Page 1 of Faking Ties

ELODIE

Ialways thought if I met someone famous, I’d either act cool, like this were a regular thing for me, or, at the bare minimum, indifferent. Turns out I was wrong on both accounts and dove headfirst into fangirl territory when popstar extraordinaire Stella Wilde knocked on my front door not even five minutes ago.

There’s nothing quite like greeting your idol with a full-on gaping mouth and a squeal that rivals how a constipated chipmunk might sound like. Throw in a little hyperventilation and I’m the perfectly unprepared host.

Stella and her manager, Rachel-I-didn’t-catch-her-last-name-after-Stella-freaking-Wilde-walked-through-my-front-door, stand awkwardly in the middle of my studio apartment that only houses my twin bed. Why didn’t I take Mom’s advice and get acouch or some chairs? Hell, I’ll even take a coffee table at this point to offer it for them to sit on. Stella rolls the sleeves of her sweatshirt up, most likely regretting her decision to wear it since I don’t have AC and the fan isn’t doing much to cut through the summer heat.

“Are you real? Likereallyreal?” I ask, my gaze bouncing between the two women, but it keeps snagging on Stella as I try not to fangirl too hard. She’s even prettier in person and more striking. Six feet tall, green eyes, and long, blonde hair, but with a presence that makes people pay attention. “Nina promised it was only alcohol in my drinks last night, but I’m starting to think she might’ve slipped me some Molly if you’re sitting here…or, well, standinghere…” I swallow back the rest of my words when Rachel’s eyebrows climb higher and higher the more I talk.

“We really don’t have time for this kind of confusion.” Rachel sighs as if my existence pains her. Everything about her screams assertive, from her blunt, shiny black bob to her stilettos that appear as sharp as her personality. “I certainly hope doing drugs isn’t the norm for you, or else we’re wasting our time.”

“It’s not,” I rush to say. “I’ve never done drugs. Unless… Is weed included in your definition? Because if so?—”

“Don’t worry about any of that,” Stella says, saving me with a smile playing on her signature red lips. “What matters is that we look eerily similar.”

“And that’s why we’re here,” Rachel says. “The videoyou posted last night has created a messy situation for us.”

“But I didn’t post it,” I say, as if that helps the so-called messy situation. I’m going to kill Nina for recording me singing last night and posting it on TikTok. She sent me the link this morning of me wearing the same ripped jeans I’m wearing now, a baseball cap low on my forehead, and debuting my version of a slowed-down, angsty version of the hit, dance-worthy, happy Stella song. What’s even more shocking was that it went viral overnight.

“But it’s out there,” Rachel says. “And we’re in the middle of damage control since everyone thinks it’s Stella singing at an open mic night in Nashville. We’re going to go along with that narrative because we need your help with a delicate situation.”

“Me?” I say, placing a hand on my heart like an idiot since clearly there’s no other “you” in the room.

Rachel looks to my water-stained ceiling for help. I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s pointless to looktherefor it?—

“I’m sick,” Stella says.

I jerk my head to look at her before I can even comprehend the meaning. Sick? Disbelief and worry slices through me. Stella being sick is unthinkable, unimaginable. Performing through anything is her superhero origin story. Sickness, heartache, tragedy—it doesn’t matter; nothing stops her. Until now, apparently.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“We’ll see.” Stella shrugs as if it’s not that big of a deal, but her shoulders are too stiff for me to believe how casual she’s acting. “I’ll get the results soon, but I can’t make it to a charity event tonight in New York City.”

“So? What’s the big deal? You miss an event and go to a doctor or something and…” I trail off when Rachel and Stella give each other meaningful looks. “Wait. What’s really going on here?”

“You need to sign this before we can take this conversation further.” Rachel passes me a stapled stack of papers with the word NDA on the front. “It’s tabbed where you need to sign. Here’s a pen.”

“Of course it is.” I grab the pen and scan the document. “How many of these do you have lying around in that purse of yours?” That purse being a leather Birkin that costs more than I make in a year.

“Enough to give one to every person we encounter,” Rachel deadpans.

I whistle. Impressive. It makes sense that no one may talk to Stella without signing one of these bad boys beforehand. And I get it. Her level of fame demands it, and it’s Rachel’s job to protect her, even if she’s prickly. I sign my name, Elodie Smith, on the dotted lines and hand it back to Rachel.

“We need to prepare for a worst-case scenario,” Rachel says. “If Stella needs time to recover, we can’t cancel her tour. Billions of dollars are on the line.”

“And let’s not forget all the people who are working for me,” Stella interjects. “They’re relying on the tour to support their families. I can’t let them or my fans down.” Stella’s face crumples at the mention of disappointing her fans. Stella’s America’s sweetheart for a reason, and it looks like it’s not just a persona, but real.

“And what? You want me to pretend to be you?” I laugh at my joke, but no one joins in. My next laugh dries up in my throat and comes out as a wheeze.

“Why not?” Rachel asks. “It’s already proven that you look enough alike to fool the internet. But we’d like to test if you could fool people in person tonight at a charity event.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say, leaning against the wall, needing it to keep me upright from the shock of it all. I still can’t even process the fact that Stella’s in my apartment let alone wanting me to help her pull a switcheroo on the world.

“Don’t tell me we’re back to the ‘are you real’ conversation?” Rachel gives Stella a look that screamsyou deal with her.

“I’ve had a heart problem for years,” Stella says. “And I’ve been putting off surgery for just as long, not wanting to disappoint anyone. I’ll see if the doctors have any other options to manage my symptoms, but if it does come to surgery, it’ll take a few months to recover. And I need someone to take my place in that time, especially concerning the tour.”

“Is that even legal?” I ask.

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