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“Last weekend, I downed a bottle of Prosecco and sent out some overly confident emails… I never expected to actually hear back.”
I snort. “Why wasn’t I invited to this Prosecco party of one?”
Sasha ignores my question and picks up her pace around the room. “I couldn’t believe it when I got a call, and it was from William Willoughby. My drunken charm and photos of my grandmother’s work seemed to pique his interest. He’s coming into the office today to meet me and set something up with my grandmother.”
I shrug. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Sasha’s big brown eyes water as she pouts at me. Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “He’s going to ask questions, Emily! I'll look like an idiot, and—"
I hold up my hands, cutting her off. "Sasha, breathe. We'll figure this out."
She gazes at me, hope dawning in her eyes. "You could go in my place. You know about art. You could pretend to be me!"
I open and close my mouth in silence as the crazy idea washes over me. “I can’t do that…”
Sasha hops onto my bed, bouncing me with her renewed hope. “Yes. Yes, you can! Your hair is like mine, you’re always stealing my clothes anyway. No one would know.”
She’s not wrong. Strangers often think that Sasha and I are sisters, and I do steal her clothes. But that’s only because I’m so freaking poor I can hardly make the rent, let alone buy clothes.
I cock a skeptical brow at my friend. “Are you forgetting I’m American and you’re British?”
“Maybe you can try putting on an accent…” Sasha suggests, her smile faltering even as she says the words.
I give her a look. Then I suck in a breath. “Good gosh, I do believe it is raining cats and dogs outside, would the Gov’ner like a cuppa tea?” I say, doing my best impression of a Downton Abbey accent.
Sasha’s face pales. “On second thought, you don’t need to do an accent. Besides… these people don’t know me. Let’s say I went to college at Harvard and picked up an accent.”
I laugh fully now. “You want me to pretend I went to Harvard… and majored in art? Why not make it more believable and say it was…any other college but Harvard.”
Sasha grabs my hands, and her palms are clammy and cold against my skin. “See! You can do this! It’s only one meeting. And I’ll pay you…”
Her eyes are welling up, and she’s looking at me like a puppy dog.
Curse my compassionate heart! I can never say no to a friend in need. Especially if said friend is offering me cash to solve her problems.
The idea is ludicrous, risky... and utterly thrilling.
I hesitate for a heartbeat before the adventure of it all sinks its hooks into me.
I guess the idea of pretending to be the Art Queen’s granddaughter would be fun. For one day, I could fool everyone-even myself-that I’m not just the assistant.
Instead, I’m someone important. Valuable.
"I'll do it," I say. "On one condition."
"Anything," Sasha says eagerly, nodding.
"If I pull this off, I want my own exhibit next to the Art Queen. That could really open doors for me."
Sasha leaps up, grabbing my hands and squeezing tight. "Deal! Oh, my goodness, Emily. Thank you!"
WILLIAM
The fabric of the suit feels stiff on my shoulders, a constant reminder of the day's significance—or rather, its potential futility.
I'm standing before the mirror, adjusting my tie, when the door to my room bursts open.
Father never did care much for knocking.
