Jane:How excited are we talking? Like "polite interest" or "already picked out china patterns"?
Me:Ah, the jokes. The latter.Help.
Jane:On it. What's her deal?
Me:Corporate lawyer. Art collector. My mother's exact clone in a younger body. Do your best.
Jane:Say no more. I'll bring my A-game.
I pocket my phone, already dreading whatever chaos Jane's about to unleash.
No, that’s not it. Fear it, yes. But I'm actually looking forward to it.
Which should probably concern me more than it does.
The early evening breeze is hitting my overheated skin like a benediction after three hours of Blake’s smug commentaryand Scarlett’s simmering resentment.
The plan worked—Natalie showed up “unexpectedly” at the clubhouse, all sunshine and wedding-dress excitement, and Blake had no choice but to shower her with attention for thirty minutes. His attention snapped from Scarlett to his fiancée like someone flipped a switch. Textbook priority management.
Scarlett watched from the sidelines, her smile so brittle I thought it might shatter every time Blake touched Natalie’s arm or laughed at something she said.
Mission accomplished.
Now we just need Scarlett to crack.
Ilet myself in quietly. The main room is empty, but I hear Jane’s voice drifting from the bedroom. She’s on the phone.
Her tone is different—softer, warmer, laced with an affection I haven’t heard directed at anyone else since I met her.
Curiosity prickles. Who gets this version of Jane? The one that sounds… unfiltered with a trace of worry. Not her usual chaotic energy or fake-bright customer service voice.
I shouldn’t eavesdrop. It’s a dick move. But something in her voice pins me to the spot just inside the doorway, hidden by the half-closed bedroom door.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. Her bare toes wiggle against the duvet. She looks young. Soft. Real.
"—I know, Gracie. I know." Her voice is softer than I've ever heard it. Strained. "No, I'm not stressed. I'm fine. The job's going well."
She picks at a loose thread on the duvet, wrapping it around her finger.
"Grace, stop. Seriously, stop worrying,” she’s saying into her phone, her free hand gesturing emphatically even though the person on the other end can’t see it. “I’m practically drowning in proof that Blake’s a cheating scumbag.”
A soft laugh escapes her.
“No, not literally drowning. Though the ocean is right there, so it’s a possibility. But focus!That shiny new stethoscope you keep sending me links to? Consider it wrapped.”
She listens, then laughs under her breath. The thread snaps. She drops it and starts pulling at a stubborn feather poking out of the pillow instead.
“Yes,thatlink. The shiny silver one you keep sending me like it’s subtle.”
The feather comes loose. She twirls it between her fingers.
“I know you’re ‘just looking.’ You’ve been just-looking at that stethoscope for six months, Grace.”
She leans back against the headboard, her tone shifting—gentler, steadier.
A smile creeps into her voice. “You’re going to be listening to hearts for the rest of your life. You might as well hear them properly. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
She's quiet for a moment, the feather stilling in her hand. When she speaks again, her voice drops.
