MY MAN

Three

Selene

The Monday morning after the Sinclair "incident" felt heavy. Usually, my apartment was my sanctuary—a minimalist loft filled with curated art and the scent of expensive candles—but as I dressed for work, I found myself hesitating over every choice. I reached for my signature black blazer, then stopped. Would she be wearing black today? I looked at my favorite red lipstick and felt a wave of nausea. If I wore it, was I giving her a template to follow?

I ended up in a charcoal gray knit dress, something understated and professional. I needed to feel like a CEO, not a socialite. I needed to remember that my life was built on more than just silk camisoles and center parts.

My office was in a sleek building in the Flatiron District. As the Creative Director for Aura Strategy, I was used to being the one who dictated the vibe. But when I stepped into the break room for my first caffeine fix of the day, the vibe was already... off.

"Selene! Oh my god, did you see the post?"

It was Marcus, one of my junior designers. He was hovering over his phone, laughing with Sarah from accounts.

"What post, Marcus? I’ve been in back-to-back emails since six," I said, sliding my mug under the industrial espresso machine.

"Vivian’s," Sarah chirped. "She posted a 'Monday Motivation' Reel. It’s hilarious. She’s literally doing a parody of your 'How to Boss' speech from the gala last month. Or at least, I think it’s a parody? It’s so spot on."

My hand hovered over the button. "A parody?"

Marcus turned his screen toward me. It was a video of Vivian. She was in an office setting that looked remarkably like a staged version of mine. She was wearing a gray knit dress—not the same brand as mine, but the same silhouette. She was holding a coffee mug with the same 'A' monogram I’d bought myself for my birthday.

“Confidence isn’t a gift, it’s a workout,” Vivian’s voice chirped through the tiny speakers, using my exact phrasing from brunch. “You just have to show up and decide you belong in the room.”

She ended the video with a wink and a tag:

#InspiredByTheBest #WorkHardPlayHarder #MyMentor.

"It’s so sweet that she looks up to you that much," Sarah said, oblivious to the ice forming in my veins. "I wish I had a group of friends that supportive. She’s like your little shadow."

"Yeah," I forced out, the espresso machine hissing like a warning. "A shadow. Exactly."

I retreated to my office and closed the door. My heart was thumping against my ribs. It wasn't just a haircut anymore. She was curating a digital persona that was an echo of mine, but with a "relatable" twist that made her seem humble and me seem like the blueprint she was "honoring."

It was brilliant. It was terrifying.

I tried to focus on the Sterling mock-ups, but the gossip of the office felt like a low-frequency hum through the walls. I could hear the side characters of my life—the colleagues I’d known for years—slowly being charmed.

Around lunch, Lucy called.

"Hey, are we still on for the gallery opening tonight?" she asked. Her voice sounded bright, but there was a strain there.

"I don't know, Luce. I'm buried in work," I lied. The truth was, I didn't want to see which version of me would show up to the gallery.

"Come on, Selene. Don't be like that. Vivian already bought the tickets for all of us. She said she wanted to celebrate your big win with the Sterling pitch. She’s being so thoughtful."

"Vivian bought the tickets?" I asked, sitting back in my chair. "Those tickets are two hundred dollars a piece, Lucy. Vivian works part-time in a boutique."

"She said she’s been saving up. Look, don't make it weird. She’s trying so hard to be part of the group. If you don't go, it’s going to look like you’re snubbing her after she did something nice."

The trap was closing. If I went, I had to deal with the mimicry. If I stayed home, I was the "mean girl" who looked down on her less-successful friend.

"Fine," I said, rubbing my temples. "I'll be there. But Lucy? Keep an eye on her tonight. Really look at her."

"You're being paranoid, babe," Lucy sighed. "You're the queen of the hive. Nobody is taking your crown. See you at eight."

I hung up, looking at the monogrammed mug on my desk. It felt tainted. I took it to the sink, rinsed it out, and put it in the back of the cupboard, hidden behind the mismatched office ceramics.

The afternoon was a blur of minor conflicts. Marcus brought me a design that was a complete departure from my usual style. When I questioned him, he looked confused.

"Oh, I thought you were moving in this direction? I saw your Pinterest board—the one you shared with Vivian? She said you were looking for something more... 'delicate' for the next phase."

"I didn't share a Pinterest board with Vivian," I said, my voice dropping an octave.

"Oh." Marcus blinked, shifting his weight. "Well, she sent me a link. Said you guys were brainstorming over wine. I just assumed..."

"Don't assume, Marcus. Stick to the brief I gave you."

He left my office looking stung, and I knew exactly what would happen next. He’d message Vivian. He’d tell her I was "on a warpath" today. And Vivian would offer him a digital shoulder to cry on, playing the role of the "understanding friend" who knows how "difficult" I can be when I'm stressed.

She was dismantling my authority, brick by brick, and she was doing it with a smile.

As the sun began to set over the city, casting long, jagged shadows across my office floor, I realized I couldn't just play defense anymore. I needed to understand what her endgame was. Was it my job? My friends? My clothes?

Or was she just waiting for the one thing I didn't have yet? The one piece of the puzzle that would make her "Selene" transformation complete?

I opened my laptop and looked at the guest list for the gallery opening. My eyes scanned the names until I stopped at one in the 'VIP' column.

Adrian Thorne.

The name had been whispering through the social circles for months. The architect who lived like a hermit but built like a god. I’d never met him, but I’d heard the stories. He was the prize every woman in this city wanted to claim, but no one could even get close to.

I felt a sudden, sharp instinct—a premonition.

Vivian wasn't just building a life. She was building a trap. And I had the feeling that Adrian Thorne was the bait she was waiting for me to take.