ARIA'S POV:
You know what sucks about being perfect?
Everybody expects you to stay perfect.
From the way I walk down the halls of Lancaster High in Louboutins, to the way the boys practically fall over themselves when I pass perfection is my curse. And trust me, when your father is Desmond Lancaster, billionaire CEO of one of the most powerful fashion empires in New York, there's no room for mess-ups.
But what do I do?
I mess up.
Big time.
Miss Lancaster, did you really throw champagne on the mayor's son at your father's charity gala?
Click. Flash. Click.
Is it true you're dating three guys at once?
Click. Flash.
Care to comment on the leaked video from last night?
I force a smile and push past the crowd of reporters at the school gates, holding my chin high even though I want to die inside.
They don't know the truth.
Nobody does.
What they saw in that video wasn't me.
It was someone else entirely.
But who would believe me?
Aria! Wait up!
My best friend, Tanya, catches up, waving a Starbucks cup like she just ran a marathon. Did you see Gossip NY? They posted the video again. It's all over TikTok now.
I groan. Can we pretend I don't exist today?
She eyes me cautiously. You might not be able to. Word is, your dad's flying in this afternoon. He's furious.
Of course, he is. Daddy only appears when his image is threatened.
Just great.
I swipe open my phone. 86 missed calls from Dad. 45 from PR. 2 from Xavier.
Xavier.
My rival, my secret crush, and the only guy who's ever told me no.
Which makes him infuriating. And totally irresistible.
I tap on his last message.
Xavier: Nice move, Princess. Hope you enjoyed your 15 minutes of fame. You're trending. 🙃
I roll my eyes and type back, Jealous you weren't in it?
Delivered. Left on read.
Ugh.
Meanwhile… Across the state…
ARIANA'S POV:
I swear, if Mr. Jenkins asks me to clean one more toilet, I'm quitting, I mutter, tossing my apron into the bin.
Good luck surviving without the twenty bucks you get here, my friend Maya says, snorting as we walk out of the diner.
She's not wrong.
Life in small-town Maplewood sucks. Between juggling school, work, and paying Mom's hospital bills, I barely have time to breathe. But I've got dreams. And next year, I'm going to college with or without a scholarship.
As we pass by the convenience store, my eyes catch the TV screen in the window. A news segment flashes.
Aria Lancaster involved in yet another scandal
I freeze.
The girl on the screen looks just like me.
Maya does a double take. Wait… that's not you?
No, I whisper, staring hard.
It's not me. But… it could be.
Later that night…
ARIELLE'S POV:
The chapel bells ring as I kneel in silent prayer.
The other girls whisper behind me. They always do.
That's Sister Emilia's favorite girl.
She never talks.
Did you see her eyes? So spooky.
I've heard it all. But I don't care.
I don't belong here.
I've known that since I was five.
I'm different. My face… it doesn't belong in this place.
Even Sister Emilia once whispered, You have the face of someone rich, child. Don't waste it on silence.
As I rise to leave, something falls from my bag.
A torn photograph.
Three baby girls. All i
dentical. All wrapped in pink.
My fingers tremble.
I've had this photo for years… but I never knew what it meant. Until now.
ARIANA'S POV:
The sound of plates clinking and oil sizzling in the fryer fills the diner, but my ears are ringing with one word:
Her.
I stare at the TV in the corner of the restaurant, my tray hanging useless in my hands. The headline flashes again across the screen.
LANCASTER HEIRESS CAUGHT IN LATEST SCANDAL
And then her face appears.
My face.
Same long lashes. Same birthmark on the left collarbone.
Same wide eyes that I've seen in every bathroom mirror for eighteen years.
The tray slips from my hands and crashes to the floor.
Ariana! my boss yells from the kitchen. You good?
No. I'm not good.
I don't answer. I can't. I'm frozen in place as the newscaster continues.
Aria Lancaster, daughter of fashion mogul Desmond Lancaster, was seen exiting Club Verve last night in what appears to be a scandalous incident caught on camera…
The video clip plays her walking out of a fancy black car in slow motion, flipping her hair, paparazzi screaming.
She doesn't even flinch.
She looks… powerful.
And exactly like me.
Maya nudges me, whispering, Okay, that's freaky. Are you adopted?
I… I don't know.
You have to be, she insists, wide-eyed. That's not a doppelgänger. That's you with a trust fund.
I force a nervous laugh, but my chest tightens. It's just a coincidence.
Except it's not.
It can't be.
That Night…
I don't eat dinner. I barely breathe.
My mom's old records are still stacked in a dusty box under the bed. I haven't touched them in years, not since I was a kid and asked her why there were no baby pictures of me.
Don't be silly, she'd said then. You were a surprise, that's all.
Tonight, I pull out the box.
At the very bottom, hidden between hospital bills and expired insurance papers, I find something that makes my blood run cold.
A baby bracelet.
Pink plastic.
Faded letters read: Baby Girl Lancaster.
I stare at it, my hands trembling.
Lancaster…?
I rush out of my room, clutching the bracelet like it's about to disappear. My mom is watching her soap opera on the couch, sipping tea like it's any other night.
You lied to me, I blurt.
She blinks, startled. Excuse me?
I toss the bracelet on the table. You told me I wasn't adopted. You said I was your biological daughter.
I never
Then why does this bracelet have someone else's name on it? Why do I look exactly like Aria Lancaster, the daughter of a billionaire?!
She looks at it. Her face pales.
That… that was a mix-up, she stammers. The hospital there was confusion. I told you, I had a complicated delivery. I almost died.
You always say that, but it's never made sense!
Tears burn my eyes.
Who am I? I whisper. Tell me the truth.
She sighs, slumping in her chair like the weight of the world just landed on her back.
I can't tell you everything, she murmurs. It's too dangerous.
Too dangerous?
What does that even mean?
I step back. You've been lying to me my whole life.
Ariana
I'm going to find out the truth.
I grab my phone and storm back into my room.
I pull up Aria Lancaster's social media. She's everything I'm not rich, bold, famous. The kind of girl who gets featured in Vogue and crashes her sports car into a fountain for fun.
And yet…
She has my eyes.
My smile.
My exact freaking face.
There's only one way to settle this.
I open a new email.
To: AriaLancaster@lancasterprep.edu
Subject: You don't know me… but I look exactly like you.
Message
: We need to talk. Soon.
I hit send.
My heart races.
This isn't just some rich girl's scandal anymore.
It's my story now, too.
ARIELLE'S POV:
In the convent, we are taught to be seen and not heard.
I learned that by age five.
By seven, I'd stopped asking questions.
And by ten, I stopped calling anyone mother.
Sister Emilia says I was left at the chapel gates with nothing but a blanket and a silver locket. She's always treated me with more kindness than most, but even she doesn't speak about where I came from.
Only that God must've had a reason for sending me.
Maybe He did.
But some nights, like tonight, I stare at the moon through the cracked chapel window and wonder:
What if God made a mistake?
It's past curfew, but I sneak into the attic anyway.
The heavy wooden door groans as I push it open, the smell of dust and time thick in the air. I clutch the candle tighter and step forward, careful not to make a sound.
The nuns say the attic is off-limits.
But I've been coming here for months.
There's something up here, something I'm not supposed to find.
And tonight… I do.
Behind an old chest of prayer robes and broken hymn books, I see it: a box I've never noticed before. Covered in dust, sealed with a worn-out ribbon.
I kneel and pull it toward me.
Inside is a tiny baby dress. Pale pink. Silk.
Then… a torn photograph.
My breath catches.
Three babies.
Wrapped in matching blankets. Pink bows. Lying side by side on a hospital bed.
Their faces are identical.
My face.
I blink, heart pounding.
I flip the photo over. There's writing on the back in faint cursive:
Aria, Ariana, Arielle — July 16th.
Three names. One birthday.
Mine.
And suddenly, I remember the locket.
I tear it from under my collar and stare at the inscription.
It's so worn, I've never been able to read it before.
But now, with the candlelight hitting it just right, I can make it out.
To our little Arielle. You're one of a kind.
I choke on a breath. My fingers go numb.
All this time… I thought I was abandoned.
Forgotten.
But I wasn't.
I was separated.
Someone out there has my face. My blood. My name.
Maybe… two someones.
The wooden floor creaks behind me. I spin around, clutching the photo to my chest.
But no one's there. Still, I grab everything and run.
Later That Night…
I sit in the corner of my bed, the photo clutched in one hand, the locket in the other.
The candle's flickering out.
But I can't sleep.
I can't think of anything else.
The other girls whisper around me in the dark, but I don't hear them.
I only hear the names in my head, over and over like a prayer:
Aria. Ariana. Arielle.
What happened to us?
ARIA'S POV:
Money used to solve all my problems.
A designer scandal? Daddy's PR team covered it.
A breakup with a billionaire's son? Mommy arranged a new one.
And if I ever cried, my tears dried on silk sheets in a penthouse suite with a shopping cart full of distraction.
But this?
This is different.
Because for once… I'm not in control.
You humiliated the family, Aria.
My father's voice echoes through the Lancaster estate like a blade. Cold. Precise. Final.
I didn't do it, I snap, standing across from him in my ripped jeans and yesterday's eyeliner. That video isn't what it looks like.
Do you hear yourself? His eyes harden. The press doesn't care what it looks like, Aria. They believe what they see. And what they see is a reckless heiress ruining our brand.
I cross my arms. So what do you want me to do? Get on my knees and beg for forgiveness? Issue a fake apology and pretend I did it for attention?
If that's what it takes, he growls. You either fix this in seventy-two hours, or you're done. No inheritance. No brand. No protection.
His words hit harder than I expect.
Because this isn't just a punishment, it's exile.
You'd really cut me off?
He doesn't blink. I should've done it years ago.
I open my mouth to fire back some savage comment about him being an absent father who only shows up for photo ops—but the lump in my throat betrays me.
Instead, I storm out. The doors slam behind me like a gunshot.
Hours Later…
I sit alone on the marble steps outside the house, the evening wind tugging at my sweater.
Xavier still hasn't replied to my texts.
The internet is eating me alive.
And Tanya's latest call ended with, Girl, I love you, but this time you're toast.
I rest my head on my knees.
Maybe they're all right.
Maybe I am reckless.
Maybe I do ruin everything I touch.
I pull out my phone to distract myself, open my inbox just to see if Xavier even bothered
And then I see it.
A new message. No subject.
From an unfamiliar address.
I click it.
"You don't know me… but I look exactly like you."
Ariana
My heart skips.
At first, I think it's a prank.
But then I open the attachment.
A photo.
Of me.
No… it's not me.
She's wearing a hoodie. Her hair's in a braid. Her face is makeup-free.
But it's mine.
Same eyes. Same jawline. Same freckle near the lip.
It's like looking in a mirror, only the reflection is living a different life.
What. The. Hell.
I hit reply.
"Who are you? Is this some joke?"
No response.
I search the email address online. Nothing comes up.
I stare at the photo again, zooming in on her eyes.
That's not AI.
That's not a lookalike.
That's… me.
Or at least someone who could pass for my twin. Or worse.. My sister.
To be continued.....