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“Will you go to my English class?” I ask, a slither of hope flaring to life.
Arching one perfectly shaped brow, she sneers. “No.”
I don’t bother arguing with her. There’s no point. She doesn’t care about me or anything that isn’t about her and her future. Glancing past her, I see my reflection in the mirror. I look the same way I do every day: blonde hair styled just the way she likes, makeup done how she insists. I look perfect—just like her.
In fact, I look exactly like her, which is why she can demand I go and take her physics quiz and no one will ever know it wasn’t her. With most identical twins, there’s a way to tell them apart, but Penelope and I really are identical. Same height, weight, build. Same ears, lips, hair. In fact, the only discernible difference between us and the only way to tell us apart is our eyes, which is why I spend so much time looking down at the floor.
“You’re going to make me late,” she says dismissively, her voice polished, just the way we were taught.
A part of me wants to scream and shout, to refuse to do her bidding, but there’s no point, because no matter how much I hate the way she just told me she’s more important than I am, it’s still true. When I don’t go to my English class, my teacher will be annoyed, but he won’t question where I am because he doesn’t care. No one cares.
After all this time, I know I should have gotten used to being insignificant, but every time my sister reminds me that my life is paltry in comparison with hers, it still hurts. Without saying another word, I turn and leave. I hear the door swing closed behind me, but I don’t look back. Instead, I hurry down the corridor and dart into a shadowy corner.
Inhaling slowly, I close my eyes, willing all of my insecurities to fall away. Penelope Emerson Rhodes doesn’t hide. She doesn’t cower or look at the floor. Rolling my shoulders back, I pull in a breath, then call on years of practice.
Stepping out of the darkness, I emerge as Penelope, my head held high, each step purposeful and powerful, an enigmatic smile tipping at the corners of my lips as I make my way to the science wing and my physics class.
No one questions me when I stroll into the classroom and take my seat, three rows back, three rows in, just like in every other class. No one wonders why I’m here instead of my sister, because to every person in this room, I am Penelope. So, I do what’s expected of me. I smile and wave, and then I take a pop quiz on physics while my English assignment sits forgotten in my backpack. When the bell rings fifty minutes later, I pick up my quiz and drop it on the teacher’s desk before sashaying out of the classroom.
It’s two hundred and thirty-six steps from Penelope’s physics class to the photography darkroom, and I count each one as I walk confidently through the school. It takes every ounce of bravado I can muster not to allow the trembling in my fingers to travel through the rest of my limbs, but somehow I manage it. When salvation is in sight, I check that no one is watching before I pull the darkroom key from my blazer pocket and frantically try to push it into the lock.
My nerves ratchet up with every moment that passes, and my hands shake hard enough that I can’t get the key to work. Eventually, it slides home, and turning it, I push open the door, dart inside, and close it behind me.
The moment the door has latched, I flip the lock, then slump back against the cool wooden surface. Closing my eyes, I focus on breathing, each inhale ragged as I try to take in enough oxygen to calm my racing heart. After all this time, I should be used to pretending to be my sister—it’s not like it’s a rare occurrence—but no matter how many of her classes I attend or how many times I take her place, it never seems to get any easier.
Reaching behind me, I double-check the lock, then slowly lift my weight from the door. My legs feel shaky as I cross the room and slide down onto the worn leather couch that’s sitting beneath a blacked-out window.
I’m not sure when the last time this room was used as a darkroom, Green Acres Academy molds the minds of the children of the wealthy and successful, and when money and power are the end goal, there’s no time for the liberal arts when there are so many more influential lessons the students could be learning.
I stumbled across this room during my freshman year, just after my great-grandfather died. When he was alive, I rarely saw him, he had no time for little girls. So, when old age and ill health caught up with him, I understood why my parents were upset, but secretly, I wasn’t that sad to lose a man I hardly knew. I wore black to his funeral, and then I went home and assumed his death wouldn’t really have any impact on my life.
Back then, everything was simple. Penelope and I were the Rhodes twins, the only children of Barnaby and Trudy Rhodes, the only grandchildren of Nicholas Rhodes, and the great-grandchildren of Reginald Rhodes the Second.
My great-grandfather’s family is the epitome of old money, the kind you can date back to the Mayflower. But instead of sitting on his laurels and basking in his wealth, Reginald decided that the only route to happiness was by making more and more money. He invested in property and shipping and a hundred other things that made him richer than any one person should be.
Unlike Reginald, my father and grandfather have made careers out of living in the lap of luxury and spending their limitless trust funds. When Reginald died, everyone assumed his estate would pass to his only child—my grandfather, who would in turn eventually pass his estate to his only child—my dad.
Two weeks after Reginald’s death, my parents and sister were invited to the reading of the will. Now, looking back, I should have known that something was going on when I was excluded. But I don’t think anyone could have anticipated how a dead man’s wishes would change everything.
I can clearly remember the moment Penelope and my parents walked out of the lawyer’s office that day. Penelope was clutching a white envelope, her skin pale, her eyes wide, and my parents looked both shell-shocked and elated.
Instead of the money going where it was supposed to go, it all went to my sister. Penelope inherited everything. All of Reginald’s businesses, property, and fortune—or at least she will inherit it all when she turns twenty-five.
Of course, a man like my great-grandfather didn’t leave his entire estate to a fourteen-year-old without putting some thought into it. To ensure that his great-granddaughter didn’t end up rich and lazy like her father, his will stipulates that she only inherits if she excels in life.
She has to graduate from GAA with a minimum of a 4.0 grade average, she has to be accepted and graduate from one of the four pre-approved Ivy League colleges he selected, then she has to marry a boy from a pre-approved old money family.
To say that my parents were over the moon is an understatement. My father had assumed the money would go to his dad, and my mother was annoyed that she’d have to wait years to get her hands on it. Being the gatekeeper for a daughter who would inherit billions was the dream job for them.
Suddenly, instead of traveling for the majority of the year, they became doting parents to their eldest daughter, eager to guide her and mold her into the perfect heiress. Every conversation became about influential friends, political alliances between powerful families, and the most eligible bachelors from the approved list of potential grooms Penelope could marry.
In the blink of an eye, my sister went from regular old money rich to billionaire in waiting with her entire life planned out for her, and I was discarded, obsolete, and unnecessary at the age of fourteen.
Most people assume twins, especially identical twins, must be close. They expect Penelope and I to share a unique bond that no one apart from other sets of twins can understand. But we’ve never had that kind of relationship.
Penelope doesn’t particularly like me. She hates that she’s one of a matching pair. She hates that we share parents and a home, and she especially hates that we share a face. There are millions of sets of twins in the world, millions of pairs of similar faces, but Penelope and I are truly identical. Our height, frame, hair, face—everything about us is the same. The only distinguishing difference between us is that her eyes are blue and mine are violet.
When we were six months old, my eyes changed color, shocking everyone, because up until that point, no one had been able to tell us apart. My parents took me to specialists, and apparently, there’s a chance I have a very rare genetic condition that makes my eyes look purple, or in my case, a deep shade of violet. It’s the only unique thing about me, and I’m fairly sure it only makes my sister hate me more.
