two

A WEEK LATER, WILLIAM calls while I’m eating dinner to let me know he won’t be home until very late tonight.

I’m ridiculously relieved since it means I can be asleep when he arrives and won’t have to talk to him until morning. At this point, an extra night of safety isn’t likely to make a difference, but I’ll take it anyway.

The past week has gone remarkably smoothly. No one appears to suspect for even a moment that I’m not Amber.

Maybe I’m better than I thought at playing a role and putting on an act, but it can’t be untapped talent alone. No one seems to know Amber at all. Like me, she’s been living a life of distance, of emotional isolation. She clearly has a lot of social acquaintances—if the hundreds of contacts in her phone are any evidence—but, as she told me herself, she doesn’t have any real friends.

I reply to several casual text messages a day from a variety of affluent people who want to tell Amber about a new hairstyle, a new purchase, a new lover. But almost no one actually phones to talk to her except William, who dutifully calls once a day to check in.

A couple of days ago, I saw in Amber’s calendar that she was supposed to meet a friend for lunch at a fancy bistro. I was incredibly nervous about pulling off the lunch, but it wasn’t difficult at all. The friend raved about Amber’s new blond hair for a while but otherwise kept up a steady, whiny ramble on her home renovations and her infuriating husband. I smiled, nodded, and made sympathetic murmurs, and that was all I needed to do to sustain the conversation.

Later that same day, William’s housekeeper, Greta, made a random comment of surprise that I haven’t shopped all week, evidently a significant change from Amber’s normal routine, so I went shopping the next day, paying for my purchases with the credit card in Amber’s wallet.

I’m sure there’s a limit on the card, but the several exorbitantly priced items I bought didn’t trigger it.

I didn’t really want to go shopping.

Amber’s huge closet is like a high-end boutique with an endless supply of luxurious silks, cashmeres, and leathers. None of the clothes fit my preferred style. All the shoes have very high heels and narrow toes. Most of the outfits are white, cream, or soft pastels—with only a few dramatic splashes of color in shoes, purses, and scarves. I’ve lived for the past week in constant fear of spilling something on myself and ruining an outfit worth thousands of dollars.

On my shopping trip, I was tempted to buy clothes that are more my style, but that would be a mistake. Amber obviously has a distinctive fashion sense, and any variation will draw attention to me.

So I picked out a gorgeous Prada bag in a deep purple that I absolutely love since Amber often chooses bolder colors in accessories. And then I looked for something more comfortable to sleep in.

For three nights in a row, I wore the soft white pajamas since everything else in Amber’s pajama drawer is a slinky teddy or a sexy nightgown with lace and ties and other features that make it nearly impossible for me to relax in. At the store, I eyed the neatly folded piles of soft pajama pants and knit tops with visceral craving since those are exactly the kind of sleepwear I prefer. But it would be out of character for Amber, and William will be returning from his trip soon.

So I carefully picked out some other choices—decadent enough to be convincing for Amber but comfortable enough to actually sleep in. If William asks about the change of style, I’ll say I’m trying something new.

After hanging up on my brief conversation with William, which mostly consisted of him telling me his flight is delayed because of bad weather, I finish my solitary dinner. Then I take a bath, put on a pair of my new pajamas—loose pants and fluttery tank made of a deep red Chinese silk—and stretch out to read in the media room, the only room in the apartment with a somewhat comfortable couch.

I’ve actually been rather restless this week—almost bored, if such a word can be applied with an undercurrent of lurking anxiety. I’m not sure exactly what Amber does with her time. But I can’t find much to do, and I’m not long entertained by shopping or visiting day spas.

I’ve spent the past month cooped up in a dingy studio apartment, afraid of setting foot outside. But this week I’ve been freed of that fear. It’s like a miracle, but it’s also left me ready to do... something.

Anything.

I would love to craft some jewelry right now, but I have neither supplies nor a suitable space to work.

So I’ve been using the high-end exercise equipment in the workout room for hours every morning, far exceeding my maybe-once-a-week exercise routine. At least it helps get rid of some energy.

One of the only real scares I’ve had was yesterday when William wanted to know why I stopped going to the gym—something he must have found out from his driver since I certainly didn’t mention it.

I was completely at a loss for words as I realized that, despite the fully equipped workout room in this apartment, Amber regularly goes to a fancy health club. I knew she was a member because she gave me the information, but I’ve been too distracted to try to go yet.

This realization did nothing to lead me to an answer for William, who was waiting for a response to his question. Finally I managed to say, “I was just getting tired of being bothered all the time by annoying people when I try to work out.”

That seemed to satisfy William, and he let the topic drop.

I keep reading on the couch until eleven when I decide I better go to bed. I need to make sure I’m “asleep” when William arrives home, which might be as early as midnight.

I’m not asleep—I’m lying in bed in the dark, nervously waiting for his arrival—at just after midnight when I hear faint sounds from the entry to the apartment.

Then the bedroom door opens.

I close my eyes immediately and lie perfectly still, deepening my breathing so my slumbers will be convincing. I hear someone walk into the room. Some rustling sounds. A drawer open and close.

Unable to stand not knowing what’s going on, I peek through my lashes.

William hasn’t turned on any lights, but he’s left the bedroom door open, so light comes in from the hallway. I can see his dark silhouette—tall, lean, masculine—as he unbuttons his dress shirt.

His suit jacket is draped over the surface of the dresser, and he must have already taken off his tie.

I watch in genuine curiosity and growing anxiety as he takes off his cuff links and then pulls off his shirt. I can’t see well enough to pick out any details of his chest, but the outline of his shoulders and the taper of his back are fit. Powerful.

I gulp, reminding myself that Amber promised there was nothing intimate between the two of them. Plus I can always have a headache. I’m not going to be required to have sex with this attractive, intimidating stranger who is about to get in bed with me.

I watch from beneath my lowered lashes as he slides off his belt, takes off his watch, and then toes off his shoes.

He’s starting to unfasten his trousers when he suddenly looks over at me. I can’t see his eyes or expression, but the motion of his silhouetted head is clear.

I’m so surprised by his sudden attention that I jerk a little. My heart racing frantically, I can no longer hide that I’m awake, so I lift my arms in a leisurely stretch. “Hey. You’re home.”

“I was trying not to wake you. You’re in bed early.”

He sounds mild, polite, but not particularly affectionate. Certainly not like a man who is thrilled to see Amber after a week apart.

I’m intensely relieved it’s dark in the room so he won’t able to see me very clearly. “Yeah. I was tired. How was your trip?”

He pauses, still focused on where I’m lying in bed. I momentarily lose my breath, as it feels like his scrutiny might pierce through the dark of the room. But that’s ridiculous. I simply need to stay relaxed and act natural.

“Fine,” he replies at last, taking off his trousers. He seems to be wearing some kind of dark-colored boxers beneath them, but I can’t clearly see the cut or fabric.

“Good.” After the groggy response, I snuggle down under the covers as if I’m about to drift back to sleep. I don’t feel tired at all. I’m having trouble controlling my shallow breathing and racing heartbeat. But I don’t want William to get any ideas about nighttime activities, so it’s best if he thinks I’m not fully awake.

At the sound of more motion, I peek out again and see that he has gathered his clothes and is heading into the closet. After a minute in there, he goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

I let out a long breath. It’s fine. I can do this. William and Amber might sleep in the same bed, but they’re clearly quite distant, exactly as Amber explained. I can act even more distant. William might think I’m rude and heartless, but at least he’ll still think I’m Amber.

I hear the toilet flush in the bathroom. Then the water running in the sink. He’s probably brushing his teeth. I wonder if he’ll take a shower, but he doesn’t. He comes back out after just a minute, turning off the bathroom light and then closing the bedroom door.

The room falls into almost complete darkness, broken only by the thin edge of light around the door and the faint glow of the bedside clock.

I hear rather than see William walk over and climb into the bed beside me. The mattress shifts. The covers are adjusted. My pillow moves slightly, nudged by his.

I feel him stretch out beside me. Hear him let out a deep, thick breath— as if he’s trying to relax.

He must be tired. He flew in from London. He’s likely had a long, hard week.

And he hasn’t had a very warm homecoming.

I feel a sharp pang in my chest. It’s not guilt—since William obviously isn’t my responsibility—but it’s something like sympathy. He’s been basically nice to me every time we’ve talked on the phone. Not sentimental or emotional but certainly not rude, abrasive, or cold.

He’s been away from his fiancée for more than a week, and he’s been greeted as if I couldn’t care less that he’s home.

It doesn’t matter if it’s more a business arrangement than a real relationship. If I was in his place, I might be hurt.

I’m not used to spending much time worrying about other people’s feelings, not since I left home. And lately I’ve had no emotional bandwidth for anything but dealing with Montaigne.

But right now I’m supposed to be Amber. And Amber and William live in the same home and share a bed.

So I roll over onto my side so I’m facing in William’s direction. My eyes have adjusted, and I can see the outline of his head against the pillow, the lines of his lean body under the covers. “So your trip was all right?” I make sure to still sound a little sleepy.

He pauses and turns his head to look in my direction. “Yes. It was fine.”

I search my mind for something to ask that doesn’t require any real knowledge of the purpose of his trip—which I have no idea about.

“Nothing exciting happened?”

“No. Just normal meetings.”

He doesn’t seem very talkative, which is actually a relief. If he doesn’t want to share, then I’m not obliged to act like a supportive partner. “Okay.” Acting on instinct, I lean toward him. Amber told me they kiss sometimes, and surely this is an appropriate situation for a brief peck. “I’m glad you’re home.”

I can see well enough in the dark to find his lips. I press a soft kiss there, prepared to draw back almost immediately.

William’s mouth is perfectly still at first—as if he isn’t sure how to respond. But then his lips soften and cling to mine unexpectedly, and he raises a hand to my hair to hold my head in place before I can withdraw.

He’s a good kisser—that much is clear—and I feel a completely unexpected flutter of pleasure as our lips move together and his tongue flicks out to tease mine lightly.

But then the pleasure is swallowed up by a much deeper swell of panic.

I don’t know this man.

I don’t know him.

And he thinks he’s kissing Amber.

So I pull away, making myself smile in a relaxed manner. “Good night, William.” I roll over onto my opposite side and snuggle down under the covers again.

“Good night.”

I can feel his eyes on me in the dark for a minute. Then he rolls over too, his back toward me, and after a few minutes, his breathing slows and deepens into sleep.

It takes a long time before I can fall asleep too.

* * *

SOMETHING WAKES ME the next morning, but I’m not sure what it is.

I shift in bed, enjoying the feel of silk and Egyptian cotton against my skin. Then I stretch and manage to open my eyes, feeling leisurely and comfortable.

I suck in a sharp breath as I abruptly realize where I am, who I am, and who I’m with.

It’s just after six in the morning, and William is standing in front of the dresser in the bedroom, fastening the cuff links on his french-blue dress shirt. He must have already showered since he’s almost fully dressed in black trousers, shoes, and socks.

He glances over, sees I’m awake. “Morning.”

“Morning,” I mumble back, trying to wake up. It would be a big mistake to try to carry on a conversation with William without being fully in possession of my faculties. I sit up in bed since the change in position might help my mind to work more quickly.

He’s finished with his cuff links and is now working on his tie, but he’s staring at me with such obvious attention that I almost cringe.

“What?” I finally demand when he does nothing but stare. My red silk pajamas are generally flattering, although I don’t like how my nipples are poking out through the fabric and how one of the straps keeps slipping down over my shoulder. My hair is almost certainly messy, but I just woke up. Surely Amber doesn’t look perfect first thing every morning either.

“Why did you change your hair?” he asks at last.

I almost gasp in relief as I realize why he’s been so absorbed in my appearance. I forgot that he hasn’t seen Amber’s new blond hair.

Masking my expression, I give a little shrug. “I just felt like a change. Don’t you like it?”

His brown eyes scrutinize every detail of my appearance. His gaze is mostly focused on my hair, but I notice it also slips down to linger briefly on my breasts.

He and Amber are engaged to be married. Of course he’s allowed to look. But it still makes me feel strangely naked, exposed.

“You don’t like it?” I ask when he doesn’t answer. Any woman in the world would feel insecure if she thought the man in her life didn’t like her new hairdo, so I know the slight quaver in my voice is exactly right.

“Of course I like it.” He’s still studying me with frightening scrutiny. He tightens his tie and reaches over for his suit jacket. “It just takes some getting used to. It makes you look really different.”

I suddenly realize what a great advantage the apparent change in hair color is. A major alteration of appearance like that can also explain any other slight incongruities William might notice. Hair can make eye color, facial shape, and skin tone seem different too. Surely a dramatic change from brunette to blond will mask the very minor differences between my appearance and Amber’s.

“Well, I like it,” I say, patting my messy hair. I’m starting to feel too self-conscious under his observant eyes, so I climb out of bed, mumbling that I need some coffee.

I’m able to escape for long enough to get a cup of coffee, and when I return, William is sitting on the edge of the bed and reading a message on his phone.

“Everything all right?” I ask when I see his eyebrows draw together, creating little lines of worry on his forehead.

He glances up, as if he’s surprised. “Of course.”

There isn’t any “of course” about it. He’s clearly distracted by whatever message he received, and it has obviously concerned him. His shoulders look a little tense, and his jaw is set tightly.

“What is it?” As far as I can tell on our brief acquaintance, he seems like a basically decent guy. I don’t like this change in his demeanor. It means something is wrong with him. I sit on the bed beside him, holding my coffee mug in both hands. “Did something happen?”

His eyes cut over to my face, and for a moment he looks like he’s going to say something, like he’s going to share whatever is bothering him. But then he gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “It’s nothing, Amber. Nothing for you to worry about.”

My mouth tightens in annoyance. He’s clearly hiding things from me, shutting me out. My first instinct is to resist such treatment. I want to know what’s wrong.

But I stifle the irrational instinct. Obviously, William and Amber have their regular habits—which seem to consist of holding each other at arm’s length. I would be incredibly foolish if I don’t take advantage of this situation.

The more distanced I am from William, the safer I’ll be.

“Okay. Good.” I sip my coffee.

He shoots me a strange look I can’t interpret and then gets up, buttoning his suit jacket as he does. “I’ve got to get to the office. I have a dinner meeting, so I’ll be back late tonight.”

If I was really his fiancée, I’d definitely have something to say about his working all day after being gone for a week. But, as it is, his absence adds to my advantage. “Okay. Have a good day.”

He stands looking at me for a minute, as if he’s waiting for something.

Hit with a sudden realization, I stand up too. I stretch up to kiss him on the mouth, carefully holding my coffee away so I don’t spill it on his lovely suit. He smells delicious—warm, masculine, faintly expensive, nothing too obvious or obnoxious.

He kisses me back, gently stroking the length of my hair as he pulls away. His brow is lowered when he looks down at me again.

I freeze, wondering if he can tell the difference between my kisses and Amber’s. Obviously, people have their own ways of kissing. But how different could such a simple kiss be?

“I’ll talk to you later.” Then he walks out of the room.

I release a rough sigh and flop back down on the bed, relieved to be alone again.

So far, things have gone all right. But this is going to get really complicated fast.

* * *

WILLIAM DOESN’T GET home until after eight that evening. And then, after grabbing a sandwich from the kitchen and giving me a brief greeting, he disappears into the one locked room in the apartment—which is obviously his home office.

Despite myself, I’m a little offended.

This is how he treats Amber? He’s gone for days and then all she gets of his time is a brief conversation on his way out the door that morning? He finally comes home, only to hide himself away in his office. What the hell kind of situation is this?

One tiny, irrational part of me is tempted to storm his office and demand he treat me like I’m more than an expensive accessory in his life.

I don’t, of course. The more he works, the less time he’ll have to recognize that I’m not really Amber. The less I’ll have to deal with the panic always simmering beneath the surface as I think and rethink every word I say to him.

I take a long, hot bubble bath, which I’ve been doing every evening since the tub is so luxurious and it helps relax me before bed. Then I put on another new set of pajamas I bought the other day—a soft, white lace camisole and silk knit pants in a deep blue. Since it’s a little cool in the room, I add a white belted sweater before I go into the media room.

Instead of reading, I turn on the television, which is set to a channel playing a British comedy. At first I’m just curious, so I pause before switching to a streaming network. But then I start to snicker over the dry, clever humor.

An hour later, I’m still laughing, completely wrapped up with the show and momentarily forgetting I’m supposed to be Amber.

I’m by myself, stretched out on the cushy leather sofa with a glass of white wine in my hand and a soft throw tossed over my legs. And I can’t seem to stop laughing.

I break off abruptly when I realize that William is standing in the doorway. He’s taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie, but otherwise he’s wearing what he put on that morning. His eyes are startlingly dark above the french blue of his shirt. They’re fixed on my face.

I have no way of interpreting his expression. But I’m nervous and self-conscious as I straighten up on the couch where I’ve been stretched out in a careless sprawl. “Hey. You done working?”

He makes a brief gesture with his hand, almost as if he’s brushing away my question. His eyes bore into me and then shift to the television screen.

“It’s silly—I know.” I have to fight not to babble nervously at his expression. “But it’s kind of funny.”

Maybe William is surprised since Amber might not have been in the habit of chortling uninhibitedly over British comedy. But my sister used to have a similar sense of humor. As girls, we would giggle for hours over exactly the same things.

Surely something so trivial won’t be an obvious giveaway.

William’s eyes have returned to my face. Then they lower to the wineglass in my hand. Something changes on his expression. It tightens or darkens or something.

I have no idea what’s happening, so I blink when he turns on his heel and strides back down the hallway, away from me.

I stand up automatically. He’s angry about something. And I have no idea what it is.

Not knowing what else to do, I follow him. Find him in the entry hall, rifling through my new purple Prada bag.

“What the hell are you doing?” I’m immediately angry at the violation—even though almost nothing in the bag is mine. I’m also washed with a cold wave of panic, remembering the little notebook with all of Amber’s information is in there.

William completely ignores me. He pulls out Amber’s shiny, engraved, silver pillbox, and I now know what he’s looking for.

Several days ago, as I was searching for an aspirin in Amber’s bag, I found in that container a large collection of pills that were definitely not aspirin.

They looked like prescription medication. Some were white and round. Some were small and blue. And there were a couple of oblong yellowish ones.

Maybe prescription pills are one of Amber’s vices. I’m not going to have anything to do with it. I flushed the mysterious pills and filled the little compartment with ibuprofen instead.

When he flips the lid up, William blinks down at the harmless over-the-counter pills, obviously taken aback by not finding what he expects.

“Satisfied?” I snap, still deeply annoyed by him searching my purse without permission. “I can’t tell you how much trouble I get into with my little hoard of Advil!”

He stares up at me. “Where are they?”

“Where are what?” I don’t need to fake my indignation. My spine stiffens, and my cheeks flush with rising emotion.

“Where are the pills? I’m not a fool, Amber. I knew you were acting strange. I told you I wasn’t going to let you—”

“There are no pills. And I don’t give a fuck what you’ll let me do. Who the hell do you think you are?” It’s been a long time since I lost my temper. Most of the time I just don’t care enough to bother anymore. I have no idea why I’m so upset now—since all this is about Amber and not me.

William takes one long step over and grabs my upper arms. He looks cold and hard rather than fiery, and his hands on my arms are strong but don’t hurt. “I have every right to know this. We came to an agreement, and if you’re using again, then you’ve broken your side of it.”

My mind is a whirl. I have no idea what’s going on here, and my ignorance is frightening since I might not know enough to sustain my stolen identity.

“I’m not on any pills.” I don’t like the feel of his hands on my arms. They’re not violent. They’re intimate. “I haven’t broken our agreement.”

Amber had definitely broken it. She’d had those pills—maybe she’d been addicted to them. And she’d certainly betrayed William in other ways.

For just a moment, I’m hotly angry with Amber for acting the way she is.

William stares at me, his eyes so penetrating I feel utterly naked.

“You don’t believe me,” I say when he doesn’t respond.

“No. I don’t.”

“Then search my purse.” I thrust the bag over at him almost violently. I desperately hope he won’t do it since that notebook is definitely in there. But it’s better than him looking like I betrayed him. “Search the room. Search the whole damned place. There’s nothing here to find.”

I immediately regret the angry declaration since I have no way of knowing whether Amber stashed her stuff around the apartment in hidden corners.

But all the intensity leaves William anyway. He doesn’t take the purse I thrust at him, and his hands drop from my arms.

He stares, and for just a moment he looks bewildered, almost vulnerable.

William Worthing isn’t a vulnerable man.

The flicker of helplessness I see on his face makes something clench hard in my chest. I’m doing this because I’m desperate, because I don’t see any other good option.

But it isn’t fair to William.

This is his life I’m manipulating.

Absurdly, I want to comfort him, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do. I let out a thick sigh and finally land on a way out of this trap of an encounter.

“I’ve... I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” I don’t have to feign the self-consciousness and hesitations. “I know I’ve messed up a lot. I’m trying... I’m trying to be better.”

His eyes narrow as he watches me. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m... trying.” I lower my lashes to hide my eyes. “Maybe that’s why you think I seem... I seem different.”

When several moments pass and he doesn’t say anything—all I can hear is his heavy breathing—I peek up at him. His face has softened slightly, and his eyes aren’t so hard on my face.

I let out a relieved breath, hoping I’ve managed to protect my identity and smooth over the conflict with one stroke. “Okay?”

He inclines his head and lets out his breath. “Okay.”

I swallow hard. Then lean over to pick up my bag. I replace the pillbox and the small mirror that slipped out in William’s search.

I return the purse to its place in the entry hall and walk back to the media room since there’s nothing else for me to do.

William doesn’t join me again. He must go back into his office. At midnight, I head to bed.

An hour later, William comes to bed too.

I’m no longer used to intimacy of any kind, but that’s how it feels when William climbs under the covers beside me. I have to remind myself it’s all a pretense. This is Amber’s life, not mine. William is Amber’s fiancé, not mine.

Eventually, either Amber will come back to claim her life again or it will be safe enough for me to reclaim mine.

It will only complicate matters if I start to feel sympathy or annoyance or any real emotion at all with William.

I only need to maintain the illusion.

The illusion is all that matters. And it’s extraordinarily delicate, like a mirror that will shatter with too much pressure.

I pretend to sleep, but I can smell William in bed beside me. His scent is different than it was this morning—still faintly expensive but not as crisp. He smells more natural now. Like a real man.

The bed shifts as he adjusts positions. I can feel him looking at me silently in the dark.

This time I don’t open my eyes.