The Decoy Girlfriend(22)

“Mandi!” The owner emerges from her office in a pantsuit that has big boss-babe vibes.

“Hi, Elena,” Freya says, slipping into the Mandiest smile in her arsenal to greet the middle-aged white woman. She pops open the jewelry box to show her the two shimmering studs. “I was just telling one of your associates that I came to return these opal earrings.”

“Oh, sure! No problem. Want to swap it for something else?” Elena moves to a countertop carousal, spinning it slowly. “I have these turquoise teardrops that would look gorgeous on you!”

The employee whom Freya unsuccessfully tried to explain the situation to, a handsome, willowy Black man, whispers something in Elena’s ear. Her bright smile fades.

“I think there’s been some misunderstanding,” Elena says slowly, glancing between the box and Freya. “You don’t want to exchange the earrings. You want to give them back?”

Freya tries to keep from wincing. Elena sounds so insulted. She was probably banking on the publicity. “I appreciate your generosity,” Freya says. “But it’s too much. As beautiful as the gems are, I can’t accept them.”

“You already did accept,” Elena argues. “Mandi, please. The earrings were a gift.”

Freya holds the jewelry box out, and when Elena doesn’t take it, she gently places it on the counter.

“Wait! Maybe there’s something else you like better?” Elena casts a wild eye around all her glitz. “Maybe a crystal choker? A diamond solitaire? This fourteen-karat white-gold ruby ring?”

Oh my god. Freya’s eyes widen. Each item Elena rattles off is more expensive than the last.

“No!” Horror rises in Freya’s throat. She backs up, bumping into the young woman behind her, jostling the phone in her hand. Freya hadn’t realized she’d drifted so close. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry.”

The woman hastily drops her phone into her purse, looking squirrelly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“May I?” Elena approaches, her dentist’s-wall-of-fame smile even more dazzling than the choker she’s brandishing. “I remember you admiring this one once.”

Oh no, that must have been the real Mandi.

Freya tamps down her panic. “Really not necessary!”

“It would be more like your gift to me!”

Freya looks at Elena.

Elena looks at Freya.

The boutique owner’s face is pink, agitated. Freya has a sudden frightening image of Elena taking her chances lassoing it on Freya like a little kid playing a game of ring toss.

Shame sticks her to the spot. It’s different from the usual swift stab of regret when she lies to Stori or her friends about her writing progress, which has lessened over time the way guilt often does when you get a bit too used to it.

The wounded confusion on Elena’s face makes Freya want to tell her the truth: The earrings are stunning, but I can’t accept them because I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Mandi. That would definitely make Elena stop thrusting freebies on her.

But she can’t admit that. To Elena or anyone. The woman is friendly and earnest, but it’s easy to be nice to famous people when you’re angling for their goodwill or a red-carpet shout-out. If she knew Freya was an imposter, Freya’s pretty sure she’d call the police.

And Freya Lal’s fantastic future? Down the drain. Like that.

Worse, it’s also Mandi’s reputation at stake. She doesn’t deserve to be bad-mouthed because of this.

Mandi Roy has no clue she exists. Nonetheless, Freya owes her.

At the very least, she owes it to her not to fuck up her reputation as Hollywood’s golden girl. So Freya spends the next ten minutes doing damage control to assuage Elena’s worries that she hasn’t somehow offended “Mandi,” ensuring she has no reason to trash-talk the actress.

It’s a miracle that she manages to leave without having another bauble foisted on her. On her way out, she sidesteps the other customer, the girl who still hasn’t bought anything even though she’s been browsing for as long as Freya was there.

As Freya heads for Stori’s car—borrowed without asking since she’d definitely want to know where Freya was going dressed like this—parked across the street, she exchanges one nightmare situation for another.

Or rather, the nightmare perfectly parallel parks in one smooth move, cutting her off.

“Watch yourself!” Freya shouts, leaping back to the safety of the curb.

The window of the white Audi rolls down.

The driver, a girl with wavy chocolate hair, lowers her sunglasses. “Oh, I am. And I’ve gotta say, it’s like looking into a mirror.” She tilts her head, studies Freya. “Almost.”

Oh no. It can’t be. Heart jackrabbiting, Freya asks, “What are you—”

The girl calmly slides her glasses off her nose and lets Freya get a solid look. An unmistakable look. At the same time, she checks Freya out: the white ruffled maxi H&M dress Freya’s wearing is a known dupe for something that Mandi has in her closet. The white pumps and the sliver of a gold anklet complete the signature look.

Freya’s heartbeat rampages, a cold sweat breaking out on her brow. Her feet are doing that thing again where they can’t seem to move even though her brain is screaming at them to do so.

The Mandi Roy gives a satisfied nod, as though Freya’s passed muster somehow.