Chapter 1
Michaela
I’m in blissful communion with my first steaming hot latte of the day when my friend breaks the silence with an ear-shattering screech.
“You’re getting married?”
I lower my cup. “What?”
Keira’s eyes lift up to mine. “You’re getting married.”
My gaze drops to her cup. “Did you spike your latte with a copious amount of cognac? And if so, how come I didn’t get any?”
“I can’t believe you’ve been in LA for two days and you haven’t even told me.” She ignores my dig and keeps talking, still not making a shred of sense. “Sheesh, I thought we were friends, Mikki.” She rolls her eyes. “I was wrong. I guess I can kiss my dreams of being your maid of honor goodbye since I didn’t even get an invitation.”
I’m hanging out with Keira Weatherly during the tail end of her convalescence. After a morning swim—I swam while she played referee on the side of the pool—we’re sitting in her boyfriend’s kitchen, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Well, it was leisurely until she started talking crazy.
I knit my eyebrows in confusion. “Is this a joke?”
“It says so right here.” She points a frantic finger at her iPad.
“Where?”
“On JustSpotted.com’s website,” she says. “According to them–– Wait a minute.” She grips the device with both hands, brings it close to her face, widens her eyes, and then pulls it away. She does that a few times. “Holy deliciousness, Mikki. You’re getting married to an Adonis god.”
I drop my cup on the saucer. “Keira, how can I be getting married when I’m not even dating?” I let out a sarcastic laugh. “Celebrity sightings in La La Land must be at an all-time low if a leading gossip site like JustSpotted.com is making up stories about me.” I shake my head at the absurdity of it all.
I’m no stranger to being featured on celebrity sites or magazines. The press has dubbed me,the goody-two-shoes hotel heiress, because until recently, my life was devoid of drama. In the past, when the spotlight was on me, it was because of my social outings in New York or to dissect my fashion selections. I haven’t crossed over to the dark side or anything like that, but thanks to my emancipation trip to Nepal, I’ve kicked the goody-two-shoes and Pollyanna image to the curb. These days, the press doesn’t know what to make of me. Good.
“I must have a celebrity-doppelganger running around LA, fooling everybody.” I run my hand over my super short hair. “That’s the only logical explanation.”
“Speaking of hair, JustSpotted.com posted old photos of you?—”
“See. They got it wrong. They have photos of my identical-twin-from-another-mother, her long, dark locks flowing in the wind, passing as me.”
Keira’s lips turn up in an unimpressed frown.
Okay, so I’m not a poet.
“Mikki, even if you had a celebrity-doppelganger, the chance of the two of you having the same name is practicallyimpossible,” Keira says. “This article is about you and your husband-to-be––”
“For crying out loud, Keira, I’m not getting married.”
“Here.” She drops the iPad on the kitchen table. “You tell me you’re not getting married.”
I snatch it, ready to laugh my ass off, except I don’t.
My jaw drops.
My mouth is agape and I’m certain my eyes are bulging out of their sockets.
What in God’s name?
‘MICHAELA KNIGHT SOON TO BECOME MRS. KÖNIG’
I read the headline in shock.
Because I’m certain this is a joke at my expense, I click open another tab and type my name in the search bar.
