THE HEIRESS: A Sapphic Romance

1

I swallow hard, paste on a smile, and strut in like my ass is in runway mode.

On the outside, queen of calm; on the inside, cold sweat, heart pounding, muscles sore from panic—two steps from fainting and three sprays of deodorant away from announcing my death on Instagram Stories.

Note to self: tequila next time. Or two. Or just straight-up general anesthesia.

It’s not like I’m new at this: I’m a smartass, and when it comes to lying I’ve got the whole résumé—airbrushed headshot, a master’s, and postgraduate credits. Even so, I’m scared shitless today: stepping in for my sister here isn’t one of our harmless little pranks.

Genetics went wild and copy-pasted us, so you’ve gotta squeeze the glitch: identical face, same hair, same red on the lips, synchronized nail-biting technique, anxiety in stereo.

We’ve spent half our lives swapping roles: today you take the teacher’s chewing-out because I overslept; tomorrow I take your math test because you don’t even know where the X goes.

People fall for it every time—sad and useful.

Bless the collective blindness. And today we get to test it again: the raffle prize comes with a belly—a guy in his forties, the type who does yoga on doctor’s orders and eats oatmeal with tears for breakfast. Lots of intensity, not much joy.

Loaded, with more money than hair, short, tight-necked, and a round gut that fills his whole shirt.

I’m not shallow; I call it artistic description.

This mess isn’t on me, for the record. It’s on Vega, my sister—the brains of operations, the color-coded-planner type who schedules her sneezes.

She’s made me cram so much about today’s guy I know his quirks, his dog’s name, and exactly how he takes his whiskey, and here I am, with my lucky panties trembling.

Vega’s gotten him to shell out with a smile.

She’s spent months pretending to be his girlfriend at country-club galas where last names are triple-barreled, at events where people talk in hushes and smile without showing teeth, in hotels with carpet so plush it swallows your shoes and rates that shouldn’t be legal.

And yeah, the guy pays top dollar. Finally, no complaints; my sister has hated this gig since day one.

According to her theory, he’s gay and the fake relationship helps him keep up appearances in front of those blue-blood names.

He’d rather be seen as a sugar daddy than come out in that tight-ass, old-money club.

He hasn’t confessed it over cookies and G when it comes to hands, she only uses her own.

Try to get handsy and she’ll throw an elbow.

I do sleep with my clients. Not on every date: I decide—schedule, pace, body.

Between you and me, money gets me wetter than any Neruda poem read in the dark while I count cash on the nightstand.

If the client’s a smoke show, don’t even get me started.

And if she’s not, but she brings big bills and that bingo-hall perfume, I’m not getting precious about it.

At the end of the month, that massive terrace in Malasana doesn’t get paid with chocolate coins.

Thanks to this gig we live in a penthouse I wouldn’t have dreamed up even in my wildest delusions, with a terrace, natural light, and neighbors who take Swedish and recycle like it’s their calling.

I used to be more of a baloney-sandwich-and-Gatorade person, and now I eat avocado toast with Himalayan salt for breakfast.

The leap’s been so wild that some mornings I look in the mirror thinking I’m about to see the Alaska from the group home, all dark circles and a Walmart vest, but nope—here I am, done up like a good little rich girl, keeping the shakes in check and praying I don’t fuck it up today.

And here we are, life making our heads spin. The thing is, Vega’s got a fever at the “I’m going to die and also remind you every five minutes” level, and obviously she didn’t want to stand this guy up.

So I walk up and plaster on a smile. Inside, I’m praying in every made-up language that he won’t notice the switch.

Because if he clocks the move, lights out—we’re done.

If Vega loses this sweet gig, I don’t know that she’ll survive another round with guys like the ones she used to get, half of whom just wanted to get her into bed, and I had to sit through one hell of a tear-fest at the beginning.

And I don’t even want to think about the agency—they’d boot us in ten minutes, no memo, no paperwork.

I can already see them calling a meeting just to announce we’re out, me wearing the “yep, that’s what we get for being smartasses” face, and from there it’s YouTube tutorials on how to live under a bridge, peddling shady books on Craigslist, and an instant-ramen diet.

So yeah: cheeky-sweet grin, chin up, shoulders back, and sell confidence while my stomach jitters. So later the boss can’t say I don’t put this face to work.

The guy looks at me and for a second I get the vibe he’s clocked I’m the cheap stand-in.

Then I realize he’s just doing his standard man-in-charge scan.

I play dumb—no rehearsal needed for that role—and make a face like I’m thrilled to be here, I love beige, and I live for Sunday afternoons with the in-laws.

To shore up the devoted-girlfriend fantasy, I go for it and plant two big cheek kisses, no fear, one per cheek, nice and loud. Heads up: if we need to project confidence, I go all in. You either perform or you don’t.

"Vega, you look radiant," he says in a deep voice.

"Thanks." I get carried away. "And you’ve still got it, huh? That suit’s begging for a dance—at least two."

You’ve still got it? I regret it instantly, but the man brightens right up—day made.

"We’ll have one later. Or two," he says, delighted, and winks at me.

"Deal. But don’t step on me—these heels are treacherous," I banter.

I adjust my dress and pray I don’t sweat. We’re dead ringers, sure, but Vega has a mole at her temple and I don’t, so I dotted one on before I left the house. If sweat wipes it off, I’ll fake an allergy and keep going.

We sit, and in two seconds the waiter appears: hair slicked back, vest pressed within an inch of its life. Ray raises his hand with confidence and rattles off the name of a wine that sounds like a Tesla VIN. He orders a magnum; he’s loaded and bored.

"Nice touch," I tell him. "You’re feeling generous today."

"You deserve it," he says, happy.

The waiter sets down the glass; Ray nods and passes it to me to taste. Cue Alaska the sommelier. I swirl the glass the way I saw in a video, bring it to my nose, and nod with great pomp. It smells like fruit—there’s oak, vanilla. I say it’s full-bodied with a long finish that lingers.

Real talk: I can tell Rioja from Franzia because one comes in a bottle and the other in a cardboard box. And that’s it.

"It's round," I pronounce. "Goes down easy, doesn’t fight back. Works for me."

Ray looks at me like he’s smitten, the bartender gives me a respectful nod, and inside I’m already starting a Twitter thread announcing I’m a freelance taster and I accept cash.

I swallow the laugh, raise my glass, and toast.

"To the dances we still owe each other," I say.

"And to you," Ray answers.

Then, between sip and sip, the dude pulls out his phone and Dubai unrolls right under my nose.

Before I can blink, he’s shoved a photo of a camel in my face.

Then a yacht. And to top it off, a selfie with a “sheikh” he swears up and down is his buddy.

I’m telling you, that man looks more like a hotel doorman with a creatively wrapped towel on his head than any kind of prince.

I choke back the laugh and settle for a polite smile. If he tells me one more rich-guy war story about Monaco, I’m pulling out my phone to show him my best pic: me with a pool noodle at the municipal pool, trying to dodge Senora Paqui, who polices the place harder than a military drone.

But no: I hold the line. I’m getting paid to smile and put up with the peacocking, right?

Out of nowhere he grabs my hand. Internally I jump, but I play it cool, toss out an "oh, you’re such an idiot," and smile. He goes full telenovela, tells me he’s obsessed with how real I am. I almost choke. If this man knew how real I actually am, he’d be on 911 asking for backup.

Anyway. A girl does what she’s gotta do. I play along, clocking everything so I can tell Vega later. Because, look, if this guy’s gonna keep tossing cash her way, I’ll dance the Macarena for him if I have to. Or the conga. Or both. No one gets to say I lack range.