I Was the Wrong Twin—Until Fate Chose Me

They say twins are two halves of the same soul. Whoever said that never met my sister. Sienna and I share a birthday, the same copper hair, and the same hazel eyes — and that's it. That's the whole list. Everything else about us exists on opposite ends of the universe. She walks into a room and the air rearranges itself around her. People lean in. Boys stop mid-sentence. Girls who have never spoken to her suddenly smile like she's an old friend. And me? I'm the shadow attached to her shoes, clutching a sketchbook like a life raft, pretending not to hear it when people call me "Sienna's sister" like that's my actual name. Spoiler: they always compare us. Every single time. Our parents made it an art form. As we got older, Sienna's hair softened — closer to amber, warm and effortless. Mine deepened into something fierce. Full-on fire- engine red. The kind that made people stare and whisper because apparently it's the exact same shade as my maternal grandmother's, and nobody in this pack ever had a good word to say about her. So yeah. Even my hair is a scandal. * * * * * * * * "Sloane. Seriously?" Sienna's voice cuts through my concentration like a knife through paper. I glance up from my sketchbook. She's posed in front of the full-length mirror, one hand on her hip, wearing a denim mini skirt and a white crop top that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe combined. Probably, because I wouldn't actually know. Most of what I own used to be hers — pieces she wore once, lost interest in, and discarded like receipts. Not because we couldn't afford otherwise. Our pack had money. Real money. I just wasn't a priority line item. "What?" I push my glasses up my nose. She spins around. "You're wearing that?" I look down. Oversized gray hoodie. Faded jeans. Sneakers with paint splattered across the left toe from last Thursday's project. "Yeah," I say. "What's wrong with it?" Her laugh is sharp. Glass on concrete. "What's right with it?" She crosses the room and drops onto my bed without asking, her perfume flooding the air — sweet and expensive and suffocating all at once. "Mom and Dad are taking us to brunch after school, Sloane. The least you could do is look like you actually belong to this family." She tilts her head. "Stop acting like some lone wolf loner. It's embarrassing." "I am a lone wolf," I say flatly, turning back to my sketch. "Kind of literally." "Ha. Hilarious." Her hand snaps out and snatches the pencil from my grip so fast it drags a jagged line straight across the wing I'd spent twenty minutes shading. "Hey!" I lurch forward and tear it back. "What is wrong with you?" "My problem," she says, flipping her hair with the casual cruelty of someone who's never had to try, "is that you're almost eighteen and you still think these little doodles mean something. They don't. The real world doesn't care about your feelings on paper. And the moment you shift, Dad's going to shut it down anyway, so why bother?" My jaw locks. I bother because I have a plan. Ashford University has a fine arts program, and I am three essays away from a full scholarship application. I'm not asking for a dime from this house. I'm not asking them to miss Sienna for a single second while I'm gone. I just want out. I want Ashford, and my art, and a mate who sees me — not Sienna's shadow — and I'm praying to every moon above that he isn't from this pack. "Whatever," Sienna sighs, like my existence is a slow exhaust leak. She stands, grabs her designer bag, and pauses at the door. "Don't embarrass me today, okay? People already think it's weird that we're twins." "Trust me," I say quietly, closing the sketchbook over the ruined drawing. "You handle enough embarrassing for both of us." She gasps. "Excuse me?" "Nothing." I slide the book into my bag. "Forget it." There's no point. Sienna always wins when Mom and Dad are the audience. * * * * * * * * Breakfast is a battlefield disguised as a kitchen. Mom sets a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of me without making eye contact. "Eat, Sloane. You're too thin. It's starting to look unhealthy." "Good morning to you too," I murmur. "Don't mumble." Dad doesn't look up from his phone. "It reads as insecure." Right. Because projecting confidence is clearly my top priority at seven-fifteen in the morning. Then Sienna floats in. She kisses Mom's cheek. She compliments Dad's watch. She asks about Mom's new earrings in a voice like warm honey, and within thirty seconds, the entire table has shifted its gravity toward her like a solar system snapping into orbit. I sip my orange juice. Invisible. Efficient. Practiced. "Oh my God," Sienna says, scrolling her phone, "Brianna just posted about her party tonight. It's going to be insane." She glances at me over the screen, smirk already loaded. "Don't worry, Sloane. You weren't invited." "Wasn't planning to go." "Good." She pops a strawberry into her mouth. "Your whole—" she waves a hand vaguely at me— "haunted-librarian situation would genuinely kill the vibe." "Sienna," Mom says, in her non-scolding scolding voice. "Be kind." "I am kind, Mom. I'm honest. You always said there's a difference." Dad chuckles. My hands curl under the table. I can feel the tremor starting at my fingers and I press my palms flat against my thighs until it stops. Soon, I tell myself. After my first shift, I can run this out. I can outpace all of it. Soon. "I'm done." I push back from the table and grab my bag. "Wait—" Mom calls after me. "Sloane, try to smile today, okay? You're so much prettier when you smile." I walk out the front door and let it shut behind me harder than I mean to. Smile. Like that's the currency I'm short on. * * * * * * * * My safe zone is the back-left corner of AP English — third desk from the wall, shielded by the bookshelf, close enough to the window to get light for sketching without anyone noticing. For exactly four minutes, I have peace. Then the door swings open and Sienna arrives, surrounded by her constellation of friends, all glossy lips and bright laughter, filling the room the way smoke fills a small space — everywhere, instantly, unavoidable. I drop my eyes to my notebook. "Oh my God," Brianna's voice carries like she's performing. "Same hoodie? Third day running?" My jaw tightens. I don't look up. "Leave her." Sienna's voice is amused. Lightly, lazily amused, like I'm a mildly interesting thing she spotted on the sidewalk. "She likes being invisible." The laughter breaks open around me. I press my pencil to the page and draw. A wolf — my wolf, the one I've been imagining for months, the one with the wide chest and the dark coat and the eyes that see everything. I sketch her shape into the margin of my notes because she's mine, the one piece of this life that belongs fully to me. But Sienna's voice cuts through even graphite and paper. You're almost eighteen, Sloane. Nobody cares about your little doodles. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm building a life out of pencil lines and wishful thinking, and the real world is just going to laugh at me the same way Brianna did — loudly, publicly, without a single ounce of shame. My pencil keeps moving anyway. Because somewhere between this pack and Ashford and the mate I haven't met yet, there is a version of my life where the art matters. Where I matter. Where the fire in my hair isn't a curse someone left behind. I just have to survive long enough to find it. And then— The classroom door opens again. Not one of Sienna's friends this time. The energy shifts differently. I feel it before I see it — a pull, low and strange and startling, like static electricity crackling along the back of my neck. I look up. And the pencil goes still in my hand.