3. Izabella
IZABELLA
By the time the final bell rings, I’m more than ready to go home, but because Penelope refused to go to my class while I took her test, I have detention for skipping English. On days like today, when everything feels so broken and awful, I think about marching into the principal’s office and telling her everything. But then I remember that my parents have this place locked down, they pay the faculty very well to pretend that I don’t exist, and I doubt my confession would change anything.
I don’t bother to move as the other students shuffle between the desks. Sometimes I rush to be the first person to leave after class, but other times, like now, I lag behind, taking my time packing up my laptop and sliding it into my backpack. By the time I slip my arms through the straps, even the teacher has left and I’m alone.
Inhaling slowly, I prepare myself to step into the hallway. The majority of the kids pulling stuff from their lockers will have gone by now, but I’m so conditioned to fear someone realizing who I am that my heart races with discomfort the moment I have to step into any communal space where my presence could be discovered.
Gaze on the floor, I skirt the edge of the hallway until I get to the library. Detention at GAA is usually filled with the same handful of people, the sophomore couple who refuse to stop making out in the halls. The senior guy who gets caught smoking every single day. The junior who supplies the entire school with drugs, beer, and any other party favors anyone might need, and the handful of kids who deliberately get detention so they can buy off him.
You’d think, given how much money my parents give to this school, they’d be able to get me out of detention, but they don’t. They’re more than happy for me to serve my punishment, and as Mr. Brooks, my English teacher, refuses to turn a blind eye to the classes I miss, I’m a regular attendee. My parents might not pay to get me out of bullshit detentions, but they’re happy enough to pay to arrange for me to spend the time alone. Because God forbid anyone think Penelope was anything but perfect.
To be honest, I don’t mind the hour’s solitude and quiet in the small private study area at the back of the library. It’s peaceful and one of the only places in this school where I can relax. But sometimes I resent that I’m the only one getting punished for the things Penelope and I do.
I never planned to tell my parents that I’d taken that first test for Penelope, it should have been our secret, but she ran to our mom the moment we got home. It seems stupid now, but back then, I’d thought maybe Mom would be mad at us for swapping, that she’d tell us that cheating was wrong. Instead, I can clearly remember the excited gleam in her eyes when she’d hugged Penelope, laughing as she praised her for being so clever. Then she’d cupped my cheek in her hand, smiled, and told me how happy she was that I was doing my part to help the family and that it’d be better for all of us if I just took all of the tests from then on.
Within weeks, everyone at GAA had forgotten about the other Rhodes twin. I was practically invisible, hiding my identity and spending hours after school studying with private tutors to make sure that I could cover for my twin at a moment’s notice.
The worst part is that Penelope isn’t stupid, she’s more than capable of passing all of her classes without my help if she actually tried. But why try when she doesn’t have to? Why try when she and our parents have erased my existence and forced me to become nothing more than her body double?
I hate them all. My sister for morphing our relationship into something abusive and toxic, and my parents for forgetting I’m their child too and not just a useful facsimile of the daughter they actually want.
Pushing the library door open, I lift my chin just high enough to catch the stoic gaze of the stone-faced librarian. Forcing my lips into a polite half-smile, I scurry past her and head for my study room. Once I’m inside with the door closed behind me, I twist the dial on the wall, obscuring the small glass window, and changing the sign from “Available” to “In Use.”
Sighing wearily, I drop my backpack to the floor and lower myself into the wooden chair. Folding my arms on top of the desk, I drop my head down to rest on top of them and close my eyes.
I’m tired, so fucking tired. The toll I feel every day from pretending to be my sister is both physically and mentally draining. My life has become a constant drone of invisibility, and I don’t know how much longer I can be in a world where no one knows I even exist. I feel like my entire identity has been erased, and I’m starting to wonder if I even know who I am when I’m not posing as Penelope.
My hour’s detention passes quicker than I’d like. I don’t want to be here, but I want to go home even less. Our shiny black town car is waiting at the curb when I step outside, and I pad toward it, sliding into the seat when Mark, my driver, opens the door for me.
“How was your day, Miss Izabella?” Mark asks, his Boston accent thick and comfortingly familiar. Mark has been mine and Penelope’s driver for years. He was here before the will, before the money changed everything, and he’s one of the only people who actually gives a crap about me.
“Same old, same old,” I say, not giving him any real details. Mark might be a lovely guy who genuinely cares for me, but I still can’t actually tell him anything real, anything that could be leaked to the press or used to blackmail us.
“Are you going home, or are you joining Miss Penelope and your parents at the Woodsonvilles?” he asks, already knowing what my answer will be.
“Home, please,” I say, leaning back in my seat and closing my eyes.
I must fall asleep, because I startle awake when the rear door opens. “We’re home, Miss Izabella,” Mark says, his voice soft and gentle, a concerned smile tipping the corners of his lips.
Blinking rapidly, I rub at my gritty eyes. Grabbing my backpack, I shuffle to the edge of the seat and take Mark’s hand, letting him help me from the car. “Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing his hand lightly. His nod is resigned as he releases me and I move past him, climbing the front steps to the house.
The door swings open as I approach, and our housekeeper, Mrs. Humphries, greets me, smiling tightly. “Miss Izabella, welcome home. Can I take your backpack?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Humphries, but I’ll take it straight up to my bedroom.”
“Miss Izabella?” Mrs. Humphries calls.
“Yes, Mrs. Humphries?” I dutifully reply.
“Your parents and Miss Penelope are engaged at dinner with the Woodsonvilles. Would you like to eat in the dining room, or would you prefer something brought up to your room?” she asks with professional politeness.
“If you’ve already cooked, then I’ll take it in my room. If not, then please don’t trouble yourself cooking just for me, I can make myself a sandwich later,” I assure her.
“The chef prepared some soup at lunchtime, I could heat some of that for you?” she offers, her expression softening.
“That would be wonderful, thank you,” I say, offering her a genuine smile.
Nodding, she leaves, heading toward the kitchen, and I quickly dart upstairs to the sanctuary of my bedroom.
The moment I push open the heavy wooden door and step into my room, I exhale a sigh of relief. The familiar scent of my safe haven washes over me, instantly calming me as the door swings closed behind me. My room is the only space in my very small world that is solely mine.
When I was a little kid, I used to watch a TV show about twins who shared a room and would snuggle together in one queen-size bed to share secrets. I’d idealized their relationship, but Penelope and I had never behaved like that. Even when we were little, she never liked me being in her space. The one time I tried to climb into bed with her, she screamed so loudly she woke our nanny, who quickly escorted me back to my own room. After that, it became a rule that we weren’t allowed into each other’s space unless specifically invited.
Now, I’m glad that she’s not allowed in my room, almost as much as I’m glad I’m not invited into hers. These four walls are my solace, my inner sanctum, where I’m Izabella Cordelia Rhodes all of the time, where no one mistakes me for my sister, and I never have to pretend to be anyone else.
Dropping my backpack into my closet, I kick off my black patent leather pumps, peel off my knee socks, and pad over to the bed. Flopping down onto my comforter, I scan my room and sigh, letting some of the tension melt from my body. My walls are a deep, rich purple, and as my gaze lands on the spots of colored paint marring the white ceiling, I can’t help but smile.
It’s probably childish to love my bedroom as much as I do, but I can’t help it. Until last year, my room had been the mirror image of Penelope’s—a sea of perfectly styled creams and pale pinks that I hated. For the last three-and-a-half years, I’d gotten so used to everything being perfect for my twin that I stopped thinking about what I wanted.
Then at the end of junior year, after I’d studied for and taken every single one of my sister’s end-of-year finals, our parents and Penelope left to spend the summer in the Hamptons, and I was alone, staring at the hideous pink throw pillows and wishing I could set them all on fire.
Two days later, I had Mark drive me to a hardware store and help me pick out everything I needed to change my bedroom from boring beige hell to the deep purples and silvers that now grace the walls. Renovating is a lot harder than it looks, and some of the walls are still patchy, but somehow the imperfections only make me love it even more.
My mom lost her shit when she saw the shoddy paint job I did. She threatened to punish me if I didn’t allow the interior designer to put it all back to the way it was. But for the first time in years, I refused to do what she wanted. Because what else can she do to me when she’s already stripping me of my identity, ruining my education, and having me spend more and more time pretending to be my sister?
The color of the walls in my bedroom might only be a tiny act of rebellion, but every time I step into this room, I’m reminded that I still exist, that I still matter, and almost a year later, I still love the color and the moment of freedom it represents.
Groaning tiredly, I roll off the bed and strip out of my school uniform. In just my bra and panties, I walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. Grabbing a wipe, I stand in front of the mirror and remove all of my makeup until my skin is bare, and I am finally able to breathe. Unlike Penelope, I hate wearing makeup. I hate fiddling with my hair and looking perfect just because that’s what’s expected of me.
You’d think that considering most people don’t even know I exist, it wouldn’t matter what I look like, but since we started this whole charade, neither my parents nor Penelope will let me leave the house looking anything less than catwalk-ready. Because if I’m pretending to be my sister, God forbid there be a blemish or a hair out of place.
After taking a quick shower, I’m pulling on a baggy shirt and a pair of cotton boxers from my dresser when there’s a soft knock on the door. Opening it, I find Mrs. Humphries standing in the hallway, carrying a tray laden with a steaming bowl of soup.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to take the tray from her hands.
“You’re welcome, Miss Izabella,” she replies softly.
I hate that I can see the sympathy in her eyes; both she and Mark know something is wrong with our family, but they don’t know the whole truth, no one does. No one can ever know. Parting her lips, she starts to speak, then stops. Nodding politely, she runs her eyes over me, presses her mouth into a frown, then turns and leaves.
Closing the door, I climb into bed, juggling the tray and trying not to let the soup spill as I settle back against my pillows. Reaching for my remote, I turn on my TV then press play, lifting a spoon full of hot, rich tomato soup to my lips as the familiar credits of Dirty Dancing start to play.
Right here, right now, in my space all alone, I finally relax and eat my dinner, allowing myself to just be me, just Izabella, and no one else.
…
“No,” I cry, my eyes wide and horrified. I only got home from school a few moments ago. I should have known something was going on when Mom had Mrs. Humphries send me into the living room instead of allowing me to hide in my bedroom. But I never expected this.
“I’m not asking you; I’m telling you. There’s no other option,” Mom says calmly, almost dismissively.
“No, I can’t do it. It’s bad enough that you have me pretending to be Penelope to get her through school. I’m not pretending to be her at a party. It’s insane, no one would believe it,” I cry again.
“Well, then you had better make it believable, because you will be attending our dinner at the Winslows’ tonight in your sister’s place. Do you understand me?” Her cold, emotionless voice is so familiar to me now that I can barely remember her being loving or caring. But then, before this stupid inheritance ruined our family, she was rarely here, always away traveling with Dad.
“Why can’t Penelope go?”
“Because your sister is unwell, and she can’t be seen with bags under her eyes and a green tinge to her skin,” Mom snaps, rolling her eyes like I’m a moron.
“So why don’t you just tell the Winslows that she’s sick? It’s hardly a crime. People get sick all the time,” I cry, darting my gaze to my dad, like he’ll agree with me, which of course he won’t.
Mom’s stony glare lands on me, her eyes narrowing with barely restrained anger. “Do you want this family to be ruined?” she hisses. “Do you want us to lose everything? Do you want to be the reason why your sister’s future is destroyed?”
I’ve heard this speech so many times, I could probably recite it back to her. When this all started, I used to feel this huge sense of responsibility every time I was reluctant to do what my mom wanted, like Penelope not getting her inheritance would actually be my fault if I didn’t comply. But all that guilt has faded over the years to a bitter resentment for my parents, almost more than for my sister.
I feel their betrayal even more deeply than hers, because at least Penelope is the one who will be directly affected by the loss of the money. Our parents are just greedy, power-hungry sycophants. They love the spotlight. They love the power of being in control of my sister, who she’ll marry and therefore who will ultimately get my great-grandfather’s fortune.
“Well?” Mom demands, tapping her toe impatiently against the floor, her angry, twisted face close enough to mine that I can smell the wine on her breath.
“Would it make a difference if I said I didn’t care?” I ask quietly. I know I shouldn’t bait her; it won’t end well. But it’s bad enough that they hide me away so people don’t remember Penelope has a twin, that they force me to miss my own classes to make sure my sister passes hers, but now they want me to pretend to be her at a party.
No. This is a step too far, it’s too much, and Mom needs to realize that.
Her palm hits my cheek, and the crack of her skin against mine is so loud that it seems to echo around the room, ricocheting off the perfectly decorated walls and around the luxurious soft furnishings.
My head flies to the side, and I close my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek to stop the tears that are filling my eyes from falling. For the last year, when my parents can’t force me to do what they want with guilt and coercion, they’ve started to resort to physical violence to ensure my compliance.
Inhaling slowly, I taste blood in my mouth as I open my eyes. I want to see some remorse in her gaze, something to show that she cares that she just slapped her daughter. But all I see is a stranger looking back at me. Someone that I don’t even recognize as my mother. Because she isn’t really my mother anymore, and I’m not her daughter. I’m just a puppet who looks like her cash cow.
“Go upstairs and shower. I’ll bring you an appropriate dress to wear.” She dismisses me. “And make sure you cover that blemish on your cheek,” she snaps, walking away without a backward glance.
My mother, ladies and gentlemen, is a grade A bitch.
I don’t run from her even though that’s what I want to do. To run and just keep on running until this life and her are nothing more than a memory. Instead, I turn my head and look at my dad. I don’t know why I’m expecting him to react. This isn’t the first time he’s watched Mom hit me. When I catch his eye, he looks me over, sneers, then turns his attention back to the newspaper in his hands, like I’m so insignificant to him that I’m not worth his notice.
Turning, I leave the room and slowly start to climb the stairs, my heart beating out a panicked rhythm in my chest. I knew this day would come eventually. The day when they’d make me do more than just take my sister’s tests. But a part of me hoped they’d realize how fucked up all of this is, because if this is okay and normal to them, what else will they expect me to do?
My parents have never been doting, loving people who showered us with care and attention, but before the will, we were a normal family, or as normal as the truly wealthy ever are. We were raised by nannies, who took care of us while our parents were distantly attentive, ensuring we had everything we needed. We were homeschooled by a series of tutors who taught us from the age of five all the way until we turned fourteen and started high school. We were perfectly dysfunctional, but still a family.
Now, I don’t even recognize my mom and dad as the same people who smiled, brought us gifts from their travels, and kissed us good night whenever they were home. Those people are gone, ruined by the dangling carrot of money and power. Now all that’s left is their empty husks with only one focus, one agenda, and one daughter that matters.
Forcing myself to keep moving, I pad silently up the stairs to my bedroom, my steps barely making a sound on the hard marble. Halfway up, I stop, sit down on a step, and take off my shoes and socks. Mom hates it when I do this because, according to her, it’s uncouth not to wear shoes on one’s feet, even in your own home. But I don’t care, no one ever sees me anyway, and right now I need to feel grounded and remind myself that I’m still me.
Pushing my bedroom door open, I wait for the calm, peaceful feeling to settle over me, but instead I’m confronted by the oppressive scent of my mother’s perfume and the dress that’s laid out on my bed.
Pale pink, A-line skirt, conservative neckline. It’s clearly from Penelope’s closet, and I hate everything about it. Mom likes to boast that my sister is a brand. She’s Penelope Rhodes, heiress, blonde, beautiful, flawless. Men desire her, women are jealous of her. Effortlessly graceful, the perfect high society darling. Of course, no one but me knows just how fake and manufactured everything about my sister is. Penelope is a product of my parents’ creation, she doesn’t exist anymore than I do, only where I’m being forced to do as my family demands. My sister is just as complicit in all this deceit as they are.
Sudden, raw, furious anger wells up inside of me. I can’t do this. I can’t be Penelope in a social situation. Just because we share the same face, I’m not my fucking sister. But I don’t understand why they’d want me to do this either. Gulliver Winslow is the number one pick on my parents’ list of suitable husbands for Penelope. His family is the epitome of old money, their blood pure and blue. So why would they risk me going in her place? It doesn’t make sense.
Full of righteous indignation, I stomp across the landing to my sister’s room, throwing open the door without knocking. Her room is immaculate, perfectly clean without a hint of her true personality, and completely devoid of life. “What the hell?” I hiss quietly, taking a step into the room and flicking the lights on as I pass. She’s not here.
“Why aren’t you ready?” my father’s brusque voice questions from behind me, making me jump and spin to face him.
“Where’s Penelope?”
“She’s sick,” he states blandly, ignoring the very obvious fact that my sister isn’t ill, she’s just not here.
“She’s not sick, she’s not even here. So where is she?” I demand.
His eyes flash with fury, and without a word he roughly grabs my arm and hauls me toward him.
“Ow, stop!” I cry, but he ignores me, hauling me unceremoniously out of my sister’s room and onto the landing. My foot twists and I stumble, but he just keeps walking, dragging me along behind him. When we reach my door, he shoves me into my own room with enough force that I fall forward, hitting the carpeted floor on my hands and knees.
“We’re leaving in forty minutes. We will not be late, so get up and get ready. Now,” he snarls, his lips twisted into an angry line as he glares at me. Yanking the door closed, it slams with so much force that I flinch, my heart racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Crawling to the bed, I lean my back against it, dropping my head into my hands. What the hell is happening? Glancing out of my window, I wonder if I could run—if I could leave and never come back. Change my name and forget I was ever Izabella Rhodes, the unneeded twin. But where would I go? My parents control my trust fund. I’m only eighteen, I haven’t even graduated high school yet, and I’m so invisible, I barely exist outside of this bedroom.
Sighing resignedly, I turn my head to look at Penelope’s dress. Just the thought of putting it on makes nausea churn in my stomach. At school, I might wear the same clothes as my sister, but it’s the same thing everyone else is wearing too. But this, this is different. Wearing that dress and going to dinner with people who will truly believe I’m Penelope is wrong, but tonight, I don’t think I have a choice.
Once I’m ready, I descend the stairs and find my parents waiting for me. Mom casts an assessing eye over me, then nods to Dad and heads for the car without speaking a word. The Winslow estate is only a ten-minute drive from our house, and when we pull up to the security gates, Mark lowers his window and looks into the small camera. A second later, the gates slowly open and we move, driving along a gravel driveway toward an impressively large and unfamiliar house.
Penelope and my parents have been to dinners and events here countless times before, but I’ve never been invited. You weren’t invited this time either, I remind myself as our car brings us closer and closer to the imposing white mansion. When we slow to a stop, mere feet from the white stone steps that ascend to the front door of the house, I have to remind myself to breathe.
The building sprawls to the left and right of the elaborate front door, which is bracketed with marble columns that seem to soar upward so high, I have to tip my head back to see where they end.
“Don’t gawk, it’s so common,” Mother hisses, venom lacing each of her words. “Remember what family you belong to and act accordingly.”
Chastised, I lower my chin, forcing my gaze away from the house and onto my hands in my lap. I’m not a welcomed guest at this dinner, and the only reason I’m here is because my sister isn’t. No one in this house is interested in me; they’re expecting to see and speak to Penelope, the polished socialite, and I can’t allow myself to get distracted by beautiful architecture when it’s going to take all of my meager acting skills to make this even slightly believable.
Before I have a chance to finish my internal reality check, the car door opens. Dad exits first, then offers Mom his hand, helping her out. Shuffling along the seat, I smooth my skirt under me, then take Mark’s hand when he appears in the doorway. Calling on my etiquette class training, I swing both of my legs out at the same time and gracefully rise to stand.
“Thank you,” I whisper to my driver.
Mark flashes me a kind, reassuring smile, squeezes my fingers comfortingly for a brief moment, then releases me and steps back.
The moment I lift my foot onto the first step, my parents flank me, mimicking my slow, careful pace as we climb the stairs to the front door.
“Donovan Winslow and his son Gulliver,” my father says quietly. “This is a low-key family dinner. Remember who you are.”
His words are both woefully unhelpful and condescendingly infuriating. A bubble of inappropriate laughter threatens to burst from me, but I manage to swallow it down, forcing my expression to stay neutral and unaffected. Remember who I am. Is he serious? I know exactly who I am; it’s everyone else, especially my family, who seems to have forgotten.
Opening my mouth, I start to ask for a little more information about exactly what I should expect tonight, but before I can speak, the front door opens, and a liveried woman stands in the doorway, a polite smile fixed on her face.
“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes, Miss Rhodes, please come in,” the woman says politely, holding the door wide to allow us to enter.
“Thank you, Beth,” Dad says so cordially, I almost turn to check it was him who spoke.
“May I take your jackets and purses?” Beth asks, the consummate professional.
Handing over our things, we follow her as she leads us through the house and into a room that is so white, I have to fight the urge to shield my eyes. Mom has our home redecorated at least once every couple of years, but she mainly stays with the same neutral color palette and classic home and garden vibes. But this room is modern to the extreme and completely devoid of all character.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes and Miss Rhodes,” Beth announces, then immediately turns and exits the room, closing the door behind her.
A man that I’m assuming is Mr. Winslow rises from an uncomfortable-looking white leather couch, smiling widely as he greets my father. “Barnaby, did you see those share prices?” he asks, shaking Dad’s hand.
“Don’t get me started,” Dad replies, rolling his eyes and mirroring Mr. Winslow’s smile.
Greeting Mom next, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. “Trudy, I swear you get more beautiful every time I see you.”
Mom’s laugh is tinkling and light as she playfully swats his arm, grinning widely. “It’s so good to see you, Donovan.”
My heart starts to pound in my chest as he turns his attention to me, his smile brightening as he closes the distance between us, scoops one of my hands up, lifts it to his lips, and presses a soft kiss against the skin. “Penelope, sweetheart. You look like a picture of beauty. Gulliver can’t wait to see you. He’s been so looking forward to spending some time when he doesn’t have to share our attention.”
“Hello, Mr. Winslow, it’s lovely to see you again,” I say politely, hoping he won’t try to engage me in any real conversation.
“Where is Gulliver?” Mom asks, pulling the attention from me.
“He’s just getting dressed. You know what teenagers are like. It takes them forever,” Mr. Winslow says with a laugh that sounds forced.
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be worth the wait, he’s such a handsome boy, just like his father.” As she speaks, Mom loops her arm through his and tugs him over to the couch. Following her lead, Mr. Winslow sinks down beside her and they start to talk about people I don’t know and places I’ve never been.
Glancing around, I move toward one of the empty couches and sink down onto it. I know who Gulliver Winslow is. I might be invisible at school, but that doesn’t mean I’m oblivious to the social hierarchy. Gulliver and his friends are Elites, the top tier of our school. I remember the day the graduating seniors had announced their replacements and how smug and unsurprised the four boys had been to hear their names being announced. I also remember the epic tantrum Penelope had thrown the moment we got home about not being given the title that she so desperately coveted.
To be honest, it didn’t surprise me that my sister wasn’t named Elite. She might be popular, but she’s not liked. Gulliver and his friends are rich, powerful, popular, and universally adored. If my sister had been put in charge of the student body, she’d have manipulated and controlled everyone like a dictator, hiding behind a Barbie fa?ade.
But our standing Elite rule quietly, because even at eighteen, they’re still big fish, and everyone knows it. High school might be for kids, but the connections you make there last a lifetime, and no one wants to piss off powerful people.
Gulliver Winslow is the only son and heir to the entire Winslow fortune, but beyond knowing who he is and understanding his social position at school, I know nothing about him, or what kind of relationship he has with my sister.
When I’m not taking her classes for her, I make sure to stay as hidden as possible so that no one sees both me and Penelope in the same place, so I know absolutely nothing about my sister’s friendships or relationships. But to my knowledge, Gulliver and my sister aren’t friends or anything more, despite my parents’ obvious hope that he’ll become their new son-in-law.
There are fifteen old money families listed on my great-grandfather’s will, whose blood he deemed blue enough to allow them to run his empire. From those families, there are nearly forty unattached sons who range from the age of fourteen all the way up to nearly fifty. All but three of those eligible sons either currently attend Green Acres Academy or attended in the past and have now moved on to equally prestigious colleges. My great-grandfather was a stickler for tradition. Every member of the Rhodes family has attended GAA since the school opened and will continue to attend for the rest of eternity if he has his way, and given the ten thousand clauses in his will, he probably will.
Reginald Rhodes the Second wasn’t a stupid man. He discussed his desire to form an alliance with each of the families listed on his approved husband material list. What each family didn’t realize was that they weren’t the only ones he’d had that conversation with.
For the last three years, Penelope and my parents have been living the longest-running series of The Bachelorette, with parties, events, and dinners with the families who are all competing for her fortune.
To be honest, from what I know about these events, my sister doesn’t even really need to attend. These shindigs aren’t about her falling in love or forging a connection with someone, they’re about the families negotiating what they’ll give my parents in exchange for my sister and her inheritance.
Everything about my great-grandfather’s will is archaic, right down to the fact that Penelope has to be a virgin when she gets married. Despite my mom coaching her on how to flirt and toy with these boys, she’s never allowed to be alone with any of them, just in case someone gets tempted or tries to force an alliance.
The really sad thing is that no one cares if Penelope likes any of these guys or if they like her, because that’s not what’s important. This is a business decision, plain and simple.
Marriage is legal in our state at sixteen, but because there are so many other clauses in the will, none of the families are willing to commit to an engagement until Penelope has fulfilled all of her requirements to inherit and graduated from an Ivy League college.
It’s fucking barbaric that my parents have discussed over dinner that while Penelope has to remain chaste and untouched until the wedding, she shouldn’t expect her future husband not to sow his wild oats. My mom actually suggested Penelope should arrange for some of her friends to be available to satisfy any urges the guys may have.
Mr. Winslow commented that Gulliver was looking forward to not having to share Penelope with the other guys tonight. So, I wonder if this is the first time they’ve been in a position to have one-on-one time together. If it is, it explains why my parents weren’t prepared to tell them she was sick.
Allowing my gaze to wander, I take in the awful living room again. Everything is white; only now when I look a little closer, it’s actually several shades of white that weirdly complement each other while still being stark and impersonal. Perhaps cold and sterile was the design brief, but I doubt it.
Across the room, my gaze lands on a painting on the wall that appears to be made up of thousands of blobs of differing shades of white. Before I can figure out if I’m supposed to see anything beyond the dots, the door flies open, and a suit-clad Gulliver bursts into the room. His hair is still a little damp at the ends, and his skin is flushed like he just climbed out of the shower.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I had a meeting after school that ran a little longer than I expected,” he says, addressing the room, before striding toward my dad. “Mr. Rhodes, it’s so lovely to see you again.”
Dad rises from his chair and reaches out to shake Gulliver’s hand. “Not to worry, and please call me Barnaby.”
Flashing my dad a polished but obviously fake smile, Gulliver nods, “Thank you, Barnaby.” Turning to greet my mom next, he lifts her hand into the air and presses a kiss to her skin, just like his father did to me. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Rhodes.”
Mom preens, lifting her free hand to rest against her chest as she giggles. “Gulliver, darling, you’re such a flirt, and you really must call me Trudy.”
Winking playfully, he releases her and quickly nods to his dad, who flashes him an indecipherable look, tipping his chin in my direction.
My eyes widen and my hands start to tremble as Gulliver turns his attention on me. The moment his back is to our parents, he studies me, all of the playful cordiality of only moments ago disappearing from his eyes as he approaches.
I consider standing, but my legs feel shaky, so I stay where I am and wait for him to come to me. When he reaches me, his cool hand takes mine and lifts it to his lips just like he did for my mother. Only instead of smiling, his lips are in a flat, hard line, and he scowls as he presses a barely-there kiss to my hand.
“Penelope,” he murmurs politely against my skin. “A pleasure as always.”
An instant later, he drops my hand and turns away, excluding me as he engages my father in conversation.
What the hell was that? My heart is racing, and my breathing feels strained and ragged. I’ve seen Gulliver at a distance before, but never close up. He and his friends make an imposing impact as a group, but this is the first time I’ve realized how intimidating Gulliver is on his own.
His cheekbones are high, and his jaw is chiseled and square. His features are classically handsome, and I’d almost call him pretty if he wasn’t so intense. From across the room, it’s easy to see how tall he is, towering over my dad, and despite the suit that screams CEO, he’s built like an athlete, although I don’t think he plays any sports. His hair is an inky black color, and there’s a hint of black ink peeking out of the collar of his shirt. But it’s his eyes that are so dark they almost look black, depthless, and silently judging me that frighten me the most.
Do my sister and Gulliver have a relationship beyond the bizarre game our families are playing? Does he know I’m not her?
I don’t know anything about Penelope’s personal life or if she’s ever had a real boyfriend. She and Gulliver could have been fucking like rabbits for the last year, and I wouldn’t have a clue because the only time my sister speaks to me is when she’s ordering me to attend a class, or take a test, or write an assignment for her.
It doesn’t matter that I’m her sister or her twin, she treats me more like an employee, just someone at her disposal to live her life when she doesn’t want to.
I startle when Beth appears silently at my side and hands me a glass of champagne. “Thank you,” I whisper as she silently moves away, distributing drinks to everyone else before melting from the room without making a sound. The champagne is disgusting, but I sip at it, grateful that the glass gives me something to do with my hands.
No one bothers to speak to me, and I’m grateful for the reprieve, but more than once I catch Gulliver’s assessing eyes on me and instinctively roll my shoulders back, fighting my natural instinct to cower away from anyone who might look at me and see my sister.
It feels like hours later when Beth reappears and announces that dinner is ready. Mr. Winslow moves to my mother’s side, offering her his arm, which she happily accepts. I wait for my dad to come to escort me, but he takes my mom’s free arm, and the three of them stride away without even glancing in my direction.
Panic fills me when Gulliver moves toward me, his expression bored and disinterested. Taking my half-full champagne glass, he deposits it on a side table and curls his fingers around my now-empty hand, urging me to my feet. “Miss Rhodes,” he purrs sardonically, seamlessly feeding my arm through his until we’re mimicking our parents and he’s leading me out of the room.
My heart beats faster and faster as I wait for him to say something. Judging by the way he looked at me earlier, he either hates my sister or he knows I’m not her. I’m not sure which would be worse. Opening my lips, I start to speak, but no words come out, because what would I even say? I can’t ask him anything that I should already know the answer to. I can’t hint that I’m not who I’m pretending to be.
Instead, I stay quiet and let him guide me to my seat. Like a gentleman, he pulls out the chair for me, then carefully pushes it beneath me before he takes the seat immediately to my right and slides into it with a polished air that speaks of hundreds of dinners just like this.
This isn’t my first fancy dinner, either. As children, Penelope and I were dressed in pretty, matching clothes and dragged to plenty of stuffy restaurants and business events when my father wanted to remind his associates that he had the perfect wife and family. Sometimes I wonder how it is that all of the people I’ve met over the years have just forgotten that I exist. How they’ve so easily overlooked the other daughter who, for fourteen years, was the fourth member of our family.
Beth and a second liveried server move around the room, draping crisp white napkins in our laps as food is presented before us. This is probably the fanciest meal I’ve had in years, but I don’t enjoy it. I toy with the food on my plate as my stomach threatens to revolt, my nerves completely dissolving my appetite as I wait for someone to call me out for my subterfuge.
But no one does. Each course is delivered, then removed and replaced with the next, while conversation goes on around me.
“How’s school, Penelope?” Mr. Winslow asks me, shocking me enough that my head snaps up and I feel my eyes go wide.
Mom’s pointed stare jolts me to answer. “It’s going great, thank you, Mr. Winslow. I’m still on target to graduate summa cum laude.”
“Penelope, really, I think it’s about time you started calling me Donovan. I mean, we’re practically family after all,” he says, darting his gaze suggestively to Gulliver, then back to me. “Where are you planning to attend next year? With grades like yours, you’ll have your pick of schools.”
Holy crap, did Penelope and Gulliver get engaged and no one told me? Surely if they had, I’d know, wouldn’t I?
Swallowing thickly, I glance at my mom, because I have no idea what college Penelope plans to attend, and honestly, as long as it’s not the same one as me, I don’t care. My family’s reign of tyranny ends the moment I graduate, because it’ll be impossible to hide my existence at any of the Ivy League schools. That’s why I plan to flee to England where I don’t know anyone, and more importantly, no one knows me.
“I haven’t made any firm decisions yet,” I say noncommittally.
“Gulliver will be attending Cornell, won’t you?” Mr. Winslow says, turning his head to look proudly at his son.
“Yes, sir,” Gulliver replies.
“Cornell is on your shortlist too, isn’t it, darling” Mom says to me, smiling brightly as she reaches over and pats Gulliver’s arm.
I’m not sure if I’m the only one who sees Gulliver cringe, but when he notices me looking at him, his eyes narrow suspiciously. If he and my sister are engaged, he doesn’t look particularly pleased about it. Maybe he has a girlfriend—someone he loves—and this forced alliance is ruining it.
“You’re a Cornell man, aren’t you, Barnaby?” Mr. Winslow asks my father, diverting the conversation away.
I don’t bother to listen to his reply. All of my attention is focused on the boy beside me and the suspicious way he’s looking at me. I don’t know if Gulliver hates my sister, really wants to fuck her, or thinks she’s so insignificant that all he feels toward her is complete and total disinterest. But regardless of how he feels, I shouldn’t be here dealing with the intensity of it, Penelope should.
Three more courses are delivered as my parents chat easily with Mr. Winslow about Penelope and Gulliver’s futures like he and I aren’t even in the room. The moment Mom mentions wedding venues, I look to Gulliver, expecting to find him as horrified by the topic of conversation as I am, but he just appears resigned and disinterested, like his future is none of his concern.
Is this what all of the events Penelope attends are like? Parents discussing their sons marrying my sister without including her in the conversation? If it is, no wonder she decided to bail tonight. For a second, I almost feel sorry for her, but then I remember that tonight I’ve been slapped and pushed and forced to pretend to be her. If she doesn’t want this life, she needs to do something to change it.
Glancing at the clock, I count down each minute that passes, ready to get this dinner over and done with and go home. This isn’t my world, and for the first time, I’m truly grateful to be the daughter that no longer exists. Because I’d rather be invisible than have to deal with a future full of obligation without choice or emotion.
When the dessert plates have been removed, I exhale a silent breath of relief. There’s only coffee left, then this charade will be done with and this farce of a life can go back to being Penelope’s problem. I don’t care what my parents want, I can’t do this again. I won’t do this again. I am not my sister, and it’s time everyone remembered that.
“Shall we have coffee in the living room?” Mr. Winslow suggests, a wide smile on his face.
“Lovely,” Mom gushes enthusiastically, looking at me pointedly.
When I rise to my feet, all of the men follow suit. Swinging her hips provocatively, Mom sways over to Mr. Winslow and curls her arm through his. Just like on the way into dinner, Dad takes her other side, leaving me with Gulliver.
“Shall we?” he asks coldly, offering me his arm.
I want to look away, but the hostility in his gaze keeps me hostage, forcing me to hold his eye and let him look his fill. He’s pissed, but I don’t know if it’s because our parents are planning his wedding to my sister without involving him or because he knows I’m not Penelope and is furious that his real future wife sent her clone to dinner in her place.
Unable to hold his gaze any longer, I curl my fingers carefully around his arm and let him lead me from the room. Those years of private elocution and etiquette tuition have paid off, because even though my heart is racing and my mind is reeling, I can still at least behave like a lady.
The fabric of his navy-blue suit is smooth and soft as it rubs against my arm. Given how hostile his looks have been all night, I’m loathe to admit how stunningly attractive he looks in the slim fit, navy-blue suit, but it’s impossible to ignore. His hair was damp and slicked back when he first arrived, but now it’s slightly disheveled, only adding to his darkly intimidating aura. The hint of black ink curling up the side of his neck from beneath his collar is a vivid contrast against his crisp white shirt and hints that he’s more than just a typical prep school boy
Gulliver Winslow intrigues me. You can learn a lot at a school like ours when you’re invisible, so I’ve seen my fair share of rich boy antics. But there’s something about this particular rich boy that sets him apart. Maybe it’s the tattoo or the darkness that is lurking just below his polished exterior. Or maybe it’s just that I’m so used to being ignored that I’m losing my mind.
My lips part, and I start to ask him what his tattoo is of, then I snap them shut again. If he and my sister really do have some kind of real relationship, she’d already know. Scoffing a little louder than I intended, I imagine how horrified she was when she found out her future husband had blemished his skin with something so low-class as a tattoo. I bet she’s already arranged for him to have it removed.
Turning at the sound, Gulliver sneers down at me, his eyes becoming heavy with condemnation as we follow a few paces behind our parents. Once we’re inside the awful white room, I expect Gulliver to put as much space between us as he can, but before he can free his arm, our parents turn to look at us with enthusiastic, conspiratorial smiles on their faces.
Once again, I wonder if my sister has to deal with this kind of obvious matchmaking all the time. Mom and Dad clearly want Gulliver Winslow as a son-in-law, and Mr. Winslow isn’t hiding the fact that he wants Penelope—or more likely her money and businesses—as a daughter-in-law.
I feel Gulliver tense beneath my arm when his dad flashes him a pointed look. “Perhaps Penelope would enjoy a stroll around the estate. It must be awful for you young people to be cooped up with us stuffy adults.”
Still clinging to Mr. Winslow’s arm, Mom’s smile is so wide I think she’s actually on the verge of hopping up and down and clapping with excitement. “Oh, what a lovely idea. Penelope would love that, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”
The word no clings to my tongue, but there’s no way I can say it. So instead, I force a brittle smile to my lips and hope no one sees the fear and trepidation in my eyes.
Gulliver’s smile is almost as fake as my own, but he doesn’t argue, he just guides me through the large French doors and out onto a terrace. Unhooking my hand from his arm, he places his palm on the base of my spine, leading me down the steps and onto a paved path.
We walk through the garden in stilted silence until the terrace and our parents’ prying eyes are behind us. The moment we turn a corner, his entire demeanor changes. Dropping his hand from my back, he takes a step away from me and groans dramatically. “Longest fucking dinner ever.”
Turning away, he unbuttons his jacket, dips his hand into his breast pocket, and pulls out a silver case. Moments later, I hear the click of a lighter, then his soft exhale as a plume of smoke appears in front of him.
The smell of the tobacco tickles my nose, but I don’t protest, because perhaps Penelope knows that Gulliver is a smoker; maybe she is too. Tonight has shown me just how little I know about my sister. But does Gulliver know her better? Could she have confided all of her secrets to this boy? Somehow, I don’t think so.
Darkness folds in around me, swallowing the world until the only living thing left is the beautiful dark boy who’s smoking and pretending I’m not ever here. The quiet doesn’t bother me, I’m used to silence, but it’s rare that I’m quiet with someone else, and instead of his soundless company being peaceful, I find it disquieting.
Glancing at my wrist, I sigh when I find it empty. If my mother had allowed me to wear a watch with this god-awful dress, at least I’d be able to keep track of how long we’ve been standing here. Instead, it just feels like forever.
Unsure what to do, I wait, listening to the soft sounds of him drawing in the pungent smoke and exhaling again a second later. Eventually, he drops the glowing cigarette to the floor and stubs it out with his foot, flicking the end into the flower bed beside the path. Then, without looking back at me, he walks away.
I don’t know what to make of his behavior. Apart from the scathing looks, he was the perfect gentleman during dinner, but the moment we were alone, he made it very clear that he’s uninterested in my company.
Glancing back in the direction we just came from, I consider making my way back to the living room and our parents, but how would I explain Gulliver’s absence or why I returned early from our walk?
I’d rather deal with his cold, dismissive silence than be forced to face an inquisition from my parents about what I did to ruin my sister’s future. Following a few paces behind him, I take the opportunity to watch him. Each of his steps is confident and self-assured. He knows exactly who he is, and his poise is oddly intimidating.
I think as a child I was comfortable in my own skin, but the last few years have taken a toll on me, and honestly, I don’t remember the last time I felt anything but constricted by my life. Everything about me is a lie, and it’s exhausting. But if tonight has shown me anything, it’s that Gulliver might be just as trapped as I am and is being forced into a future he doesn’t want to appease his dad. Yet somehow, despite his polished manners, nothing about Gulliver feels artificial.
Striding forward, he keeps moving, not slowing down, even though he must hear how fast I’m having to walk in heels to keep up with him. His broad shoulders are tense, and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. But my eyes keep coming back to the tantalizing hint of a tattoo at his collar.
There’s no denying it: Gulliver Winslow is hot, and maybe if I was a different person and this was a different life, I’d enjoy watching his tight ass move in his perfectly tailored pants. But this isn’t a fantasy, and in reality, no matter how good-looking he is, he’s still just a spoiled rich boy doing what his daddy tells him so his rich family can become even richer.
In the dark of the night, I don’t see the white fretwork bench sitting beside the path until Gulliver pauses and sits down on it, spreading his long legs out ahead of him and pulling another cigarette from his case.
Scanning the path, I search for something recognizable, but we’ve been walking for ten minutes, and I’m in unfamiliar gardens, in an unfamiliar house in the dark. I can’t carry on walking or go back without him, so without another choice, I hold my skirt down over my butt and sit down on the bench next to him.