1. Elodie

ELODIE

I always thought if I met someone famous, I’d either act cool, like this were a regular thing for me, or, at the bare minimum, indifferent. Turns out I was wrong on both accounts and dove headfirst into fangirl territory when popstar extraordinaire Stella Wilde knocked on my front door not even five minutes ago.

There’s nothing quite like greeting your idol with a full-on gaping mouth and a squeal that rivals how a constipated chipmunk might sound like. Throw in a little hyperventilation and I’m the perfectly unprepared host.

Stella and her manager, Rachel-I-didn’t-catch-her-last-name-after-Stella-freaking-Wilde-walked-through-my-front-door, stand awkwardly in the middle of my studio apartment that only houses my twin bed. Why didn’t I take Mom’s advice and get a couch or some chairs? Hell, I’ll even take a coffee table at this point to offer it for them to sit on. Stella rolls the sleeves of her sweatshirt up, most likely regretting her decision to wear it since I don’t have AC and the fan isn’t doing much to cut through the summer heat.

“Are you real? Like really real?” I ask, my gaze bouncing between the two women, but it keeps snagging on Stella as I try not to fangirl too hard. She’s even prettier in person and more striking. Six feet tall, green eyes, and long, blonde hair, but with a presence that makes people pay attention. “Nina promised it was only alcohol in my drinks last night, but I’m starting to think she might’ve slipped me some Molly if you’re sitting here…or, well, standing here …” I swallow back the rest of my words when Rachel’s eyebrows climb higher and higher the more I talk.

“We really don’t have time for this kind of confusion.” Rachel sighs as if my existence pains her. Everything about her screams assertive, from her blunt, shiny black bob to her stilettos that appear as sharp as her personality. “I certainly hope doing drugs isn’t the norm for you, or else we’re wasting our time.”

“It’s not,” I rush to say. “I’ve never done drugs. Unless… Is weed included in your definition? Because if so?—”

“Don’t worry about any of that,” Stella says, saving me with a smile playing on her signature red lips. “What matters is that we look eerily similar.”

“And that’s why we’re here,” Rachel says. “The video you posted last night has created a messy situation for us.”

“But I didn’t post it,” I say, as if that helps the so-called messy situation. I’m going to kill Nina for recording me singing last night and posting it on TikTok. She sent me the link this morning of me wearing the same ripped jeans I’m wearing now, a baseball cap low on my forehead, and debuting my version of a slowed-down, angsty version of the hit, dance-worthy, happy Stella song. What’s even more shocking was that it went viral overnight.

“But it’s out there,” Rachel says. “And we’re in the middle of damage control since everyone thinks it’s Stella singing at an open mic night in Nashville. We’re going to go along with that narrative because we need your help with a delicate situation.”

“Me?” I say, placing a hand on my heart like an idiot since clearly there’s no other “you” in the room.

Rachel looks to my water-stained ceiling for help. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s pointless to look there for it?—

“I’m sick,” Stella says.

I jerk my head to look at her before I can even comprehend the meaning. Sick? Disbelief and worry slices through me. Stella being sick is unthinkable, unimaginable. Performing through anything is her superhero origin story. Sickness, heartache, tragedy—it doesn’t matter; nothing stops her. Until now, apparently .

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“We’ll see.” Stella shrugs as if it’s not that big of a deal, but her shoulders are too stiff for me to believe how casual she’s acting. “I’ll get the results soon, but I can’t make it to a charity event tonight in New York City.”

“So? What’s the big deal? You miss an event and go to a doctor or something and…” I trail off when Rachel and Stella give each other meaningful looks. “Wait. What’s really going on here?”

“You need to sign this before we can take this conversation further.” Rachel passes me a stapled stack of papers with the word NDA on the front. “It’s tabbed where you need to sign. Here’s a pen.”

“Of course it is.” I grab the pen and scan the document. “How many of these do you have lying around in that purse of yours?” That purse being a leather Birkin that costs more than I make in a year.

“Enough to give one to every person we encounter,” Rachel deadpans.

I whistle. Impressive. It makes sense that no one may talk to Stella without signing one of these bad boys beforehand. And I get it. Her level of fame demands it, and it’s Rachel’s job to protect her, even if she’s prickly. I sign my name, Elodie Smith, on the dotted lines and hand it back to Rachel.

“We need to prepare for a worst-case scenario,” Rachel says. “If Stella needs time to recover, we can’t cancel her tour. Billions of dollars are on the line. ”

“And let’s not forget all the people who are working for me,” Stella interjects. “They’re relying on the tour to support their families. I can’t let them or my fans down.” Stella’s face crumples at the mention of disappointing her fans. Stella’s America’s sweetheart for a reason, and it looks like it’s not just a persona, but real.

“And what? You want me to pretend to be you?” I laugh at my joke, but no one joins in. My next laugh dries up in my throat and comes out as a wheeze.

“Why not?” Rachel asks. “It’s already proven that you look enough alike to fool the internet. But we’d like to test if you could fool people in person tonight at a charity event.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say, leaning against the wall, needing it to keep me upright from the shock of it all. I still can’t even process the fact that Stella’s in my apartment let alone wanting me to help her pull a switcheroo on the world.

“Don’t tell me we’re back to the ‘are you real’ conversation?” Rachel gives Stella a look that screams you deal with her .

“I’ve had a heart problem for years,” Stella says. “And I’ve been putting off surgery for just as long, not wanting to disappoint anyone. I’ll see if the doctors have any other options to manage my symptoms, but if it does come to surgery, it’ll take a few months to recover. And I need someone to take my place in that time, especially concerning the tour.”

“Is that even legal?” I ask .

“Of course,” Rachel says. “We’d sign a contract and everything.”

Stella gives Rachel a dirty look but remains silent.

“I’m not sure,” I say, slowly. “My mom is sick, and I can’t just leave for a day, or months. And let’s not get into the fact that I’m not sure I can even do this.”

“We’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars every day you’re Stella,” Rachel says. “And I can organize a live-in nurse for your mom if you do this.”

I choke on my own spit at that figure. One hundred thousand dollars. A day . That’s more money than I’ve ever dreamed about making in a single year, much less a day. A single day as Stella would pay off my student loan debt. A single day would help me get ahead of Mom’s mortgage and finally get her the physical therapy she desperately needs. We could move to a nicer house, one that doesn’t have a water-stained ceiling. Twenty-four hours is all it’d take for me to breathe easier for the first time in years.

“We’ve got to get to Stella’s doctor’s appointment,” Rachel says, checking her watch. “We’ll leave you to think on it. Here’s my number.” Rachel hands me a swanky business card with swirly gold lettering. “I need an answer within the next two hours if you can make tonight. If you’re successful at the charity event, we can discuss you taking over fully and sign all the necessary contracts.”

I nod stupidly, not sure what to say. Rachel opens the front door, and Stella pulls up the hood of her sweatshirt and pops on a pair of oversized sunglasses. She stops next to me.

“Please consider it,” Stella whispers. “I really need your help.”

Once the door shuts, I don’t even know how to process what just happened. Sure, I’ve been told multiple times I look like Stella, but I’ve always brushed it off. I’ll admit that I’ve kept my blonde hair long to match Stella’s, but I went rogue and got blunt bangs. Mostly to hide behind, to blend into this stupid town, even if it didn’t work.

Nina and Mom insist it’s true, that I look like her, but everyone knows when the people closest to you make that kind of comparison, it’s not to be believed. And the random strangers who comment on my appearance? Their opinions don’t matter. Not when I hate this town with a passion, and I learned a long time ago to not take to heart what anyone says.

And now Stella wants me to act like her? At a real event?

It’s insanity.

It’s never going to work.

It’s tempting as hell.

Not only because of the money, or the chance to leave this town behind, but because I’m a huge fan of Stella’s. She’s clearly going through something and yet she still took the time to come here in person and ask me for help. She seems like someone who cares about her fans and the people who work for her. That’s more than I can say about most people I know, and I can’t help but respect that about her.

Grabbing my keys and purse, I head over to Mom’s, which is just next door since I’m living above her garage. A blast of heat hits me in the face when I enter the house. It’s hotter inside than outside, which is saying something because summer in Tennessee isn’t a comfortable kind of heat. It’s the sticky, suffocating kind.

“Mom?” I call out. “Why is it so hot in here?”

“I think the AC is broken,” she says from the living room. I find her sitting on her favorite flower-upholstered couch with a fan in one hand and the TV remote in the other. A smile, strained at the edges, flickers across her face as she spots me. Sweat clings to her brown hair, but it can't quite extinguish the effort behind the gesture.

Shit. The AC? That’s thousands of dollars I don’t have. I’ve already maxed out my credit cards, and it’s not like either of us has any savings. It wasn’t always like this. When my father was in the picture, we didn’t have to worry about money. But after Mom’s car accident six years ago left her with chronic back pain and a bout of depression, he wanted out. It turns out his wedding vows were nothing more than empty words. In sickness and in health? My ass.

“How long has it been like this?” I ask.

“Just a couple hours. ”

“You should’ve come to my place.” Not like it’d be better, but at least I have a fan.

She gives me a placating smile. Of course, my place wouldn’t be sufficient. I only have a lumpy twin bed and she can’t sit or stand for too long or else she could risk a flare-up. Keeping a job is next to impossible for her, and every day is a constant battle of trying to manage her pain levels.

“Let me grab the fan from my place and call someone to get this fixed.”

“I’ll be fine. I don’t need the AC anyway…”

“Yes, you do. I’ll pick up some extra shifts to cover the cost,” I lie. Even with extra shifts, it won’t help. A college dropout doesn’t qualify me for anything more than a minimum-wage salary and never-ending debt. My life is a hamster wheel of working nonstop without making a dent in the bills and mortgage on Mom’s house. The house Dad promised to pay off, but never did. The house that’s a constant money pit with all the upkeep and repairs needed.

But if I took Rachel’s offer, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this. Even just once would be enough to help. Mom deserves better than only eating pasta, living in a hot house with peeling wallpaper, and being constantly in pain. She’s the kindest person I know, and the best adoptive mom I could’ve ever asked for. Since she first brought me home when I was a month old, she’s showered me with love every single day. She’s the type of person who was meant to be a mom, but just couldn’t have a baby of her own. And she doesn’t deserve this kind of life.

“I was offered to do a job tonight,” I blurt out. “One that pays amazingly well. But I’d be gone for a couple days since it’s in a different city.”

“Why do you say it like you’re going to do a job for the mafia?”

“Mom,” I groan. “Are you watching The Sopranos again? You know there are other shows out there that are much newer.”

“It’s the best show ever made, and I won’t hear otherwise. But enough about me. Are you going to take this mysterious job that sounds like you’re doing something illegal?”

“It’s not illegal, and I’m not sure.”

“Does it hurt people?”

“Of course not.”

“Then if it’s not illegal, and it doesn’t hurt people, what’s stopping you?” she asks.

“I just… I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Darling, I say this with all the love I have for you, but you do realize you’re twenty-five and no longer a toddler? It’s time to flee the nest.”

I snort. “I guess I’m still in the needy phase.” Or more like she is. She’s not able to manage by herself for longer than a day, even if she pretends she can. “I’ve got to get to work, but why don’t you come to the diner while we wait for the AC to be fixed? I’ll even get you a slice of peach pie. ”

“I’m okay here. I can’t show up at the diner looking like this.” She waves a hand at her sweaty self. “And I refuse to miss this episode.”

There’s no point in arguing with her. Mom’s the most stubborn person I know, and she won’t change her mind. Instead, I open all her windows and bring over the portable fan in my studio. Once she’s set up, I kiss her goodbye on the cheek.

On the walk to work, I call Nina.

“Hey, babe,” she says. “Have you seen the video? It’s at?—”

“Are you still talking to Greg?”

“Greg the handyman, or Greg the bartender?”

“Handyman. Mom’s AC is broken, and she’s dead set on waiting it out at home. Do you think he could fix it today and give me a deal?”

“I’ll call him now. But answer my question first. Have you seen how viral your video is? Everyone thinks you’re actually Stella Wilde.”

“Yeah… I’ve seen it.”

“What are you hiding?” she asks sharply.

“How do you know I’m hiding anything?”

“Pfft, I’ve been your best friend for almost twenty years. I know you’re withholding something from me.”

“Ugh.” I sigh, loving and hating how well she knows me. “Fine, but you can’t say anything to anyone or else I’ll be sued and in massive trouble.”

“Gotcha,” she says seriously. “Hit me with it.”

“Stella Wilde wants me to pretend to be her tonight at a charity event, and if that goes well, I’m going to take over for her on tour while she recovers from surgery.”

Silence.

That’s not the reaction I was expecting from her.

“Nina?” I ask, pulling my phone away and glancing at the screen to make sure we’re still connected. “Are you there?”

“Yeah.” She sucks in a sharp breath. “Just trying not to scream in the middle of work and cause a scene. Please tell me you said hell yes.”

“Not exactly.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? If you don’t accept it, I will on your behalf.”

“I can’t just up and leave Mom and my life,” I say.

“You can and will. What are you really leaving? The diner that doesn’t pay you well? A town that’s been nothing but cruel to you? Yeah, real hard decision there. And as for your mom, I’ll come over and make sure she’s okay while you’re away.”

I wince, hating that she’s right. “But?—”

“No buts. The Spice Girls collectively dare you to accept.”

“You’d bring the Spice Girls into this?” I gasp. “How dare you.” If they’re involved, I have to accept. It’s the rules we agreed upon when we were eight for situations just like this where one of us is scared to do something that’ll benefit us. Like when I was too scared to try out for the track team or when Nina was uncertain if she should wear the clothes she sewed for the first time.

“What better time than now?” she asks. “If you don’t accept this offer, I won’t be responsible for what I do to you. Just start with tonight and see how it goes. If you hate it, then at least you tried.”

That’s actually a good idea. One night shouldn’t be that hard. I could probably get away with it by being myself and no one would know. It should be easy and straightforward, and I’ll get paid a shit ton of money to do it.

“Fine,” I say. “But I’ll have to leave soon to make it in time. I just need to drop off the muffins I baked for the diner.” It’s my passion, baking, and it’s the only bright spot about working there.

“Do it or leave the muffins at your mom’s and I can bring them for you. I’ll also call Greg and check in on Rose regularly. Go quit that job of yours and have your Cinderella moment. After that, I expect a detailed presentation, TED Talk style, of every second of it.”

“Details I can do, but Cinderella?” I grimace. “Come on, the prince couldn’t even remember what she looked like, and it’s not like she was wearing a mask.”

“Okay, good point. Then go to that gala and slay like the badass boss babe that you are, no prince required.”

I grin. “Now that’s more like it.”