8. Erika
ERIKA
Erika was in the kitchen when the first delivery arrived. Chef Antoine, his expression impassive, placed a ridiculously large bouquet of pristine white lilies on the marble island. The card was thick and expensive. Erika plucked it from its tiny envelope.
Wishing you a swift recovery. -S
She dropped the card. The sheer audacity. What’s next, a fruit basket and a Thinking of You card?
“There is another, for you, Mademoiselle Erika,” Chef Antoine said, placing a second, smaller package on the counter. It was heavy, wrapped in simple, elegant black paper.
“For me?” She frowned. “There’s no card.”
“Non. But the flowers are clearly for Mademoiselle Anneliese.” He gave a small, knowing shrug. “And you are the only other person in this house who matters.”
She peeled back the paper to find a thick, leather-bound sketchbook and a set of professional-grade charcoal pencils. She recognized the brand immediately—the kind she’d coveted in art school but could never justify buying. He’d been digging.
She ran a thumb over the paper—heavy stock, good tooth. The kind that grabbed charcoal and held it. She lifted the trash can lid and dropped the sketchbook and pencils inside. They landed with a soft thud.
“Your sister’s coffee,” Chef Antoine said, placing a steaming mug on the counter beside her. His gaze flickered to the trash can, then back to her. “A thoughtful gift, the other one. For an artist.”
“He doesn’t get to be thoughtful,” she said, low and tight, as she snatched the mug from the counter.
Olivia swept into the kitchen, phone already pressed to her ear. “No, tell the studio we’ll have a statement by noon. And get me Martin Blackwell’s agent on the line.”
Olivia ended her call with a frustrated sigh, already typing before the screen went dark.
“She’s not a crisis to manage, Liv. She’s my sister.”
Olivia’s hands stilled. When she looked up, her eyes were tired but steady.
“She’s my best friend. Which is why I have to be her publicist first today—because if I let myself be her friend right now, I’ll fall apart, and that won’t help her or her career.
” She gestured toward the living room. “Go. She needs you to be her sister. I need to be her bulldog.”
Erika gave a tight nod. She was halfway down the hall when something made her glance back. Antoine stood motionless by the trash can, the black paper wrapping visible in his hands. Then one of Olivia’s assistants passed, blocking her view, and she kept walking.
The living room was chaotic. Her two assistants fluttered around nervously, unpacking a flood of “get well soon” gifts from brands—a basket of artisanal teas, a box of luxury skincare products, and a new loungewear set in cashmere.
Anneliese herself lay on a massive velvet sofa, her cast propped on silk pillows, face pale, wincing at every movement.
Erika carefully navigated the room and sat on the edge of the sofa, placing the coffee on the coaster beside her sister.
The doorbell chimed again, and a few moments later, a middle-aged man with a kind face and a leather doctor’s bag was shown in. Dr. Aris, the private physician to half of young Hollywood, approached the sofa.
Dr. Aris confirmed what they already knew—three months minimum.
Anneliese’s composure cracked, the stoic mask she'd worn all morning starting to slip. But his parting words were new: “No walking scenes. No stunts. No long days on your feet. If you push too hard, too fast, you risk permanent damage—chronic pain, limited mobility. I’ve seen careers end because someone tried to power through an injury like this.”
As the doctor left, Anneliese stared at the door he’d closed behind him. Her lower lip trembled. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, smearing her perfect mascara, and said nothing.
“Annie,” Olivia said, ending her call and turning to face them. “Okay. The studio knows. The insurance people know. And the rumors are already flying.” She glanced at her phone. “Page Eight is running a poll on whether the production will survive. The betting odds aren’t in your favor.”
Anneliese finally broke. “So that’s it? My career’s over?”
“It’s not over,” Olivia said, “but it’s on life support.
The studio won’t push the production schedule, not for Blackwell.
They’ll just recast you and sue for breach of contract.
” She started pacing, ticking off fingers.
“Lawsuits. Seven figures, minimum. Reputational damage that’ll follow you for years.
And every director in town will remember you as the actress who couldn’t deliver.
” She paused, forcing her voice softer. “The best I can do right now is book you into a wellness facility in Malibu. Spin the recovery. Leak photos of you looking brave and determined . . .”
“A wellness facility?” Anneliese’s voice rose. “You want me to post selfies from a spa while my career goes down the drain? ‘Brave recovery journey, hashtag blessed’? While Stefan Cruz gets to laugh all the way to the bank?”
“It’s about controlling the narrative!”
“I don’t want to control the narrative, Liv, I want my movie!” Anneliese’s desperate gaze met Olivia’s—held a beat too long—a look Erika had seen before. The raw panic in Anneliese’s eyes receded, replaced by calculation. When her sister turned to look at her, something in the room shifted.
“Annie, what is it?” Erika asked.
Olivia was the one who spoke, low and controlled. “Annie . . . we’ve talked about this. A worst-case scenario. The ‘in case of emergency, break glass’ plan we hoped we’d never have to use.”
Anneliese’s voice was barely audible. “It’s time, Liv. We have to do it.”
Erika looked between the two of them. They had a plan? A plan that involved her? “Do what? What are you talking about?”
Anneliese took a shaky breath. “Mrs. Peterson’s history final.”
Erika froze. The flu. The sweater. Acing the test while wearing her sister’s face. No one had ever known.
“Annie, no.”
“You did it then,” Anneliese said, steadier now. “You can do it now.”
“This isn’t a history test, Anneliese—it’s fraud,” Olivia said.
There was no horror in it, just grim pragmatism.
“Voice coaching. Media training. Learning to walk and talk and laugh like her. On a set with the most notoriously difficult director in Hollywood?” She shook her head. “You’d be discovered in five minutes.”
“But the principle is the same!” Anneliese shot back. “She can do it. She’s me. We’re identical. Those are logistics, Liv! The important thing is the face. We have the same one.”
Olivia let out a short, incredulous laugh. “And Bradley Smart? You think a Temmy winner isn’t going to notice that his leading lady suddenly has a different energy? A different timing? He’ll know something is off the second he sees her.”
“Bradley’s never even met me in person,” Anneliese said. “We were cast two weeks before the accident—everything’s been over Zoom. He’ll see me when he looks at her.”
She turned to Erika, reaching for her hand with a surprisingly strong grip.
“Erika, please.” Her voice broke into a sob, but something strategic had already replaced the panic.
“You’re the only one who can do this. This isn’t just about a movie.
It’s about everything I’ve built. Stefan already cost me the Forde campaign.
The LaMode cover. Two years of my life fighting his narrative that I’m some talentless influencer.
” Her chin trembled. “If I lose this role, he wins. He’ll have taken everything from me.
” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please. Don’t let him win. ”
Erika looked from her sister’s tear-streaked face to Olivia’s calculating one. This was the story of their lives. Anneliese building an empire, Erika filling in the cracks. “Annie, I-I can’t. I’m not you. I don’t know how to . . . be you.”
“We’ll drill you,” Anneliese said. “I’ll be your coach. I’ll be in your ear through a hidden mic if I have to.”
Olivia leaned forward. “The bigger problem is Martin Blackwell. He notices everything—the way you hold your coffee cup, the way you breathe between takes. One wrong move, one flicker of hesitation that isn’t in the script, and he’ll know something’s off.
” She met Erika’s eyes. “This isn’t just a performance. It’s the con of a lifetime.”
The weight of their words pressed down on Erika. Anneliese saw it in her sister’s face, and her manic energy deflated, replaced by shame. “No,” she whispered. “You’re right. It’s a crazy idea. Forget I said it. It’s too much to ask of you.”
Seeing her sister defeated was a pain sharper than her own disappointments. This time felt different.
It was terrifying. It was reckless. Her hands felt cold. Could I pull this off?
“You’re not asking,” Erika said, quiet but steady. “I’m offering.” She looked at Olivia, her fear giving way to resolve. “I’ll do it.”
Silence. Anneliese stared at her, mouth open.
“Are you sure about this, Erika?” Olivia asked.