The city hadn’t even woken up yet, but your phone had been buzzing since the sun broke the horizon. Paparazzi flashbulbs still burned in your memory like phantom spots behind your eyelids. You pulled the duvet higher over your head, willing the world away. Last night had been—well, the kind of night you promised yourself you wouldn’t repeat. The kind of night where champagne tastes like laughter until it claws back up your throat at two in the morning.

You were a model, one of the fastest-rising names on runways and magazine covers, and parties came with the job. You knew how to balance it, usually. But last night, at that glittering rooftop soirée in Beverly Hills, you hadn’t balanced anything at all. You had let Kendall Jenner top off your glass too many times, let Hailey Bieber pull you into circles of chatter until the music blurred. The last clear image you remembered before the chaos was Kendall’s hand steadying your shoulder and Hailey gathering your hair, all while your body gave way to nausea.

And then—flash. A dozen cameras. The worst possible timing.

You had looked beautiful, in that strange way scandalous photos sometimes immortalize people—cheeks flushed, eyes wide, lips glossed—but nothing about it was glamorous. And worse, you weren’t alone. The moment you saw the headline this morning, your blood ran cold:

“TATE MCRAE SEEN IN ROUGH SHAPE AFTER STAR-STUDDED PARTY.”

The photograph was unmistakable. The earrings gave you away—or rather, they gave her away. Tate’s earrings. The pair she wore to almost every red-carpet event, a talisman of sorts. You had borrowed them after not being able to find your own pair while rushing out the door. Just for one night, you thought. Just to finish the outfit.

Now every glossy tabloid and gossip account thought your twin—the popstar with millions of fans and a flawless reputation—was the one caught stumbling in a bathroom, being helped like a fragile debutante on her downfall.

The banging on your apartment door was almost a physical jolt. You sat up, heart in your throat, because you already knew. No one else would knock like that.

You opened the door to find Tate, her hood pulled over her head, eyes dark with fury that looked so foreign on a face identical to your own. For a beat, it was like staring into a mirror that didn’t reflect your guilt but her rage.

“Are you kidding me?” she snapped, shoving past you into the apartment. “Do you have any idea what’s happening out there?”

You closed the door softly, shame pressing at your chest. “Tate, I—”

She spun on you, pulling her phone out and shoving the screen into your hand. Dozens of articles, headlines stacked like dominoes. The photo again and again: you, bent slightly forward, Kendall and Hailey supporting you, those damn earrings glinting under the flash.

“Tate McRae’s wild night out.” “Pop sensation spirals at celeb party.” “Is Tate okay? Fans worry after shocking photos.”

Her voice trembled beneath the anger. “Do you know how hard I’ve worked to keep my image clean? To be taken seriously? And then this—this shows up overnight. My team has been calling nonstop, my fans are flooding my mentions with concern, and my mom—don’t even get me started on mom.”

You swallowed, every word hitting like a blow. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think,” she cut in sharply. “That’s the problem. You took my earrings, knowing exactly how recognizable they are, and went out like—” she gestured at the photo still glowing on the screen, “—like that. Now everyone thinks I was the one drunk out of my mind at some party.”

You wanted to disappear. You wanted to crawl under the sofa cushions and never come out again. But you couldn’t help bristling just a little. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t plan to drink that much. Kendall and Hailey—”

“Oh my god, do not blame Kendall and Hailey for this,” Tate said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is on you.”