Paige
A week. It’s been a week since I woke up in another woman’s body. The nurses called my recovery miraculous. I call it Phase One.
I stand in the middle of Seraphina Laurent’s penthouse apartment. It’s all white marble and cold glass, overlooking a city that no longer knows my name. The place is sterile, impersonal, like a hotel suite no one has ever truly lived in. My reflection stares back from a floor-to-ceiling window: a stranger with my fury simmering in her emerald eyes.
I’ve spent every waking moment learning her. Her walk, which is more of a glide. Her voice, a low, smooth melody so different from my own clipped, practical tone. I practice in front of the mirror for hours. “Seraphina Laurent,” I say, letting the name roll off my new tongue. It tastes like a lie and a promise.
Her life is an open book, splashed across gossip sites and glossy magazines stacked on a chrome coffee table. ‘Socialite Seraphina Laurent in Mystery Coma After Fiery Crash.’ The headlines are a gift. They provide a perfect cover story, a ready-made narrative for my return to the world.
I run a hand over a silk dress hanging in a closet bigger than my old lab. It feels alien. Everything feels alien. This body is a costume, and I must learn to wear it so well that no one sees the seams.
On the mahogany desk in the corner, a stack of mail sits untouched. Bills, charity solicitations, and one thick, cream-colored envelope. I pick it up. The cardstock is heavy, expensive. My new, delicate fingers slit it open.
The Landen family crest is embossed at the top in gold foil.
My breath catches.
‘You are cordially invited to the Eighth Annual Starlight Gala, celebrating the launch of Aura by Isolde Landen.’
A bitter laugh escapes me. Aura. My masterpiece. My soul in a bottle. And Isolde, my soulless stepsister, is launching it as her own.
The invitation is my key. My way back into their world. But I can’t walk in there alone. I need an ally. I need the only person I ever trusted.
I find Seraphina’s phone on the nightstand. It’s sleek, new, and wiped clean. A burner, most likely. Perfect. My fingers fly across the screen, dialing a number I know better than my own name.
It rings twice before he picks up.
“This is Julian.” His voice is clipped, tired. He’s probably been living in his lab since he heard the news about my ‘death.’
“Julian,” I say, my voice the carefully practiced melody of Seraphina Laurent.
“Who is this?” he asks, his tone wary. “How did you get this number?”
“It’s me.”
A sharp, humorless laugh comes down the line. “Funny. I’m not in the mood for jokes. Paige is dead.”
The finality in his voice is a fresh stab of pain, but I push it down. Emotion is a luxury I can’t afford.
“She’s not,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “They wanted her to be. But she isn’t.”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you need to stop. This is cruel.” His voice is cracking. My heart aches for him, for the grief I’ve caused him.
“Ask me something,” I say. “Something only she would know.”
There’s a long pause. I can hear him breathing, the sound ragged. “Fine,” he says, his voice cold as ice. “The first formula we ever cracked together. What was the secret note we could never identify?”
I smile. Of course he’d pick that. The night that cemented our friendship, huddled over a gas chromatograph in his university lab.
“It wasn’t one note,” I reply instantly. “It was three, in a perfect one-to-one-to-one ratio. Aldehyde C-12 MNA, a touch of indole, and a synthetic petrichor accord. You said it smelled like concrete after a thunderstorm.”
The silence on the other end is absolute. It stretches for a full ten seconds. When he finally speaks, his voice is a choked whisper.
“That’s not possible. Who is this? Really.”
“It’s me, Julian. I died. And then… I woke up.”
“Paige?” He says my name like a prayer, like a curse. The disbelief is still there, but it’s warring with a dawning, horrified hope. “Your voice… your face…”
“Is gone,” I finish for him. “They gave me a new one. Her name is Seraphina Laurent.”
“Seraphina Laurent?” he repeats, the name clicking into place. “The socialite? The car crash? I saw that in the news. I…” He trails off, the impossible logic snapping together in his brilliant mind.
“I need you, Julian,” I say, the mask of Seraphina cracking for just a moment, letting the raw desperation of Paige slip through. “I’m going to take back what’s mine. I’m going to destroy them. But I can’t do it alone.”
“Where are you?” he asks, all hesitation gone, replaced by the fierce loyalty I’ve always counted on. He doesn’t need any more proof. He believes me.
“Seraphina’s penthouse. The Laurent Tower on Fifth.”
“Don’t move. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The line goes dead.
I sink onto the edge of the pristine white bed, the Landen invitation clutched in my hand. For the first time in a week, a real, genuine tear traces a path down my new, perfect cheek. I’m not alone anymore.
Exactly nineteen minutes later, my apartment buzzer rings. I let him in without a word.
The elevator opens directly into the foyer. Julian steps out, his eyes wide, his face pale. He’s holding a tablet, his knuckles white where he grips it. He looks at me, and his gaze sweeps over Seraphina’s face, her body. He’s searching for me, for a flicker of the friend he lost.
“Paige?” he breathes.
I just nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
He closes the distance between us in three long strides. His hands come up to frame my face, his touch feather-light, as if he’s afraid I’ll shatter. His thumb traces the cheekbone that isn’t mine.
“My God,” he whispers, his eyes filled with a mix of awe and devastation. “It really is you. I can see it in your eyes.”
He pulls me into a hug, fierce and desperate. I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of ozone and coffee that always clings to him. For a moment, I’m not Seraphina, the beautiful weapon. I’m just Paige, and I’m safe with my only friend.
He pulls back, his expression hardening into resolve. “They tried to murder you.” It’s not a question.
“They succeeded,” I say, my voice cold again. “And now they’re going to pay.” I hold up the invitation to the Starlight Gala.
Julian looks from the invitation to my face, and a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips. It’s the same smile he gets when he’s about to shatter a corporation’s firewall.
“Alright, Phoenix,” he says, using his old nickname for me. “Where do we begin?”
