Chapter 3 BECOMING HER

CHAPTER THREE

BECOMING HER

Her heart galloped as she pressed herself against the marble wall outside the suite marked CARTER.

Fortune Daquino slipped through the hallway like a shadow stitched in silk.

She wasn't supposed to be here not now, not ever again. But she couldn't leave without telling Emily Carter what she really thought of her.

The audacity of making her swap rooms in the middle of the night like some pawn on a marble chessboard.

She adjusted the hood of her jacket, her fingers trembling slightly as she tapped the keycard she'd stolen. A soft green light flashed and the door opened.

The suite was dim, moody with soft sconces flickering against gold veined wallpaper. Expensive. Dramatic. So very Emily.

Fortune stepped inside cautiously, letting the door click shut behind her. "Emily?" she called out, her voice low but firm.

She expected music, laughter, or the sound of high heels pacing on marble. Instead, nothing. The air smelled faintly of lavender and burnt amber, like a luxury spa just cleaned.

She stepped further in, eyes darting round the room.

The dress Emily had planned to wear still hung pristine on the armoire, shimmering midnight black, sheer in scandalous places. It looked untouched. On the vanity, makeup brushes were lined like soldiers. Lipsticks. Lashes. Foundation trays. Not a smudge out of place.

But where was Emily?

Fortune stepped closer, arms crossed, narrowing her eyes. "Seriously, Carter, did you ditch to go seduce him early?" She muttered under her breath. "Is it King Arthur's son tonight or Michael Jackson?"

She moved to the bedroom. The bed was made, silky sheets stretched tight. No clothes, no mess, not even a spilled drink. It looked staged, like no one had ever slept here.

She made her way to the bathroom door, hesitated. Knocked once.

She heard nothing, not even a sound.

She opened it slowly. Cold light spilled over gleaming marble tiles and a claw foot tub filled halfway with still water. Strange. She stared for a moment longer. No sign of Emily.

Fortune backed out, baffled.

She sighed deeply then came a knock. She jumped. Her breath caught mid throat.

This time the knock came harder, a female voice followed. "Miss Carter? We're late. We need to begin styling. Your mother is not happy that we're yet to style."

Fortune froze. She rushed to the peephole. Three women stood outside. One of them, a tall, razor cheeked stylist in leopard print and gold chains, tapped her foot with practiced irritation.

"Sienna..." Fortune whispered. "No, no, no."

Panic bloomed like ice across her spine. She glanced once more around the room, it was empty. Emily was gone. Just...gone.

She must have left. Snuck out somehow.

That had to be it. Fortune told herself this over and over as her pulse climbed. If she told the stylists she wasn't Emily, they'd scream. Call security. She'd be dragged out in seconds and probably thrown in jail.

But what if...what if she just played along?

Just for tonight.

She eyed the dress. The makeup. The heels.

The party.

Her stomach twisted. "Just for tonight," she whispered. "Just long enough to get into the party."

She turned and headed for the bathroom again.

Inside, she locked the door. She took off her jacket, revealing her bare skin, smooth as rosewood. She rolled her neck and took a breath.

She placed her palm flat against the mirror, the glass shimmered faintly beneath her touch. A gentle pulse of heat rolled through her veins.

She closed her eyes and reached.

It was like fishing through silk. Pulling something from the bottom of herself. She found Emily's image, burned into memory, her high cheeks, glossy lips, arrogant tilt of her chin.

She dragged it upward, folding herself into it.

The morph began.

Her skin prickled, shivered, then shifted. Her shoulders narrowed. Her waist shrank. Her hips curved out wider, her breasts fuller. Her bones clicked, reshaping with a dull internal ache. Like being rewritten from the inside out.

Her nose sharpened. Lips inflated into that familiar cherry pout. Blonde curls spiraled from her scalp in cascading waves, falling around her collarbones. Her eyes burned sapphire blue.

She gasped softly, sharp and winded.

The process always stole her breath.

When she opened her eyes, Emily Carter stared back at her.

Perfect.

Indistinguishable.

But beneath the flawless face, it was still Fortune.

She tilted her head, practicing the smirk. Then the glare. Then the infamous Carter pout.

There was another knock, an impatient one.

"Miss Carter?" came Sienna's voice again, this time firmer. "We're opening the door. Your mother needs you at the after party."

Fortune grabbed a towel and stepped into the main room. Just as the lock clicked, she reached for the handle and swung it open.

Sienna raised an eyebrow, immediately followed by two assistants carrying garment bags and cases.

"You're late," Fortune said in her best Emily drawl. It came out smooth. Dismissive. Just rude enough.

Sienna blinked, then exhaled. "Well. She does speak. Let's move."

"Don't talk to me like that," Fortune snapped her head towards her. "Or I'll throw you out this very moment...and don't be blinking at me."

"I'm sorry ma'am." Sienna said, swallowing hard. "It won't happen again."

"It better not." Fortune stared at her. "Now get to work, silly."

The women bustled in like a fashion hurricane. Brushes, palettes, pins, and lashes were flying within seconds.

They sat Fortune down at the vanity and unzipped their weapons of transformation. Fingers tugged her hair, brushed her cheekbones, applied primer and powder and shimmer.

"How do you want the eyes?" one assistant asked.

"Smoky. Kill-a-man smoky," Sienna said without hesitation.

Fortune remained still, letting them work, her insides buzzing like hornets. She watched herself in the mirror, watched as they painted this false version of her.

"Are we going with the black velvet or the champagne satin?" asked the second assistant, holding up two hangers.

"The black," Fortune said quickly.

Sienna gave a sharp nod. "Good. The slit alone could start a war."

They zipped her into the dress. It fit like poured sin. Cool fabric hugged every inch of her. The slit rode high, dangerously high.

Everything was set, her heels, jewelry. Final spray of perfume...jasmine, vanilla, and power.

"You look," Sienna said, taking a step back, "dangerously beautiful."

Fortune met her own eyes in the mirror.

"Whatever."

The suite door opened again. "Miss Carter," a voice called. "Your car is waiting."

Fortune rose, her heels clicking across the marble. The stylists trailed her, still checking details, fluffing the hair, fixing the hem, touching up gloss.

Outside, a convoy waited.

Three black Range Rovers gleamed under the golden lights. Security personnel in sleek suits opened doors without comment. The lead bodyguard, a man with a bullet scar over one brow, nodded at her.

"Evening, Miss Carter."

Fortune nodded coolly.

She slid into the back seat, hands clutching her tiny purse like it contained a detonator. The car pulled into motion, part of a larger beast of power and privilege.

As the city lights blurred past the window, Fortune's breath caught in her throat.

She had become her.