Chapter 2 The Secret Identity
the secret identity [trope]
a plot device wherein a character hides their true identity, usually causing a domino effect of catastrophic mishaps, mistaken assumptions, and revelations so dramatic they could induce a collective gasp from the entire cast
Paige has rented The Oak for tonight’s Single Mingle event—Willowbrook’s very own pub, bar, café, and the closest thing to a club there is in town.
I often wonder why someone else hasn’t opened another pub-bar-café-club, or even only one of those things, but I guess everyone’s too loyal to The Oak.
To Quentin, who runs it. And to John Gray, who opened it thirty years ago.
“Wait, what?” Paige squeals over the faint hum of music from the adjacent room, where people are already arriving. Her voice cuts through the noise as she places a tray of champagne flutes on the counter. “You think someone reenacted a murder from a book?”
I glance around the kitchen, bustling with servers and catering staff putting last-minute touches on hors d’oeuvres, then tuck the phone away. Ethan’s just not going to answer, I guess.
“It sounds suspiciously similar,” I murmur.
“And you just recorded an episode about it.”
“I’m not saying the two things are connected,” I explain, catching the hint of mockery in her voice. “That book’s everywhere right now. Though you’ve got to admit it’s… eerie.”
She shoots me a look as she rearranges the flutes. Her auburn curls are pinned back, but a few loose waves fall around her face, catching the soft kitchen lights. “Scarlett, you know I love you—”
“Buuuut,” I interject, dragging out the word for effect.
She rests both hands on her hips. “Don’t do that. You know I hate that. And you can’t deny you have a tendency to see corpses everywhere.”
“I do not!”
“Oh, really?” She arches a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “How about Professor Lowell?”
I groan. She always brings up Professor Lowell.
“You thought he was running a prostitution ring, Scarlett.”
“Only because we saw him driving around town with all those girls!”
“Yeah, well.” She snickers. “That sort of criminal and volunteers at the Center for Abuse have that in common. And remember your weird colleague?”
“Damien?” I roll my eyes. “Okay, point taken. Turns out he’s not a terrorist, but in my defense, he does have a suspicious amount of wires and circuit boards lying around.”
“Look, I know you mean nothing bad by it,” Paige insists, nudging me to step aside as she walks around me. “It’s just… murder is all you think about. All the time.”
I pout, finally conceding. “Well, not anymore. Now I’ll have to think about romance, too.”
She removes her apron and smooths her dress. “It’ll be great for you. You’ll see—romance will change your life.”
“I just hope it doesn’t get me fired.”
“You’ll be fine.”
I slump against the counter, feeling the weight of the deal I made. “I will most certainly not be fine. Didn’t you hear what I said? I have to read… romance.”
Her laughter is light and infectious as she pulls me upright. “Oh, come on. This is bordering on offensive.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, thinking of the stack of clinch covers always sitting on her bedside table. “It’s not just about the books. You know I’m bad at love.”
“Aw, Scarlett.” She touches my arm reassuringly. “You can’t be bad at something you’ve never done. I’m not a bad mechanical engineer—I’ve just never… engineered.”
I slump again, my elbows pressing into the cool countertop. “I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman who’s never been in a long-term relationship. What would you call that?”
“Honestly? I call it exciting. You have everything ahead of you.” She shrugs. “The first big crush, the first dates, the first ‘I love you.’ ”
I feel my eyes crinkle at the corners. Typical Paige, isn’t it? Falling in love at the drop of a hat, getting her heart broken, and doing it all over again without losing hope. There’s nothing she loves more than falling in love.
She laughs softly, probably noticing my look. “I know, I know, I’m basically romance’s biggest fan and biggest cautionary tale.”
She heads to the door to peek into the event room, then turns back.
“Honestly, this Single Mingle thing couldn’t have come at a better time.
How can you judge romance books if you’ve never experienced romance yourself?
” Before I can interject, she claps her hands.
“I can feel it. Your love life is about to change.”
I cross my arms. “Yes, I feel it, too. It’s switching from nonexistent to miserable.”
“Scarlett…”
“And besides, romance books aren’t exactly like real life,” I protest.
She glances over her shoulder to her girlfriend, Vanessa, who she’s been going strong with for almost a year. “Actually, when you meet the right person, love feels exactly like a romance book.”
I hum. “That’s… sweet. And a little gross.”
She throws a balled-up piece of paper at me.
“Paige, falling in love is what everyone expects of me, and every time I can’t get there, I feel like something’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t say that,” she chides softly, walking back to me. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Sure there is. Everyone dates, has sex, falls in love. And I’m just watching from the outside.”
“Okay, look. If you’re swearing off love, I won’t mention it again. You’re done with sex? I’ll get you the finest vibrator money can buy. And, hey, if you decide you’re aromantic, you know I’ll support you—hell, I’ll plant a flag on my front porch.”
“Buuuut?”
Again, she mock-glares. “I don’t think that’s it, Scarlett. I think it’s hard for you to open up. To be vulnerable.” She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “And you’re protecting yourself from heartbreak by keeping enough distance from everyone. That’s why you feel nothing.”
I exhale, then give her a curt nod. “Okay. So let’s say you’re right—”
“I am.”
“—and that I’m open to changing that—”
“Of course you are!”
“How would I do that?”
Her eyes widen, the green in them shimmering against the light. “Oh, I’m so glad you asked.” She walks to the chairs where the workers have abandoned their jackets in a heap and reveals a black clothes bag. “Happy birthday, Scarlett.”
Ignoring the usual lump in my throat every time I hear those words, I take the bag. “What is this?”
“Opening the present usually answers that question.”
I unzip it, and… wow. My fingers brush over the fabric inside the bag—a striking, vibrant red.
As I unzip it further, the dress is revealed in its full, breathtaking glory.
It’s a bold shade of crimson, with intricate lace detailing that winds down like a cascade of flowers.
It has that high-fashion edge that feels completely foreign to me, like it’s supposed to turn heads in a room full of strangers—which is perhaps exactly what Paige intended.
I glance up, speechless, and see her face lit with excitement. “Thanks, Paige,” I say breathlessly. “I’ll definitely wear this when I’m finally invited to the Met Gala.”
She laughs. “You do that. In the meantime, that’s the bathroom.” She points at the door behind her. “Put this on and get out there. I guarantee you’ll have men begging you to fall in love with them within ten minutes.”
“Yay.” Though the prospect of wearing this dress makes tonight slightly more exciting, knowing people will see me in it dampens all my enthusiasm. I hate parties—let alone being the center of attention at parties. And that dress… that’s not going unnoticed.
At least this day is consistent with the last five miserable birthdays I’ve had.
My phone pings, and when I enter the restroom and check the latest notification, the breath is nearly kicked out of me.
Ethan
Happy birthday, big sis.
I bring the phone to my chest and close my eyes, smiling. “Best birthday ever.”
“Mask on.”
I glance up into the masked bouncer’s eyes and blow out a breath. “No, I know the party planner—she’s my best friend.” He blinks. “I’m just here to support her.” Another blink. “Seriously?”
He gestures behind him with a tilt of his head, where I glimpse inside The Oak.
Everyone is, indeed, sporting one of these silly black masks and wearing something red or black.
“Fine,” I grumble, turning the mask in my hand, feeling the velvety texture and the rhinestones clustered like tiny sparks at the center, thinning out toward the edges and the angled eyeholes.
I pull it on and enter the small, dark hall, handing my ticket to another bouncer. Then, past the curtained entrance, I step into the dimly lit bar—and immediately feel like I’ve stumbled into an entirely different world.
A wash of sultry red lighting and moody jazz music hits me, blending with the faint, spicy scent of roses.
The room is draped in rich velvet curtains, shadows pooling in every corner.
Most nights, this place is just a casual hangout where the biggest thrills are karaoke and fried food.
It’s hard to reconcile that laid-back charm with the lavish spectacle Paige has created tonight.
Still, I’d rather be at home, cozy with a blanket and a good book.
Reluctantly, I step farther in, weaving through the crowd as guests laugh in hushed tones and slip into shadowed nooks.
In the center of the room, the dark polished bar glows from below, and the bartenders, dressed in sleek black, are mixing drinks with names like “Sinful Kiss” and “Eternal Flame,” each one deep red or dark purple with absurdly ornate garnishes.
Paige, now wearing a mask of her own and her hair curled at the tips, pops up beside me, wrapping an arm around my neck in a half strangle. “So? What do you think?”
“It’s amazing, Paige.” I take in the dramatic red lights and the velvet-draped walls. “If I hadn’t driven here, I wouldn’t know we were at The Oak.”
“Thank God. My boss has been on me about tonight.” She pulls out her phone. “Do you like the dress code?”