CHAPTER 6
1466 Words
Emily
The car door opened before I could change my mind.
Mary Laurent’s life didn’t allow hesitation. It moved for you, with or without your consent. One minute I was heading home, the next minute the driver was rerouting my entire existence like my opinion meant nothing.
“Mrs. Laurent wants you at the studio,” he said.
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t even figured out how to survive being Mary, and now I was supposed to take romantic pictures with Ethan Sparrow before I could make up an excuse.
Fantastic.
I stepped out, adjusting the mask over my nose.
The pimple was my golden ticket. My official excuse. If I played this right, the shoot would be cancelled, I would go home, and Ethan could stay mad at Mary for the rest of the day.
Win-win.
The studio looked exactly like I imagined. White walls so clean that a speck of dirt would be spotted right away, shiny furniture that probably cost more than my entire house, and people moving around like they couldn't afford to take a break.
Heads turned the moment I walked in and people rushed toward me.
Grace would have loved this.
Me? Unless you were talking about chemical bonds or molecular structures, I was not impressed by a crowd.
“Thank God you’re here—”
I raised a hand and pointed to my face dramatically.“I have a pimple.”
They froze, like I had just announced that the world was ending. It was just a photoshoot with Ethan Sparrow. How important and life-threatening could it be?
Did he bully them too?
One of them blinked. “A what?”
“A pimple,” I repeated casually. “So we’re not doing the shoot.”
You would think I had just announced a national emergency the way they became silent.
“Mary…” the woman said carefully. “We can work around—”
Others nodded, trying to convince me.
“No,” I cut in. “It’s tragic, I know. But pimples take time. I’ll come back when my face is socially acceptable again.”
I started walking toward the inner studio like I had just solved all their problems of trying to fix me for a shoot.
Behind me, whispers exploded. I ignored them and pushed the door open.
Then I stopped.
Ethan Sparrow was already there, in the studio, dressed in a tux that looked expensive enough to have its own bank account. Black, sharp, and annoyingly perfect.
My heart stopped.
This was not what I had planned in foresight. I had intended to cancel before he arrived, let him stew in anger, and enjoy a peaceful day.
Clearly, the universe had other plans for me. Plans that involved embarrassing me personally.
We stood there for a moment. He didn’t speak. He just looked at me. Not the usual way he looked at me. Not like he was about to insult me or pick me apart.
This was different.
His gaze moved slowly, spreading through my body, then it softened. A small smile appeared.
I straightened immediately.
Because no.
Absolutely not.
“What?” I asked.
His eyes flicked to the mask. “Is it because of the pimple?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “So we can’t—”
The door burst open before I could finish. The makeup team rushed in like a rescue squad.
“I can’t do this!” I announced, raising my voice.
Maybe if I raised my voice, they would finally listen to what I had been saying.
They all froze. Even Ethan looked surprised.
I folded my arms and pointed to my face like I was already tired of introducing the problem. “I have a pimple.”
The lead makeup artist nodded like she had a degree in pimples. “We understand. It’s something we can fix.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?”
“I’m not taking this off,” I said, tapping the mask.
“It’s barely visible, we can just—”
“No.”
That one came out sharper and they stopped talking. I could feel Ethan watching me the entire time.
Yes, this was embarrassing.
Yes, I was ruining Mary’s image.
And yes, I was enjoying it a little.
No, a lot.
Mary deserved this after what she did to me in chemistry practice. I told her I was going to get even, didn't I?
I turned to him. “We should cancel.”
Somewhere behind me, someone gasped like I had just committed a crime.
Ethan didn’t react immediately, like he had suddenly gained Masters in crisis management. When, apparently, he was the crisis in school. He looked at the team, then back at me.
“Give us a minute,” he said.
The room cleared in seconds.
And just like that, it was only the two of us, a very uncomfortable space I never wanted to be in again.
I folded my arms tighter, bracing myself for what came next.
Public affection was one thing. Private behavior was another. For all I knew, he was about to remind Mary why she stayed in line. Maybe a slap across the face or some serious verbal abuse.
“Is this about the pimple,” he asked calmly instead, “or something else?”
That threw me off.
“What?”
“You’ve been acting strange all day,” he said. “You didn’t speak to me, you disappeared at recess, you raised your voice right now…” He started walking toward me.
I reacted instantly, raising my hand. “Stop!”
He stopped, clearly confused.
“I mean…” I forced a laugh. “I don’t want you catching it. Pimples are… very contagious.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Right. That sounded stupid
But I was desperate.
“Did I offend you?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong?”
This was getting worse. I stared at him, trying to find something that made sense.
This. Wasn't. Ethan Sparrow.
“I told you,” I said. “Pimple.”
He nodded slowly. Like that explained everything. This was not the Ethan Sparrow I knew.
Where was the insult? The arrogance? The need to dominate the room and remind everyone he was an Alpha?
Instead, he said, “Right.”
Wrong.
“That’s it?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He tilted his head. “What were you expecting?”
I shrugged. “Disappointment?”
“It’s our shoot,” he said. “I can’t force you if you’re uncomfortable.”
I blinked.
Had Ethan Sparrow been swapped too? Because this version was suspiciously reasonable.
“If you don’t want to shoot today,” he continued, “we can reschedule.”
I turned so fast I nearly gave myself a neck injury.
“What?”
“The shoot,” he repeated calmly. “We can move it.”
I stared at him.
“You’re cancelling because I said I have a pimple?”
“If that’s what you want.”
This had to be a trick. Maybe he was playing pranks.
“Because you’re clearly not comfortable,” he continued.
He stepped closer again.
I stepped back.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m not comfortable. I have to go.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and left.
No, I ran.
I reached the car in record time. “Take me home,” I said.
If I could just get back to that room, I would figure this out. Or at least hide from everything. The car started moving, and only then did I realize I had been breathing like I was in a marathon.
Mary’s phone buzzed in her bag.
I pulled it out. Missed calls from her.
Oh, now she cared.
I dropped the phone back into the bag and leaned my head against the seat.
I was officially tired of being Mary Saint Laurent.
The car pulled up in front of the Laurent mansion, all shiny and intimidating. I stepped inside, already planning to disappear into a room and rethink my life. Maybe morning would come and I would wake up to my murder-intent ceiling fan.
Then I saw Vivienne Saint Laurent standing in the living room like judgment itself.
She didn’t wait the moment I closed the door behind me. She walked straight toward me, her face carrying something I was yet to interpret. Before I could even process what was happening, her hand connected with my face.
The slap rang in my ears and sent me stumbling back. I let out a cry, stunned, trying to understand what just happened.
Then she spoke, the words tumbling out harshly.
“Who the hell are you?!”
- Writer
