Chapter 18
18
Bella Marie stares at me with her crystal-clear blue eyes. So bright that I see my shaking figure in them. I’m entranced. Chloe disappears into the dregs of my mind.
Bella Marie’s features crease into the perfect concerned expression. “I didn’t mean to scare you, darling.”
Darling.
Her accent is vague, unrecognizable, like every European country is vying for a space in her beautiful mouth. I know that she’s in her early thirties but she doesn’t look a day over twenty. Her skin is youthful; her aura, holy. My throat swells with a stubborn feeling and I have a sudden instinct to look away, caught in a liminal space between fear and admiration.
She blinks and releases me from her hypnosis.
The room comes spinning back. Everyone is staring. Silent.
Right. I just screamed bloody murder after Bella Marie grabbed me.
I gulp. Turn toward the attendees. “I’m okay.” I laugh it off, and people look away. The music comes alive again. I return my attention to Bella Marie, still avoiding her gaze. “S-sorry. My mind was somewhere else.”
“No, no, don’t apologize, darling. It’s my fault for coming up from behind. I should have known better.”
“Oh my gosh, no. Come at me from behind whenever!” I cringe. Words are spilling out of my mouth, unbridled. She probably thinks I’m a freak. I want to die.
My heart leaps when she laughs. Her breath, a plume of honey, fills the air. She leans close and we kiss our cheeks like Angelique and I did. My face warms where our skin touched. She guides me to my seat with a gentle hand on my back. “Sit down, sit down.”
I smooth my sweaty palms against my tight dress. The seams are about to burst from my heavy breathing.
Bella Marie sits beside me, places a palm on my wrist to stop me from fidgeting. “You look splendid in emerald.”
“I do?”
“Yes. But…” Her eyes drown in concern. “You look awfully nervous today. Are you okay?”
Oh, you know, it’s just that I switched lives with my dead twin and now I’m in too deep with no way to climb out, and I’m sitting next to my middle-school icon who just said I look splendid and called me darling, and are those butterflies in my stomach or just remnants of the diet tea?
I give my usual excuse. “I think Julie’s death is getting to me.”
She clicks her tongue and tilts her head, a lock of white-blond hair trailing down her swanlike neck. “Poor thing.” She rubs my back. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I can’t even imagine your pain. My heart breaks for you.”
And she’s nice? God really created us unequal.
“Thank you,” I say.
A head pokes out from behind her. She’s blond and bears a striking resemblance to Bella Marie, except that her eyes are a dull brown. Right—the cousin, Emmeline. “I am so sorry to hear about Julie.”
The Snow White–looking woman sitting beside her chimes in. “I sent you a message to see if you needed to connect for support. Did you not see it?”
“Same!” says another influencer, this one sporting a purple smoky eye.
“I sent one too,” says Emmeline.
“Yes,” Bella Marie says, “our group chat was mourning for you. But I don’t think you saw the messages. We felt your absence greatly.”
Group chat? Even with all my cyberstalking, I didn’t see a group chat. And I read through a lot of DMs. “Sorry, I was just too overwhelmed.”
“Aw,” says Emmeline.
“So sad,” says Snow White.
“So, so sad,” says Smoky Eye.
“And a drug overdose, of all things.” Bella Marie shakes her head with pity. “It’s not an easy way to go.”
I frown. “How do you know about that?” It isn’t public information.
She answers without skipping a beat. “Lisa told me. You know how the assistants are, always trading secrets. It’s like currency in their world.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, her fingers tickling my temple. I shiver. When was the last time someone touched me like that? “I hope you’re coping all right. It must have been a huge shock. I don’t want to make this all about myself, but I’ve been in your position. My mom struggles with alcohol, and I know how hard it can get. Our minds never fail to bring us to dark places.”
I feel like a heroine in a romance movie, my heart swelling. “Thank you for saying that. I’m just trying to get life back on track. Everything is a bit crazy.”
“Crazy times,” says Emmeline.
“So, so crazy,” echoes Snow White.
“Pure insanity,” adds Smoky Eye.
“Mmm,” Bella Marie hums. “Crazy indeed. Please let me know if there’s any way I can support you.”
Just then, Isla Harris walks up to our table with quick, rushed steps, her tight, pink-sequined dress limiting her range of motion. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispers to Bella Marie, moving a tuft of curly hair from her brown eyes, which are outlined with electric-green pigment. “The kids were nagging me all afternoon and I couldn’t get out the door in time.”
Bella Marie tips her head with a soft smile, her eyes gliding down Isla’s outfit for a beat too long. The shimmering pink dress is in stark contrast to the neutral or forest tones worn by other guests, like a Christmas ornament lost on a sandbank. Isla glances around the table nervously, and when our eyes meet, she smiles and nods in greeting.
I smile and nod back.
“I’m thankful you’re here,” Bella Marie says finally. “The dinner has yet to start. Have a seat.”
Isla takes her seat at the far-left end, filling out the front table. In total, there are ten of us. Aside from Smoky Eye and Snow White, I’m struggling to identify the tall blonde with a healthy tan sitting next to Angelique. I predict a full night of cyberstalking ahead. Keeping track of everyone will be difficult.
Are we the Belladonnas? Bella Marie and her nine little disciples?
I notice Kelly staring at me intensely. When I catch her gaze, she smiles wide and blows her gum into a bubble. It pops, making me flinch. She grins happily at my reaction. Her tongue licks the remnants of sticky sugar. “This is the funniest thing. I almost complained to the host about the way we’re arranged. Since I usually sit next to Bella Marie.” She smiles tightly, envy glistening in her eyes. It’s hard to believe she’s the same girl who filmed wholesome videos teaching teens how to curl their hair. I still remember her neon-pink braces and the white sports bra peeking from under her turquoise top. She was soft-spoken, almost shy. Now she looks like she’d judge me for wearing a bikini. What happened to her?
Regardless, her passive-aggressive insinuations are clear. Bella Marie prefers me (Chloe, really) and she’s envious. It doesn’t put me down. You can only be jealous of someone above you. Her words dose me with a shot of confidence.
“Maybe it’s time for a change.”
“Change?” She laughs, throwing her chin high. “I know all about change. How do you think I lasted so long?” She leans in, breath all spearmint. “Don’t get too confident. You should know exactly how replaceable we all are.”
My stomach tenses at the word replaceable . It’s probably a coincidence, but my mind rings with alarm. I shouldn’t be making enemies so early in my new life. Envy is one thing, but suspicion is something I must avoid.
“I was just joking,” I say, faking a chuckle.
“Oh! Me too. I thought you knew that.” She tips her head to the side, eyes narrowing, lips curled slightly. “Has your sister’s death made you soft?”
I bite my cheek. Was she being snarky… as a joke? I’ve heard there are people who roast each other out of affection. Maybe I’ve been interpreting her wrong the whole time. Are her mean comments a signifier of her sincerity? Some odd in-group friendship ritual?
“I think it’s the grief,” I begin to explain.
“I’m just surprised.” She spits her gum into a napkin while holding my gaze, viscous saliva trailing from her tongue. “I mean”—she drops her voice to a whisper—“we’re talking about Julie, of all people.”
I swallow. “What do you mean?”
“You weren’t close. We all told you to film more twin content—the internet loves twins. But you said you didn’t want to risk people blending you two together. You thought she would ruin your brand. What did you say? That she was too pitiable? Made you uncomfortable? Something like that.”
“Oh.” Chloe’s dislike of me was clear, but each word makes my heart sink deeper into my chest.
“It was fine, since we’re all the family you need. That’s what you said.”
“I did?” My mind is blurry. I want this conversation to be over.
“You did. And it wasn’t all that long ago when you still believed that.”
The music stops, and I realize Bella Marie is standing. I’m grateful she broke up the conversation. She raises a crystal champagne flute and taps it with a knife. Clink. Clink. Clink. Everyone turns to her. I kid you not, the guests light up when they see her face. They clap and cheer like we’ve ended world famine. The noise is so loud and boisterous, so overwhelming, my bones rattle. I’m awed at their reaction. At how Bella Marie controls the room. She’s magnetic, sparkling under the spotlight, her hair a cascade of golden perfection.
The crowd quiets.
“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for your attention.” Even without a microphone, her voice rings clear through the hall. “I want to thank each and every one of you for attending the launch of Belle by Bella Marie. My team and I have put so much work into this brand, and I can’t wait to unveil it through our immersive dinner experience. All I ask is that you put your phones away.” Surprised moans in the audience. “I know it will be hard to resist taking photos, but sometimes we must disconnect to reconnect. We hope you’ll be mindful and respect the artistry and labor that’s gone into this event without distraction.” She pauses, staring into the audience, a teacher controlling her class. People put their phones in their bags. Within seconds, no devices are in sight. “Now, without further delay, let our show begin!” She claps her hands twice with a winning smile.
The symphony comes alive with a familiar tune. I used to listen to angry classical music when I was feeling low. I think it’s “Danse Macabre” by Camille Saint-Saens. Admittedly, it feels… intense for the event.
A line of waiters file into the room as soft harp tones float through the air. There’s a waiter for each guest. They stand behind us with a tray and metal cloches. Like a choreographed dance, the waiters bend forward as the solo violin cuts into the song, setting the trays on the table. My reflection in the cloche is stretched wide and ugly, features distorted. I’m reminded of Chloe, her bloated, sagging blue face. I’m rescued from the distasteful memory when a flute note signals a white glove to uncover the cloche, revealing… a thin slice of baguette with some caviar, gold flakes, and edible flowers on top.
Huh. A bit anti-climactic for the buildup. I expected something more substantial. But everyone loves it, judging from the applause. Maybe this is par for the course in fine dining. Once the waiters depart, a line of models strut around the tables with the rhythm of the violin. They’re all dressed in beige, black, or gold. Flower accessories are nestled into their slicked hair like they had jumped into a spring swamp. Long and intricate earrings vine down their bodies, making it seem as if the plants are growing out of their ear canals.
I get it now. Immersive dinner. The models are literally dressed in the colors and flowers of the food. Once the models make one lap, they all pause where they are, evenly spaced around the room. Some climb onto the tables between the flower arrangements and candelabras to pose. They’re still, like mannequins. We munch away at our baguettes. It’s a little awkward, how close they are. Claustrophobic. I see the ribs of the woman in front of me. Her hollow cheeks and thinning hair. If it weren’t for the lace gold collar, she’d look like a starved Victorian child in a little beige frock. I almost feel bad eating in front of them. It’s a bit sadistic.
They leave once the waiters take away our plates.
The same choreographed dance occurs with each tasting course, the music changing every time. With the salads, it’s “Valse Sentimentale” by Tchaikovsky, and the models stomp in green clothes with accessories that resemble the olive and fennel. When we’re served a lime-infused duck with carrot puree, the symphony plays “Swan Lake,” and models sashay in purple and orange with feather earrings. This goes on and on. I can’t imagine how much planning and money went into this event. The guests eat it up. I’m enjoying myself too, as long as I ignore the odd choice in music and avert my gaze from the gaunt models, focusing on their clothes.
Then comes the main course: rare venison served with parsnips and beets. The orchestra plays “Lacrimosa” by Mozart. A choir belts out the baritone notes when the trombones begin. Their voices ripple across the high ceiling, vibrating the whole room. My heart pounds with the sheer power of the choir, the underlying sharp yet sorrowful strings.
I glance at the symphony, surprised. “Lacrimosa” is a song about grief. To illustrate the fear of impending death.
The music is incredibly off-putting, but no one else seems unnerved. Everyone is overjoyed, a grinning hive mind captivated by an exquisite yet haunting production.
Bella Marie is cutting into her venison peacefully, the movement of her wrist almost balletic as baby deer blood weeps onto her white dinner plate. She brings a small piece up to her pretty little mouth. Chew, chew, chew. Swallow . She sips her wine and notices me staring. Meeting my gaze, she smiles wide with her scarlet-stained lips, teeth bloody from the rare meat. Her cheerful expression doesn’t reach her crystalline eyes, the blue so stark and icy that it reminds me of the undead.
“Something wrong with the venison?” There’s a hollowness to her words.
I look away. Gulp. Heart beating up my throat. “N-no. It’s great.” I cut into the venison. Blood spurts onto my silverware. I place the meat on my tongue as a model pauses in front of me. She’s not dressed in brown like the meat or white like the parsnips or purple for the beets. She’s dressed in scarlet. Like the blood. Cheeks freckled with white spots like a doe. Her breaths are loud, heaving from clopping down the runway. I chew on my meat, metallic tang spurting into my throat, coating my tongue with gamey iron. I swallow. My stomach gurgles, sickness rising up in waves. The rough meat scratches my gullet as it goes down. Slithers through my esophagus in a clump as if it is alive. Clawing to get out.