Rosaline woke before dawn, though it was hard to tell whether she'd actually slept. The city was still, muted beneath a curtain of low clouds, the kind of gray that seemed to press against her windows.
She sat at her kitchen table with a cup of coffee gone cold, her phone face down beside it. She hadn't heard from Nora again, not since that last message.
Nora: He remembers every second of it.
Rosaline rubbed her temples. That single line had looped through her head all night, over and over, until it sounded like a verdict.
He remembers every second.
Conrad remembered, yes, but not the way Nora thought. He remembered the way she (Rosaline) had laughed at his dry jokes, the way she'd met his gaze instead of shrinking from it. He remembered her, but under the wrong name, the wrong face.
And now Nora was the one living in the shadow of that memory.
Rosaline tried to imagine their meeting, her sister across from him, trying to decipher his familiarity. She could almost see the flicker of confusion in Nora's eyes, the way she'd tilt her head when something didn't make sense.
Nora would cover it with charm, of course. She always did. But Rosaline knew her too well to think that charm came without claws.
She exhaled slowly. The air tasted of dread.
By the time she reached the office, the storm had rolled in, low and rumbling, the kind that hummed beneath the sound of traffic. She slipped into her glass-walled office, her reflection faint against the darkening sky.
"Good morning, Ms. Clarke," Claire said softly as she dropped off a stack of documents.
"Morning," Rosaline murmured, eyes on the papers but mind elsewhere.
The intercom buzzed barely an hour later. Claire's voice came through, careful. "Ms. Clarke? Your sister's here."
Rosaline froze.
"Send her in," she said after a pause that felt too long.
Nora swept in a moment later, a vision of effortless poise. Cream coat, red lips, hair caught in a sleek twist. But her eyes, those familiar, mirror-bright eyes, were sharp.
"Nice office," she said coolly, glancing around. "Quiet. Private."
Rosaline stood. "What are you doing here?"
"Talking," Nora said, shutting the door behind her. "Before this situation gets completely out of hand."
Rosaline's stomach knotted. "You saw him."
Nora's lips curved in a humorless smile. "Yes, I saw him. And I'm still trying to figure out what exactly I was supposed to be remembering."
She moved closer, heels clicking against the polished floor. "You want to tell me what happened that night, Rosie? Because clearly, something did."
Rosaline's pulse quickened. "It wasn't," She stopped, searching for words that didn't exist. "It was nothing, Nora. A misunderstanding. I just filled in for you, as you asked."
"Filled in," Nora repeated softly, as if testing the weight of it. "You make it sound like you signed a delivery receipt. He thinks we," She broke off, shaking her head. "Whatever happened, it wasn't small."
Rosaline swallowed. "I didn't plan any of it. He thought I was you, and I didn't correct him. That's all."
"That's all?" Nora's voice rose, sharp and incredulous. "Rosie, he's interested. In me. In the me that you pretended to be!"
The words landed like glass breaking.
Rosaline looked down, fingers twisting together. "I know."
"Oh, you know," Nora said bitterly. "And now what? He's your client, you're his PR advisor, and I'm supposed to what, play along?"
Rosaline met her gaze finally. "You're the one who asked me to take your place. I didn't want this."
"Maybe not," Nora said, her tone softening just slightly. "But you didn't stop it either, did you?"
The silence that followed was thick and heavy.
Rosaline turned away, staring out the rain-streaked window. "He was different that night. Not like I remembered him."
Nora's head tilted. "Remembered?"
Rosaline froze.
The slip hung between them, quiet but unmistakable.
Nora blinked, a slow realization dawning. "You knew him before."
Rosaline said nothing.
"My God," Nora breathed, stepping closer. "You knew him."
"It was years ago," Rosaline whispered finally. "A project. It ended badly."
Nora's laugh was sharp. "So this isn't just some mistaken identity story. You," She exhaled, incredulous. "You fell for him once, didn't you?"
Rosaline didn't answer. She didn't have to.
Nora's expression hardened. "And now you've put me right in the middle of your unfinished business."
"That's not fair," Rosaline said quietly.
"No?" Nora snapped. "You pretended to be me, you let him believe it, and now he's looking at me like I'm someone else, like he already knows me when I don't know him at all. Do you have any idea how insane that feels?"
Rosaline's throat tightened. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
"Intentions don't fix damage," Nora said. "You of all people should know that."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft drumming of rain against glass.
Then Nora's voice dropped, quieter but cutting. "He likes me, Rosie. Or rather, he likes who he thinks I am. So what happens when he figures out the truth? Who do you think he'll believe lied to him?"
Rosaline's stomach twisted.
"That's what I thought," Nora murmured. She stepped back, smoothing her coat. "You've created a mess, sister dear. I hope you're ready when it blows up in your face."
She moved toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, he's even more charming in person. I can see why you couldn't resist."
And then she was gone.
Rosaline sank slowly into her chair, the echo of her sister's perfume still lingering in the air, something bright and cold, like citrus over ice.
Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone. A new email sat at the top of her inbox.
From: Conrad Reid
Subject: Dinner meeting, tomorrow evening
She stared at it for a long time, her reflection blurring on the screen.
Thunder rolled outside, low and distant, like the first warning of a storm that was no longer avoidable.