I'm No Frigging Cinderella

When Karma Uses Food Poisoning As A Weapon

Three days later, I’m starting to think the universe might actually have a sense of justice. Either that, or karma has finally decided to stop screwing me over and focus on more deserving targets.

Like my sister.

“I’m dying,” Scarlett moans from her office, and honestly, the dramatic flair is impressive even for her. “I’m literally dying, Harper. This is it. This is how I go. Death by sushi.”

I peer around her office door, trying to look appropriately concerned instead of secretly delighted. She’s sprawled across her leather chair like a Victorian heroine succumbing to consumption, one hand pressed to her forehead in a gesture that would make Shakespeare weep with pride.

“Maybe you should go home,” I suggest, because I’m a good sister. A good sister who definitely isn’t thinking about how poetic it would be if she choked on her own karma. “You look... really pale.”

“I can’t go home!” She sits up too quickly and immediately regrets it, turning a fascinating shade of green. “The charity ball is tonight. The Hartwell executives will be there. This is my chance to impress them before our meeting Monday.”

Right. The charity ball. The annual Stone Foundation fundraiser that I’ve heard about but never attended because, let’s face it, I’m not exactly ballroom material. I’m more “spill wine on important people” or “set fire to the curtains” material.

“I’m sure Mr. Stone would understand if you—”

“No.” Scarlett’s voice could cut through steel. “I am not missing this opportunity because of some bad fish.” She doubles over again, clutching her stomach. “Oh God, I think I’m going to—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence because she’s already bolting toward her private bathroom, designer heels clicking frantically against the floor.

The sounds that follow are... well, let’s just say they’re not compatible with maintaining her image as a polished corporate goddess.

I should probably feel bad for her. We’re twins, after all. We shared a womb for nine months, which, according to every family gathering story, was apparently nine months too long because I tried to strangle her with my umbilical cord. In my defense, I was probably just trying to get some personal space.

But watching Scarlett get taken down by a sushi roll feels like cosmic justice for two years of stolen credit, professional humiliation, and let’s not forget—she stole my boyfriend.

“Harper!” Her voice echoes from the bathroom, weak and pathetic. “Harper, get in here!”

I find her hunched over the toilet, which is probably the most humanizing I’ve ever seen her. Her perfect hair is disheveled, her makeup is smeared, and she looks like death warmed over.

“I need you to call Marcus,” she gasps. “Tell him to pick up my dress from the dry cleaner. And call the salon, move my appointment to—” Another wave of nausea cuts her off.

“Scarlett, you can’t go to the ball like this.”

“I have to.” She looks up at me with watery eyes, and for a split second, she almost looks vulnerable. Almost human. “This account could make my career. Stone himself will be there, along with half the publishing industry. I can’t miss it.”

“Then don’t.” Speak of the devil himself.

We both turn toward the door where Marcus Blackwood is standing, looking like the poster boy for corporate ambition in his perfectly tailored suit. My stomach does that ugly little twist it always does when I see him—part leftover attraction, part pure disgust.

Marcus. My ex-boyfriend. The man who dumped me via text message because he “needed someone more aligned with his professional goals.” Translation: he needed someone who could advance his career, and Scarlett was willing to sleep with him.

Where I had been waiting for that moment…you know what I’m talking about, right? That leg lifting, toe curling moment where you want to rip your clothes off and say take me. Well, it had fizzled and died a slow and painful death.

“Baby,” Scarlett whimpers, and I try not to gag at the pet name. “I’m sick. I can’t go tonight.”

Marcus crosses the room and crouches beside her, playing the concerned fiancé. The ring on her finger, the ring that used to be promised to me… it catches the light and sends little rainbows across the bathroom wall.

“You can’t miss the ball,” he says, stroking her hair. “Not tonight. Not with the Hartwell deal on the line.”

“I know, but—” Another retching sound interrupts her.

Marcus stands up, his expression shifting into problem-solving mode. This is the Marcus I remember—the one who could find solutions to impossible problems, the one I fell for before I realized his ambition had no room for inconvenient things like loyalty or love.

“Harper will go.”

The words hit me like ice water. “What?”

“You have got to be joking.” Scarlett said at the same time.

“You’ll go in Scarlett’s place,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You work in marketing, you know the accounts. You can represent the department.” He looks back at Scarlett. “She can pretend to be you.”

I blink at him. “Marcus, I can’t go to a charity ball. I don’t... I’m not... Have you seen me try to walk across a flat surface in heels?” Because I can’t.

I could see Scarlett thinking. Oh s**t, I’m about to get stitched up.

“It’s perfect,” Scarlett says, lifting her head away from the toilet bowl for just a moment. “You can be my eyes and ears. Report back on everything. Just... try not to embarrass the company.”

The casual cruelty in her voice is nothing new, but it still stings. “Right. Because that’s my specialty.”

“This could actually work,” Marcus continues, warming to the idea. “Harper’s familiar with all the campaigns. She can handle the basic conversations, and if anything complex comes up, she can defer to you for follow-up next week.”

What? The work was mine—of course I knew it. i***t. I could run rings around Scarlett’s knowledge. But then I’d never been good at showing that to the right people.

“When I’m not dying,” Scarlett adds dramatically.

I stare at both of them, waiting for the punchline. “You’re serious. You want me to attend a high-society charity ball where I’ll be surrounded by millionaires and executives and people who actually matter, and pretend to be Scarlett?”

“It’s just networking,” Marcus says. “Smile, shake hands, don’t spill anything on anyone important.”

“I spilled mayo on myself today already. That’s not exactly a confidence booster.”

“We said important, Harper.” Scarlett’s voice takes on that wheedling tone she uses when she wants something. “Please. I need you to do this. For the company. For the department.”

For you, you mean. But I don’t say it out loud because I’m not brave enough for that level of honesty. What she said sounded right in front of Marcus, though. It makes her look good and me bad if I say no. That was Scarlett’s ambition in life—to make herself out to be something she wasn’t and paint me as the villain.

“I don’t have anything to wear,” I point out, because it’s true. My wardrobe consists of work-appropriate blouses, jeans, and whatever’s on sale at Target. I don’t own anything that would be appropriate for a charity ball where tickets probably cost more than I care to think about. Though to be fair, Mr. Stone had paid for them. The tickets, that was.

“I’ll figure something out,” Scarlett says. “Just say yes. Please.”

She sounds desperate, maybe?—and that catches me off guard. Scarlett doesn’t beg. Scarlett commands and expects compliance. But right now, hunched over a toilet in a rumpled designer suit, she sounds almost... human.

“Fine,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll go.” Really? Why?

Marcus grins like I’ve just solved world hunger. “Excellent. I’ll brief you on the key attendees and talking points.”

“And Harper?” Scarlett looks up at me with eyes that are still watery but somehow sharp. “Don’t screw this up. This is important. No one is to guess that you’re taking my place.”

Right. No pressure at all.

Three hours later, I’m standing in Scarlett’s apartment trying not to hyperventilate while her personal stylist—because of course she has a personal stylist—circles me like a shark scenting blood.

“This is... challenging,” says Vivienne, whose French accent makes even insults sound elegant. “She is very...” She waves her hands vaguely at my general existence. “Different from Mademoiselle Scarlett.”

“Different how?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.

“More...” Another elegant hand wave. “Soft. Natural. Less...” She studies Scarlett, who’s propped up on her couch looking like a corpse. “Less sharp.”

I think that might be the nicest way anyone’s ever called me dumpy. It was only a few kilos. I was still slim, just not model-slim like Scarlett.

“Just make her not look like… herself,” Scarlett croaks from the couch. “We need elegant. Sophisticated. Someone who won’t embarrass the company. She needs to look like me. Hopefully, no one will notice the weight difference.”

“I’m standing right here,” I point out.

“Mademoiselle Harper,” Vivienne says, ignoring the sister dynamics playing out around her, “you have a beautiful bone structure. Very classic. We just need to... enhance. Make it look slimmer.”

She says “enhance” like she’s talking about performing miracles, which honestly might be an accurate assessment.

An hour later, I’m staring at myself in Scarlett’s full-length mirror and wondering if I’ve accidentally stepped into an alternate dimension.

The woman looking back at me is... not me. Can’t be me. She’s wearing a midnight blue gown that skims her curves in ways that suggest she actually has curves. Her hair is swept up at the sides in some kind of elegant arrangement that probably defies several laws of physics. Her makeup is subtle but flawless, emphasizing eyes I didn’t know could look sultry and lips that look like they know secrets. The woman staring at me was Scarlett. I looked like Scarlett.

There was one positive. “Holy s**t,” I whisper. “I have boobs.”

“Language,” Scarlett says automatically, but she’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read. Surprise? Annoyance? Something that might almost be jealousy?

Had Scarlett forgotten we were identical twins? I often tried to forget it myself, but even when I closed my eyes and wished it weren’t so, she was always there when I opened them again. Worst luck. I couldn’t even claim I was adopted.

“The dress is perfect, non?” Vivienne asks, adjusting the neckline with professional precision. “Classic. Timeless. Very Grace Kelly.”

“The shoes,” Scarlett says suddenly. “She needs the right shoes.”

Vivienne produces a pair of very high heels. “Size seven?”

Scarlett doesn’t give me the chance to say I’m only a size six and a half. Size seven was Scarlett.

“Perfect.” Scarlett struggles to her feet, still looking pale but determined to maintain control. “Harper, listen carefully. You represent me tonight. That means being charming, professional, and, for the love of God, coordinated. If I hear you’ve fallen over tonight in front of everyone...”

“Right. Charming. Professional. Coordinated.” I count off on my fingers. “So basically, be everything I’m not.”

“Exactly. You are me tonight.”

Then she forgot one I need to be Charming. Professional. Coordinated and… Evil, she forgot evil. But I really don’t think I have that in me. I might think about holding her head under water, but I wouldn’t actionably do it.

Marcus appears from the kitchen with a glass of ginger ale for Scarlett. “I’ve made a list of key people to connect with if you get the chance. I sent it to your phone. Stick to safe topics—the weather, the charity, how wonderful the company is doing. If anyone asks about specific campaigns, just smile and say you’ll follow up next week.”

“Got it. Smile mysteriously and defer all actual knowledge.” The i***t didn’t even know Scarlett had been stealing my work. He really thought Scarlett was the brainy one. She was the charming, coordinated, beautiful one. Even though we looked the same, I didn’t make the most of my looks. But I was the brainy one. Scarlett was just good at stealing what belonged to others... like my research and my boyfriend.

“And Harper?” Scarlett takes a sip of ginger ale, her voice taking on that warning tone I know so well. “Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t trip, don’t spill, don’t say anything embarrassing. Just... be me. Perfect.”

God, did they need to keep telling me?

They wanted perfect. Right. Because Scarlett was anything but. It amazed me how people saw themselves.

“Where is this event being held, by the way?”

“Thornfield.”

“Thornfield?” I repeat. “Like, the old mansion outside the city?”

“That’s the one. It belonged to some oil baron back in the day. Stone’s foundation uses it for special events.”

Something about the name tickles my memory, but I can’t place it. Probably from some historical documentary I watched instead of having a social life. It was the nerd in me.

“Your car will be here in twenty minutes,” Scarlett says, settling back into the couch. “Try not to embarrass us.”

There it was again.

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mutter, but I’m too busy staring at my reflection to put much venom into it.

The woman in the mirror looks confident. Sophisticated. Like she belongs in ballrooms and charity galas instead of cubicles and messy disasters. She looks like someone who could hold a conversation with millionaire executives without tripping over her own tongue. She looks like someone who could have a conversation with someone like Alex Stone and not come across as an i***t.

She looks like someone... Nope, still couldn’t get it out of my head that I look like my sister. Scarlett was everything I hated.

My phone buzzes with a text from Emma.

Emma: How’s the ball prep going? Have you transformed into a pumpkin yet?

I take a selfie and send it to her. I’d told Emma because I tell her everything.

Me: More like Cinderella. But with more anxiety and less helpful mice.

Emma: HOLY s**t HARPER. You look incredible! Too much like Scarlett, but still.

Me: I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s life. I’m no frigging Cinderella.

Emma: Maybe that’s the point. Maybe tonight you get to be someone else. Live a little and have some fun.

Someone else. The idea is simultaneously terrifying and thrilling.

The doorman calls up to announce my car, and suddenly this is real. I’m really going to a charity ball. I’m really going to spend the evening surrounded by people who matter, pretending to be someone else.

“Remember,” Scarlett calls as I head toward the door. “You are not Harper tonight. Be professional. Don’t screw this up.”

“Right,” I say, adjusting the unfamiliar weight of the designer gown. I have the mask I’m going to put on in the car because I don’t want it in my line-of-sight right now.

But as I step into the elevator and catch sight of myself in the polished steel doors, I can’t help thinking that maybe, just for tonight, I won’t fall on my ass.

The universe has given Scarlett food poisoning. I’ve ended up with a Cinderella transformation, and I have a ticket to the kind of event I’ve only ever dreamed about. Well, that wasn’t true. I wouldn’t dream about it because I wouldn’t want to go in the first place.

Tonight I was Scarlett. What could possibly go wrong?