follow. Like we’re sharing a secret.” The second note dropped lower, softer, drawing you in. “The laugh is everything. It’s the hook that makes directors remember you after they’ve seen fifty identical blondes.”

She jabbed at the remote, rewinding. “See my hands? How do they float? Never still, never jerky. And here—” she tapped the screen where her fingers grazed her collarbone “—that’s a deflection move. Vulnerable and camera-ready at the same time.”

Erika’s pen scratched across her notebook: Laugh = crystal, not strangled cat. Hands = butterflies, not spiders. Hair tuck = secret weapon. This wasn’t impersonation—this was character rigging.

“Your turn,” Olivia said. “The laugh. Two beats. Go.”

Erika inhaled, closed her eyes, and produced something between a honk and a death rattle.

Anneliese’s hand flew to her chest. “My God, Bean. That was . . . was that on purpose? You sounded like someone choking a squeaky toy.”

“This is insane. How is any of this real?”

“Darling, it’s not fake, it’s curated.” Anneliese’s smile was both. “Again.”

Erika stared at the woman on screen—her mirror image rendered in high definition, yet somehow a stranger. In her notebook, she added one more line: I AM THE SUN.

The letters stared back at her, ridiculous.

The next day, Erika stepped into the private VIP fitting room at Kristi LaDor on Rodeo Drive. A woman perched on a white leather chair like a sharp-eyed heron, all angles and energy, her pen attacking a design pad.

“Lily Martinez?” Olivia said, stepping forward. “We spoke on the phone. I’m⁠—”

“I know who you are.” Lily didn’t look up. “And I know why you’re here.”

Olivia gestured for Erika to step forward.

Lily lifted her head, cat-eye glasses sliding down her nose as she surveyed Erika. The silence stretched until Erika’s skin prickled with sweat. Lily’s mouth pursed into a perfect crimson ‘O’. “Well,” she finally said, drawing out the word like taffy. “Hmm.”

Her heels clicked against marble as she circled Erika. “The fall must have been worse than I heard.” Her red fingernail tapped against her bottom lip.

Her throat had gone dry. She yanked her shoulders back, chin up, the way Anneliese had demonstrated a dozen times. “Long night.”

“Please.” Lily’s laugh was dry. “I’ve seen Anneliese Morgan crawl off a yacht in Mykonos after three days without sleep, still looking like she’d just stepped out of a magazine.” She leaned in so close Erika could smell her jasmine perfume. “But your eyes . . . they’re calculating measurements, not angles for the camera.”

Erika’s stomach dropped.

Lily prowled around her. “Anneliese enters a room and gravity bends around her. You . . .” She paused, head tilted. “You’re apologizing for the space you occupy.”

Erika opened her mouth when Lily’s expression cracked into a grin.

“Oh, relax, darling.” She waved a dismissive hand at Erika’s stricken face. “Olivia told me everything last night. I just wanted to see if you could hold your nerve.” Her smile sharpened. “You can’t—but that’s fixable.”

Erika’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “You—you knew?”

“Darling, I’ve been dying to meet you.” Lily’s cat-eye glasses glinted as she resumed her orbit, but now her gaze was clinical rather than predatory. “A twin switch? On a Martin Blackwell set? This is the most fun I’ve had since I dressed that congressman’s mistress for his wife’s charity gala.”

She stilled, lifting Erika’s chin with one lacquered nail. “The question isn’t whether I can make you look like Anneliese. Any decent stylist could do that. The question is whether I can make you move like her. Breathe like her.” Her grin sharpened. “Now that’s a challenge worth my time.”

She snapped her fingers twice, the sound sharp as a camera flash. “Jean-Pierre,” she said into her phone, “I need you at LaDor. Private suite. Bring the Anneliese kit and that experimental Japanese toner we’ve been saving.” She hung up without waiting for a response and turned back to Erika. “The dress is nothing. The woman wearing it is everything.”