"How do I look, baby?"
Isabella turned from the mirror in the car, and I had to admit, the resemblance was almost perfect.
The face mask they’d created from Naya’s scanned features fit seamlessly over Isabella’s own face, looking so natural that if you didn’t know to look for the slight edges along her hairline, you’d never guess it wasn’t real skin.
I smiled and reached over to adjust the collar of her dress. It was a simple black outfit that looked appropriately sombre for soone who’d just lost their mother. "You look perfect and just like her."
"You’re sure this will work?" Isabella’s voice wavered slightly, and I could see the nervousness in her eyes even through the mask. "What if they can tell it’s not really —I an, not really her?"
I took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
"It’ll work. The money we get from the insurance company, plus what we’ll raise through the WeFundYou campaign for your ’surgery,’ will be more than enough. We can finally buy that house in Wellspring Estate, darling, and finally level up with the real elites of society instead of living from paycheck to paycheck."
She smiled at that, her eyes lighting up with the sa greed that had drawn us together in the first place. We understood each other, Isabella and I. We both knew what it was like to want more, to deserve more than what we’d been given.
"And you’re absolutely sure I look like Naya?" she asked again, touching the edge of the mask nervously.
I studied her carefully; the dark hair we’d styled exactly like Naya’s, the way she held her shoulders with that slight hunch Naya always had, even the sad, lost expression we’d practised for hours.
"I would have sworn it was you. Don’t worry. I had the face mask and fingerprints made in the best lab in Maxford City. They cost a fortune, but they’re perfect. Just rember your lines, act as naturally as possible, and they won’t suspect a thing."
The plan had co together so beautifully, as if fate itself was rewarding my patience and cleverness for putting up with a busybody and people-pleaser like Naya for three years.
You can call an opportunist, but the only way to ever make it if you don’t co from a silver spoon is to forge your own. When Naya confessed her love for , I was so shocked that soone like her would love soone like .
Her mom was a renowned actress; the professors worshipped the ground she walked on because everyone believed she would beco like her mom one day, or even do better than her.
So, sitting across the cafeteria table listening to her pour out her heart to one rainy Sunday evening had stunned completely.
And she had asked out with a gift.
A limited edition Hakeson wristwatch.
My coming to the acting academy had been sponsored by everyone in my community. I lived on al tickets and the little pennies I could earn from working part-ti as a janitor at the Academy.
So for , it was a big break.
Naya ca into my life and changed it for real, but I never loved her.
I hated how flawless her acting was, how she could wake from sleep and depict a scene without endless coaching.
I hated the path her mother had paved for her, and honestly, I tried my best to love her, but every ti I wanted to let love grow, I would hear so students talking about how Naya aced her tests with an A .
All the big boys wanted her.
They idolised her beauty because in our world, getting a few modifications on your body was the norm, but for soone like Naya, she looked as if a plastic surgeon had paid great attention to her features before birth.
Everything about her was perfect.
But before you judge , I was good to her, too.
Naya didn’t have a lot of listening ears growing up.
She was a confused young adult, trying to find her way through the world without her mommy’s na, so it used to hurt her that people just assud she got all the good grades because her mom was Luxford City’s Best Actress.
So, I was her ear.
I would show up in the rain to console her for her inability to decide whether to pursue an internship with a famous director who knew her mom or a less famous one with potential.
I had to endure the whispers and snickers whenever I passed the hallways about what Naya ever saw in .
"He’s got to have it big down there because Caleb Moore is an average, good-looking guy. He’s not even a 6".
That was what I heard one afternoon when I accidentally walked into the dorm.
The boys had kept quiet after that and told they were joking, but deep down, I knew it was true.
Stephanie Rivers never liked either, and only tolerated because Naya would always insist that I be included in everything.
When Stephanie fell ill, and the chaos with her husband went viral, Naya willingly left the Academy so I could continue learning under her tuition.
Her excuse was, "I can always pick up no matter what. I could cry my eyes out to any of the directors, and I’ll get a role. Don’t worry, darling."
She had indirectly reminded that I was not as good an actor as she was; I ca from a poor background, and this was my only chance. Of course, it had hurt to the fullest, but I swallowed it all.
For the reason why we were here today, it had started three months ago when Stephanie Rivers, in one of her rare monts of lucidity before she died, had grabbed my hand and told about the insurance policy.
She had told about the money she’d saved for Naya—over twenty million dollars sitting in a trust that could only be accessed if Naya showed up married.
"Please take care of my daughter," Stephanie had whispered, her grip surprisingly strong for soone so close to death. "Make sure she gets the money. The only condition is that she has to be married. If she shows up unmarried, she’ll never get it. Promise you’ll treat her right, Caleb. Promise ."
I’d promised, of course. I’d held her hand and told her everything she wanted to hear. And then I’d watched the information click into place in my mind like pieces of a puzzle.
Twenty million dollars. And the only person who knew about it was dying.
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