Page 3 of The Hollywood Switch-up

Thousands of strangers now knew she’d failed—again. Fantastic. Erika swallowed the protest rising in her throat. What was the point?

“Oh, Bean.” Anneliese’s thumb found the pulse point at Erika’s wrist, circling in the same rhythm she’d used when Erika broke her arm in tenth grade, and when Ryan Fielding stood her up at prom. “Tell me everything.”

“Nothing to tell. They’ll call. They won’t. Add it to the pile.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She stared at the floor, at anything but her sister’s perfect face: that mirror image of what she could have been if she’d been someone else.

“Stop.” Anneliese’s blue contacts—the same shade she’d worn since high school—caught the kitchen’s harsh light. “This isn’t nothing. It sucks, and I’m sorry.”

“Remember when we were ten, and you designed that whole pretend art magazine? Mom framed the cover.” Anneliese’s voice softened. “You’ve always seen things differently. They’re idiots for missing it.”

Erika looked away.

“Different paths, Bean. No timeline.” Anneliese tapped Erika’s wrist twice before pulling her into a hug that smelled of expensive perfume and hairspray.

“Thanks, Annie.”

“I know.” Anneliese pulled back, and when she did, her eyes lit with the gleam that had preceded every childhood disaster and triumph. Her phone vibrated against the marble countertop, screen flashing with hearts and fire emojis. Erika caught fragments of adoration scrolling by, too fast to read thoroughly.

“The algorithm has spoken,” Anneliese announced, tapping the screen with a nail. “We’re going out tonight.”

A knot formed in Erika’s stomach. “What fresh hell is this, Annie Banana?”

“Terry Von Plump’s opening!” Anneliese’s voice climbed half an octave. “Everyone who matters will be there, and—” she pointed at Erika with both index fingers “—so will you.”

“Annie, no.” Erika’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t fake smiles tonight. My face might actually crack.”

“Wallowing is officially canceled.” Anneliese’s hand cut through the air. Then the performance dropped away. “Please? Stefan Cruz is going to be there, and you know how he gets under my skin. I need someone in my corner who actually knows me—not Olivia with her talking points, not some random influencer who’ll post about it later. You.” She touched Erika’s wrist. “Just say yes. Who knows? Maybe the universe is saving your big break for tonight.”

Stefan Cruz again. The clips she’d seen came back to her—not the Temmys disaster, but the other ones. Late-night interviews where he’d made the host actually laugh, that press junket where he’d called out a journalist for a lazy question. Annie made him sound like a monster. Erika had laughed out loud at her phone twice this month.

Erika closed her eyes. Wallowing is officially canceled. Of course it was. That was how Annie won every argument, not by convincing you, just by moving on before you caught up. Erika had already lost the battle.

“All right.” Her eyes opened to her sister’s expectant face. “I’ll go.”

Annie’s smile went full-wattage. “‘Operation Make Bean Shine’ commences now!” She practically levitated up the grand staircase, pulling Erika in her wake.

The master suite door swung open to reveal what looked more like a film set than a bedroom. A ring light stood in one corner. At the vanity, hundreds of dollars’ worth of makeup gleamed under recessed lighting, brushes arranged in a descending order from fan to fine-point.

“Annie,” Erika said, eyeing a row of lipsticks organized in a perfect color gradient from nude to blood-red, “do we really need the full production?”

“Of course we do!” Anneliese’s laugh was as curated as her feed. “It’s Terry Von Plump!” She tapped the vanity mirror twice. “Look at yourself. You’re halfway to gorgeous already.”

Halfway. Erika bit back the obvious question: which half?

The phone appeared on its tripod, Anneliese’s reflection framing them both on its screen. “Three, two—smile like you’ve got a secret, Bean. Not like someone just ran over your cat.”

Erika’s face ached as Anneliese’s curling iron transformed her limp hair into glossy waves. The heat brushed her neck in warning pulses. In the mirror, their faces floated side by side: one honey-blonde with electric blue contacts, one natural brown with eyes to match, until the vanity lights blurred them into a single face split down the middle.

“Remember Mrs. Peterson’s history final?” Erika said, as Anneliese wielded the mascara wand like a conductor’s baton.

“God, yes. You got me an A, and I got you a date with Jason Mercer.” Anneliese’s laugh was different now—lower, genuine. “No one could tell us apart back then.”

The memory settled between them, warm then cold. Their mother’s cheekbones stared back from both faces. Only one of them knew what to do with that.

Anneliese’s curling iron hissed against a strand of Erika’s hair. “You know, Stefan’s been running his mouth to anyone who’ll listen about how influencers are ‘ruining cinema.’” Her voice had shifted—tighter, with an edge. “As if his last three movies weren’t complete disasters.” She tugged too hard on a curl. “The man has a Temmy nomination from ten years ago and acts like that gives him permission to trash everyone else’s career.”

Erika winced at the heat near her ear. “Maybe he’s just bad at playing the game.”

“He’s bad at everything except holding a grudge.” Anneliese met her eyes. “Promise me you won’t let him corner you tonight. He’s charming when he wants to be, and that’s when he’s most dangerous.”