CHAPTER ONE: “How Much?”
1056 Words
The first thing people noticed about Aria Cole wasn’t her freckles, or the way her secondhand sweater always slipped off one shoulder, or even the sharp, watchful gleam in her eyes.
No.
The first thing they noticed was the silence around her.
Not the quiet of someone who had nothing to say—but the heavy, coiled stillness of a person who had learned the hard way that words were currency. And she was bankrupt.
Brooklyn, New York
11:37 PM
The leak in the ceiling had given up hours ago, leaving behind a dark, waterlogged stain that spread across the plaster like a bruise. Aria lay on her bed, one arm slung over her eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of her mother coughing in the next room.
Each cough was a knife twist.
She’d spent the last three months memorizing the rhythm of them—the wet, rattling ones that meant pain, the dry, hacking ones that meant exhaustion. Tonight was the worst kind. The kind that made her want to scream.
Her phone buzzed.
A notification from Mount Sinai Hospital glowed on the screen.
Payment overdue: $287,621.50
She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, and dropped the phone onto the mattress.
There was no point in panicking. Panicking didn’t pay bills.
The knock came at midnight.
Aria wasn’t asleep. She hadn’t slept properly in weeks.
She sat up, frowning. No one visited their apartment at this hour. No one ever visited their apartment.
The knock came again—firmer this time.
She padded to the door, barefoot, and peered through the peephole.
A man in a black suit stood in the hallway, his posture unnaturally straight, his expression blank.
Her pulse jumped.
“Who is it?” her mother called weakly from the bedroom.
“No one,” Aria said automatically. “Go back to sleep.”
The man knocked a third time.
She yanked the door open.
“What?”
The man didn’t flinch. “Aria Cole?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“Mr. Laurent would like to speak with you.”
She stared at him. “Who?”
The man stepped aside, revealing the sleek black town car idling at the curb.
The window rolled down.
And for the first time in her life, Aria saw real money.
The car smelled like leather and something faintly antiseptic.
Aria sat stiffly in the backseat, her fingers curled into her palms. She hadn’t changed out of her sweatpants. Hadn’t even put on proper shoes.
This was a mistake. A scam. A—
“You’re wondering if this is a k********g,” the man beside her said.
She turned her head.
Dominic Laurent was older than she’d expected. Mid-fifties, maybe, with silver-streaked hair and a face that looked like it had been carved from marble. Cold. Unyielding.
“It’s not,” he said.
She didn’t relax. “Then what is it?”
He studied her for a long moment, his gaze lingering on her freckles, the stubborn set of her jaw. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph.
“Do you know who this is?”
Aria glanced down.
The girl in the photo could’ve been her twin.
Smooth chestnut hair—the kind that only stayed that perfect shade with weekly salon visits—sharp cheekbones, and the same slight upturn at the end of her nose.
Cool gray eyes, like polished steel.
The resemblance was uncanny, except for two things- freckles dusted across Aria’s nose like spilled cinnamon—Her skin was flawless, airbrushed by money
And the smile. Hers was smooth where Aria’s cracked at the edges, effortless in a way only lifelong privilege could teach.
“Sophia Laurent,” Dominic said. “My daughter.”
Aria handed the photo back. “Congratulations. What do you want?”
“She’s made a mistake.” His voice was calm. “A costly one. And I need it to disappear.”
“And you thought… what? I’d help?”
“I thought,” he said slowly, “that you might be interested in a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
She laughed. “You want me to kill her?”
“I want you to be her.”
Silence.
Aria went very still, the photograph trembling slightly in her grip.
The girl in the image—Sophia—smiled up at her with polished perfection, her eyes bright with a confidence Aria had never known.
Dominic leaned forward, his voice low. "Nine months. That’s all I’m asking. You take her place at school, keep up appearances, and at the end of it, you walk away."
She blinked at him. “High school? I’m twenty-one. I’m closer to their student teachers than her classmates.”
“You look young,” he said flatly. “And these are rich kids, not detectives. They’ll see what they expect to see.”
Aria didn’t answer. She was already spiraling through the logistics, the impossibility of it—and the terrifying part of her that was already considering it.
“With what?” she asked finally, her voice barely escaping her throat.
"With enough money to ensure your mother gets the best treatment in the world."
He paused, letting the words sink in like a blade.
"And a new life for yourself."
Her throat tightened. The offer was a noose—one she was already slipping around her own neck.
Dominic’s gaze sharpened. "No one can know. Not your mother. Not Sophia’s friends."
A deliberate beat. "Especially not Jared Kane."
Aria’s fingers curled into the leather seat. "Her boyfriend?"
A cold smile.
"Her mistake."
This was insane.
This was impossible.
This was—
“How much?” she heard herself ask.
Dominic smiled.
And named a number that made her vision blur.
The silence in the car on the way back was deafening.
Aria stared out the window, her reflection flickering in the glass as they passed streetlights.
She could still see the check in her mind’s eye. The crispness of the paper. The weight of the zeros.
Enough to pay off the hospital.
Enough to start over.
Enough to breathe.
The car pulled up to her apartment.
The man in the suit handed her a card.
“We’ll be in touch,” he said.
She took it numbly.
And stepped back into the rain.
- Writer
