The Princess and the Fangirl (Once Upon a Con #2)(21)

I jab a finger at him. Again. “He started it!”

“Rule six”—she holds up six fingers, as though I need a visual aid—“you will wear contacts at all times.”

I laugh. “Sorry. I don’t do contacts.”

“My eyes are blue, so now you will,” she says matter-of-factly. “Rule seven, you will be nice to my fans but you will not take selfies with them outside of photo ops. Rule eight,” she brings up the finger count again, “no interviews without my consent, no signing things, no nothing. Rule nine is no soda. I don’t drink sodas.”

“They’re gross; I agree.”

She looks happy at that and holds up all ten fingers. “Rule ten: you are only allowed to be me at this convention. And only for this weekend. We’ll swap back on Saturday evening. No going out after the panels, no dinners with costars, no nothing. And you’ll never speak of this again.”

“That’s hardly fair—what if someone invites me out?”

“No. It’s my image, not yours.”

“And what about my image?”

She gives me a once-over as if I’m barely worth her time, and I feel very affronted. “I’m sure your image will be just fine.”

“But I have con obligations, too.”

“So is that a no, then?” She cocks her head. “I didn’t figure you as someone to refuse something like this.”

Oh, she has me pegged. I huff, folding my arms over my chest. “You aren’t…wrong,” I say.

“All right then.” She smiles and outstretches one of her manicured hands for me to shake. This is a bad idea. I can think of ten ways to Sunday why this would never work in real life. Only in K-dramas. Only in animes. Only in YA novels. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in real life, and it most certainly doesn’t happen to me.

And yet…

And yet here is Jessica freakin’ Stone on my bed, stretching her perfectly manicured hand toward me.

What are the odds?

Almost impossible.

“What do you say?” she asks. “Will you be me, Imogen Love-true?”

What other choice does my Gryffindor heart have? Who boldly goes? Who leaps before she thinks? Who rushes in? Me. Because I can still feel the shadow of everything that I’m not looming over me, and I can still hear Jasper laughing when I told him I wanted to save Amara. And here is Jessica Stone, unwittingly giving me the chance to do exactly that. To change the course of my community, of my fandom, of Princess Amara.

Of me.

And when I meet Jasper Sunday at 5 o’clock, I’ll enjoy seeing his face once he realizes I did the impossible. I hashtag saved Amara.

“It’s Lovelace,” I correct, looking down at her hand. “But you can call me Mo. And even though I’m not important like you, I also have responsibilities. So if we’re trading places, you have to pretend to be me, too. I’m sharing a booth with a friend in Artists’ Alley, and I promised I’d be there.”

Jessica pulls her hand away. “I don’t agree to that. I don’t have time to sit in some booth.”

So she is hiding something.

“Well then, no deal,” I say with a shrug and begin walking to the door. Counting the steps. I know she won’t let me just boot them out. She needs me for some reason. She needs to be no one. “Now please, I have a lot to get done tonight, movies to watch and Netflix to chill, so I’d kindly ask you to—”

“Fine,” she snaps and marches up to me. “Fine.”

This time when she offers to shake on the deal, it’s not in comradery. She looks almost pained. I smile and accept her outstretched hand.

“I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Jessica Stone.”





DAY TWO


FRIDAY




* * *





“Starflame! I am not a Noxian Princess for you to save. I will be Queen, and you will kneel before me.”

—Princess Amara, Episode 43, “From Amara with Love”





AT NINE O’CLOCK ON FRIDAY MORNING, Ethan and I are dragging ourselves to the space-age elevator, still half asleep. I sip a double-shot dirty chai latte, hoping it’ll give me some sort of kick. I can’t remember what time I went to bed last night—I was up pacing and scrolling through Starfield hashtags, hoping no one’s realized that the leak is real or that it’s my script, before Ethan woke up and took my phone away.

“Go. To. Bed,” he enunciated and flopped back onto the couch.

I guess I did, eventually, but I don’t remember falling asleep.

We crowd into the elevator, squeezing between green face-painted witches and home-sewn Viking warriors.

I should still be sleeping.

Though, miraculously, my social is quiet this morning. Blissfully so. There are some rude or derogatory comments, but nothing I can’t swipe away with a swift DELETE.

It’s very cathartic.

Maybe the rest of the weekend will be this easy. I’ll find the person who stole my script and I’ll put an end to it, and then Diana will call me and confirm that Amara is well and truly dead.

The elevator dings to a stop on the eighth floor. Imogen’s room is at the far end, just beyond the flickering light.