Chapter 5: The Game
1193 Words
Pearl's POV
The door clicked shut behind Sophia, leaving the apartment unnaturally quiet. She's the one that told me everything I didn't know.
I've been here, planning to get my man back. But there she was, already married to him. What was worse than that?
I paced about the room restlessly, my mind spiraling with different thoughts.
Elizabeth, married before me. And not just married, but to Jackson Labonair. My Jackson.
I stopped in front of the full-length mirror near the entryway. My reflection stared back at me, perfectly highlighted hair, flawless makeup still intact even after three glasses of rosé.
I looked like the winner. I was supposed to be the winner. So how the hell had Elizabeth ended up taking my dreams?
I pressed my palms against the glass, leaning in until my breath fogged the surface.
"This is Mother’s fault." I blurted. "She's always coddling her. Always giving her the scraps and expecting me to share. Pearl, be nice to your sister. Pearl, let Elizabeth have this one thing. Now look at what happened. Elizabeth took everything.”
I straightened and smoothened my silk blouse with shaking hands. "No. This can never happen."
I’d built my entire life on never letting anyone take what was mine. Not my mother’s attention, not my father’s approval before he died, not the crown I’d worn since the day I turned eighteen and realized beauty was a diamond.
I dropped onto the velvet sofa, crossing my legs tightly. Sophia’s parting words replayed in my head like a bad pop song.
“Just threaten her, babe. Tell her you’ll ruin her life if she doesn’t walk away. She’s spineless. She’ll fold.”
Sophia meant well—sort of, but she didn’t understand me even as my best friend. Empty threats were for amateurs, words were cheap. When it comes to Pearl Warren, action spoke louder than words.
My mind raced, flipping through possibilities like pages in a revenge book.
Expose the marriage as a drunken mistake and force an annulment? That's too slow. Vegas paperwork took weeks, and by then they’d be bonded tighter.
Leak old photos of Jackson and me, make Elizabeth look like a homewrecker? Tempting, but the narrative could flip. People loved an underdog story, and Elizabeth had spent years perfecting the good girl role.
Blackmail Jackson again? No. He’d already neutralized the video. My leverage was gone.
I drummed my nails against my thigh, the acrylic tips making sharp little clicks. Think, Pearl. Think bigger.
And then it hit me. A slow, wicked smile curved my lips.
Having two Elizabeths wouldn’t be a bad idea… would it?
I snatched my phone from the coffee table, and hovered my thumb over the contacts. Dr. Richard. Our family physician since I was twelve. The man who’d written every prescription, signed every school medical form, and most importantly, never asked too many questions when Warren's name was attached to the bill.
Discretion was his middle name, and money was his religion.
I hit the call button, and it rang twice before he answered.
“Miss Pearl, this is late. Everything all right?”
“I need a favor,” I said without hesitation. “A rather… creative one.”
There's silence for a short while before he replied. “I’m listening.”
“I need a DNA sample processed discreetly. And then I need you to help me replicate something. Not exactly replicate, improve upon, perhaps.”
He cleared his throat. “You’re speaking in riddles, Pearl.”
I stood up and began to pace about again, my body trembling slightly.
“My stepsister, Elizabeth. You’ve met her. Same height, similar bone structure, dark hair, light brown eyes. Close enough that people who don’t look too closely might mistake one for the other.”
Another pause. “Go on.”
“I want you to help me become her. Not permanently, just enough to cause… confusion. Hair dye, colored contacts, a little makeup contouring. Maybe some subtle fillers if needed. Enough that I can walk into a room as Elizabeth and no one questions it."
He exhaled slowly. “You’re asking me to assist in impersonation.”
“I’m asking you to assist in family business,” I corrected. “And I’ll make it worth your while. Very worth your while. New clinic equipment. That research grant you’ve been chasing. Just name your price.”
Silence again, before the sound of his voice returned to my ears. “Send me recent photos of Elizabeth. Front, profile, close-ups. I’ll need to study the differences. We can start with non-permanent changes, wig, contacts, prosthetics if necessary. But if you want long-term believability…”
“I want believability,” I cut in. “And I want it fast.”
“Two weeks,” he said finally. “Full transformation, reversible but convincing. After that… we discuss permanence.”
My pulse thrummed with dark delight.
“Done.”
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the cushions. My reflection caught my eye again, this time I didn’t see anger. I saw the possibility. I began to imagine everything.
Me, walking into Jackson’s penthouse wearing Elizabeth’s face. Me, slipping into her life while she was still reeling from the whirlwind marriage. Me, whispering in his ear the way only a wife could. Me, planting doubts. Me, driving a wedge so deep they’d never recover.
And when the real Elizabeth finally showed up, disheveled, frantic, and trying to explain, she’d look like the imposter. The liar, and the unstable one.
I laughed, a short, sharp sound that echoed off the high ceilings.
Mother would be horrified. Sophia would call me unhinged. Jackson would be furious. And Elizabeth?
She’d finally understand what it felt like to lose everything. I moved to the bar cart, poured myself another glass of rosé, and raised it toward my reflection.
“To duplicate,” I murmured. “And to winning.”
The wine tasted sweeter than it had all night. I set the glass down and began to make a list on my phone.
1. Photos to Dr. Richard tonight.
2. Book a private salon for tomorrow's full color consultation.
3. Research Elizabeth’s recent routines. Where she shops, what coffee she orders, how she answers the phone.
4. Access her socials. I still had her old passwords from when we shared a Netflix account years ago. She never changed them.
5. Practice her voice. Her timid little cadence. The way she hesitated before speaking.
I glanced at the clock, it was almost midnight. But I still had plenty of time.
I opened my messages and sent the most recent photo I had of Elizabeth, a candid from last Christmas, her standing awkwardly beside the tree while I beamed in the foreground.
"Attached. Make her face mine. Urgently."
The reply came within minutes. "Received. We start tomorrow. Sleep well, Pearl."
I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. Instead I stood at the window, watching the city lights, already picturing the moment Elizabeth’s world collapsed under the weight of her own reflection.
Two Elizabeths, one winner. And I was going to make damn sure it was me.
- Writer
