MY MAN

Four

The morning after the gallery felt like a hangover, even though I’d only had two glasses of champagne. I woke up to a barrage of notifications that made my stomach do a slow, nauseous roll.

The social media tags were everywhere.

“Twin magic at the Vance opening!” one caption read.

Another, posted by a local society blog, showed a side-by-side of me and Vivian with the headline:

“Copy-Paste: Is Vivian Thorne-in-waiting the new Selene?”

The fact that they had used a play on Adrian Thorne’s name in her headline made my blood turn to ice. She hadn't even spoken to him—not that I saw—but she had managed to link herself to his orbit simply by standing in the same room.

I dragged myself to the office, but the atmosphere had shifted again. There was a hush when I walked past the desks, the kind of silence that usually follows a juicy piece of gossip. I found Lucy in the breakroom, staring intensely at her phone.

"Luce," I said, my voice sounding raspier than usual. "Tell me you're looking at flight prices to Italy and not that blog post."

Lucy jumped slightly, sliding her phone into her pocket.

"Selene. Hey. No, I was just... checking emails."

"You’re a terrible liar," I said, grabbing a bottle of water. "What is it?"

Lucy sighed, leaning against the counter. "Look, Viv called me this morning. She was crying, Selene. She said you were really cruel to her in the restroom last night. Something about telling her she was 'originality-deprived' and that she should stay in her lane?"

I froze, the cap of the water bottle halfway twisted. "I told her to try an original thought. It wasn't a death threat, Lucy. It was a reaction to the fact that she was wearing my literal archive."

"She said you made her feel like a charity case," Lucy continued, her voice cautious. "She told me she only wore that dress because she wanted to make you proud. She thought you’d see it as a tribute. She’s really hurt. She thinks you’re... well, she thinks the Sterling stress is making you lash out."

There it was. The first seed. Stress. The universal code for unstable.

"She’s manipulating you," I said, my voice dangerously low.

"Can't you see the pattern? She takes my look, she takes my words, and now she’s taking my reputation as the 'sane' one in this friendship."

"I think you're overthinking it," Lucy said, but she didn't meet my eyes. "She’s just a girl who admires you, Selene. Maybe you should apologize? Just to smooth things over before the dinner on Friday?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. If I argued, I was proving her point. I was the "stressed-out" friend who couldn't handle a little flattery.

I spent the rest of the day in a state of hyper-vigilance. I noticed the small things now. I noticed that when I went to the printer, Vivian had already been there—leaving a copy of a magazine open to an article about "How to Handle Toxic Friends" on the tray. I noticed Marcus was avoiding my gaze, his headphones pulled tight over his ears.

By 4:00 PM, I received a calendar invite for a "Girls' Night In" at Vivian’s new apartment.

The location was only three blocks from mine.

I hadn't even known she’d moved. I clicked the address and my heart stopped. It was the building I had mentioned wanting to move into last spring. The one with the floor-to-ceiling windows and the private roof deck.

The "Obsession Seeds" weren't just being planted in the minds of my friends; they were being planted in the very soil of my life.

I didn't decline the invite. I didn't accept it. I just sat in the dimming light of my office, watching the city breathe outside my window. I thought about Adrian Thorne’s dark, predatory eyes. I thought about the way Vivian had looked at him—not with love, but with a hunger for acquisition.

She didn't want my life because she loved it. She wanted it because it was a better suit than the one she was born in.

I picked up my phone and sent a message to a contact I hadn't used in months. A private investigator who specialized in "corporate vetting."

I need a background check, I typed. On a woman named Vivian Rossi. Everything you can find. Financials, past addresses, previous 'friendships.'

If Vivian wanted to play the role of my shadow, I was going to find out exactly what kind of light she was hiding from.

As I left the building, I saw her. She was sitting in the cafe across the street, her back to me. She was wearing a charcoal gray knit dress.

The exact one I had worn yesterday.

She was sitting with Sarah from accounts, leaning in close, her hand on Sarah’s arm in that comforting, sisterly way I always did when Sarah was stressed about a deadline. Vivian looked up as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

She didn't wave. She didn't smile. She just watched me over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes cold and triumphant.

She was no longer just a copy.

She was becoming the primary.

And I was becoming the ghost.