Page 20 of The Hollywood Switch-up

An hour later, chemical fumes hung in the air. Erika sat rigid in the styling chair, watching her reflection as Jean-Pierre lifted a section of her dull brown hair. The scissors hovered above her head. Her throat tightened. In the mirror, her eyes had gone wide.

For a flash, she thought of Stefan’s gift—the sketchbook and pencils she’d thrown away. He’d seen that old photo. Seen her art.

At least if this all goes wrong, I’ll have great hair for my mugshot.

“It’s perfect.” Anneliese’s voice came through Olivia’s phone. Jean-Pierre stepped back with a flourish. In the mirror, honey-blonde waves caught the light.

“Phase one complete,” Lily said, sliding open a glossy black box. Inside, balanced on crimson tissue paper, lay a pair of stilettos so tall and thin they resembled instruments of torture. “These go everywhere with you. Shower. Bed. Toilet. When you can sprint down a hallway without counting steps, we’ll discuss wardrobe.”

Erika lifted one shoe, its weight both substantial and impossibly delicate. Lily watched her with the calculating gaze of a general. For the first time since this madness began, she had a co-conspirator.

The night before the Bahamas flight, Anneliese’s closet was in motion. Olivia and two assistants moved through the cavernous space in practiced rhythm, their hands turning couture into compact parcels. Erika teetered in the center on six-inch stilettos, her calves burning from seventy-two hours of practice. Her toes had gone from blistered to numb. Anneliese reclined on her pink ottoman throne, cast elevated on velvet, scrolling through her phone while issuing commands.

“God, Tara, not those,” Anneliese said without looking up, waving a dismissive hand at the assistant’s selection. “The new Fordes—top shelf.” She tapped her good foot against the carpet, then glanced at Erika with a smirk. “How are those calves holding up?”

Erika attempted a pivot, wobbled, and caught herself against a shelf of handbags worth more than her rent. “Progress.” She straightened. “Only two near-death experiences today.”

Anneliese glanced up, her mouth quirking at one corner—a genuine reaction, not the camera-ready smile Erika had been studying. Then Anneliese looked away. “Ready to become me?”

Erika watched the assistant fold a scrap of silver fabric that barely qualified as a bikini. Tomorrow she’d be on a plane. The day after, on a film set. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t in front of people who did this for a living.

“I can’t breathe when I think about it,” she whispered. “One wrong gesture, one slip in my voice, and it’s over.”

“That’s why I exist,” Olivia said. “Rehearsals, fittings, stunt training. You’ll need it every day.”

“I’ll be your human shield for the first two days. After that, I have to fly back to orchestrate the ‘brave recovery’ narrative here while you miraculously heal there. Lily becomes your guardian angel when I’m gone.”

Anneliese shifted on her pink throne, wincing as her cast caught on a pillow. Then her eyes brightened with something like mischief.

“You know what you should really be nervous about?”

Erika tensed. “What?”

“Bradley Smart.” Anneliese leaned in. She bit her lip. “There’s a beach scene in the script. His hands on your waist. His lips . . .” She traced her own bottom lip with her fingertip. “God, I’ve had that scene bookmarked since the script arrived. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat just for that.”

Erika’s eyebrows shot up. “You’d trade your broken leg for public humiliation and career suicide? How generous.”

“No, silly.” Anneliese nudged her with her good foot. “Bradley Smart. The man who made America collectively swoon when he rescued that kitten during the Temmys red carpet.” She leaned forward, grimacing. “You’d better remember every detail for me.”

“Annie, this isn’t some fan encounter. He’s worked with Meryl Streep. Cate Blanchett. He’ll see through me in seconds.”

Anneliese’s face transformed, the girlish excitement crystallizing into something sharper, more calculating. “Bradley sees what he wants to see,” she said. She lowered her voice. “He’s brilliant on camera, but off? He’s spent ten years playing the same character—the charming leading man who falls in love with his costar.” She turned to Erika. “Just be the woman in his script. He’ll write the rest himself.”

The door clicked shut behind the last assistant. Anneliese leaned forward on her ottoman, careful of her cast. She reached for something on her vanity—a small black case that looked like it might hold expensive jewelry.

“The final transformation,” she said, barely audible.

Erika’s fingers trembled as she opened it. Two azure discs gleamed up at her—contact lenses, the exact impossible blue of her sister’s eyes. She sat in the vanity. Honey-blonde hair. Sculpted brows. And those dark eyes—the last evidence of Erika Morgan.

The first lens balanced on her fingertip like a drop of stolen sky. She blinked it into place and her breath caught. Half her vision cooled, as though someone had adjusted the color temperature of the world. The second lens followed.

When she looked up, she didn’t see herself anymore. Anneliese Morgan stared back.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

In the mirror’s reflection, she caught Anneliese watching from the ottoman, tears sliding down cheeks that matched her own. Our face now, Erika thought. Not mine. Ours.

ERIKA