Chapter 2
Willow's POV
The name hung in the air between us. Chloe Sinclair. The socialite whose face was plastered across half the billboards in Los Angeles. The woman whose features had haunted me for three months.
I opened my mouth to correct her, but something stopped me. Maybe it was exhaustion from the night's performance, or the adrenaline crash after pulling a man from the river. Or maybe it was the way the clerk's judgment had instantly transformed into reverence.
"Um, yeah," I mumbled, tucking a strand of wet hair behind my ear.
Her demeanor changed immediately. "We'll take excellent care of your friend, Ms. Sinclair." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "And please don't worry about the... state of your appearance. Your secret is safe with us."
I fought the urge to laugh. She thought Chloe Sinclair was having some kind of wild, incognito night out? The irony was almost too much.
"The doctor will speak with you shortly," she added, practically bowing as she gestured toward the waiting area.
I nodded, not trusting myself to maintain the charade through extended conversation. The waiting room's leather chair embraced me as I sank into it, my damp clothes leaving a faint outline. The clock on the wall ticked past 3:30 AM.
A doctor in pristine scrubs approached, clipboard in hand. "Ms. Sinclair," he said, smiling warmly. "Your friend is stabilized. He's suffering from mild drowning symptoms and alcohol intoxication, but should make a full recovery."
"That's good," I said. "Is he awake?"
"Not yet. Would you like to see him?
"
I nodded, following him down a corridor of private rooms. Each step on the polished floor echoed with the absurdity of the situation. I wasn't Chloe Sinclair with her penthouse and trust fund. I was Willow Clark, with two jobs and an apartment where the ceiling leaked into strategically placed buckets when it rained.
The drunk millionaire looked better with the river water washed away. His expensive suit had been replaced with a hospital gown, but even unconscious, privilege seemed to radiate from him. The steady beep of the heart monitor was oddly reassuring.
"Hey, Mr. Million Dollars," I said softly. "You better not be faking sleep too."
No response except the steady rise and fall of his chest.
I found a notepad and pen on the bedside table and scribbled a note: "If you wake up, remember you owe me money. Rescue fee: $2,000. CPR fee: priceless. Call me." I added my phone number and placed it where he'd see it upon waking.
Before leaving, I hesitated, then leaned closer to inspect his face. He was definitely handsome, in that way that came from good genetics and better healthcare. "Don't make a habit of drunk swimming," I whispered. "Next time, Wildfire might not be passing by."
Back at the reception desk, I winced as I swiped my card for the $2,000 fee. There went any hope of fixing my apartment ceiling or taking a day off anytime soon.
"Thank you, Ms. Sinclair," the clerk said, handing back my card with reverence. "It's so generous of you to personally cover this." She glanced at my outfit, still damp and now stained with river mud. "Will you be needing a car?"
"No, I have my bike," I said, already heading for the exit before someone who actually knew Chloe showed up and exposed me.
As I pushed through the revolving door, I felt a strange mixture of emotions. For a few minutes, I'd been treated like royalty simply because they thought I was her. No suspicious glances, no condescension, just immediate respect and accommodation. It was intoxicating and infuriating all at once.
Outside in the hospital parking lot, I pulled out my phone. 3:12 AM glowed accusingly on the screen. My shift at ValueMart started at 6:00. I typed a desperate text to Jenny, my coworker with the most flexible schedule:
"Emergency SOS. Can you cover my 6-11 AM shift today? Literal life or death situation. Please??"
I held my breath until the reply came: "Sure thing. You OK? Also you owe me one of those fancy coffees you hate."
Relief washed over me. "You're a lifesaver," I texted back. "Coffee with all the stupid whipped cream. Promise."
The motorcycle roared to life beneath me, the vibration traveling up through my tired body. As I pulled onto the main road, Los Angeles revealed itself in its late-night glory – a sprawling expanse of lights and shadows, promises and disappointments.
Downtown, the financial district's skyscrapers loomed ahead, their glass facades reflecting the city's glow. And there she was – Chloe Sinclair, her face forty feet tall on the side of the Blackwood Tower. The billboard showed her draped in diamonds, promoting some luxury brand's new collection. Her smile was perfect, practiced, professional.
My smile. But not.
When I was eighteen, Thomas and Maria had finally told me the truth they'd kept hidden for years. It had been a rainy Sunday, and I'd found an old newspaper clipping in Maria's keepsake box while looking for photos for a school project. The headline read "Sinclair Heiress Welcomes Baby Girl," with a picture of a woman holding a newborn – a woman who looked just like the baby pictures of me that sat on our mantel.
That night, through tears and apologies, they explained everything. I had a twin sister. I'd been given up for adoption while she'd been kept. While I'd been scraping by with the Clarks – good people who'd taken me in but struggled with their own finances – Chloe had been raised in the lap of luxury by the Sinclairs, one of LA's three powerful dynasties alongside the Blackwoods and the Wilders. These families had ruled Los Angeles society for generations, their names adorning buildings, charities, and scandal sheets in equal measure.
I gunned the engine, accelerating past her perfectly airbrushed face. Another billboard a few blocks later: Chloe again, this time for designer perfume. "Sinclair: The Essence of Elegance," the tagline read.
"Must be nice," I muttered inside my helmet, "being the version they decided to keep."
I took the long way home, riding through neighborhoods that grew progressively less polished. By the time I reached Angelino Courts, the high-rises had given way to apartment buildings with security bars on the windows and convenience stores that never closed.
My building looked especially sad in the pre-dawn light – a three-story walkup with peeling paint and a front door that never quite locked properly. Home sweet home.
I parked my motorcycle in the alley behind the building, securing it with two heavy-duty chains. In this neighborhood, anything less was an invitation for theft.
My apartment greeted me with familiar disrepair – the leak in the corner had worsened since yesterday, requiring a new bucket arrangement. The futon couch that doubled as my bed was still unmade from when I'd rushed out to work yesterday morning.
I stripped off my damp clothes, scrubbed the heavy makeup from my face, and stood under the shower until the hot water ran out – approximately four minutes. As steam fogged the small bathroom mirror, I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Without the makeup, the resemblance was unmistakable.
Same high cheekbones. Same green eyes. Same slight dimple in the left cheek.
But while Chloe's face sold luxury and elegance, mine sold... well, nothing. It just got me through each day, one shift at a time.
I collapsed onto my futon, not bothering to unfold it into a bed. Sleep would be brief but necessary. Tomorrow – no, today – brought another shift at ValueMart, and the bills wouldn't pay themselves.
As consciousness faded, I wondered about the man I'd pulled from the river. Would he remember his million-dollar promise? Would he even remember me? Probably not. Rich men's promises were like morning fog in LA – gone by the time the sun fully rose.
