JANELLE CROSS

Even Lisa…

After I rejected Grayson’s proposal, things quickly spiraled.

It was like the universe took it personally.

Three days later, I came home and found my apartment wrecked. My front door was slightly open… just wide enough to fill my chest with dread. My couch had been slashed. My bedroom drawers emptied. Even my second-hand blender, the one thing I still used every day for smoothies, was gone. Who the hell steals a blender?

There was no forced entry. No cameras on my floor. And worst of all, no help from the police.

“You think it’s random?” Lisa asked, her voice shaking on the phone that night. “Because I don’t.”

“I don't know what to think,” I whispered under my breath. I wasn't sure she heard me, but I didn't care.

I sat on my mattress… now on the floor… listening to her breathing hard on the other end of the line.

“I need to take a step back,” she said finally.

My stomach dropped. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Janelle. I can’t. I’ve got my life to think about, and this… whatever this is… feels dangerous now. You rejected a billionaire and suddenly your life is falling apart? I mean, come on.”

I didn’t respond, because I couldn’t argue with her.

She hung up before I could even say goodbye.

The next day, a potential client, Mrs. Kerr, canceled an event I was meant to cater. Her voice was cold and apologetic at the same time.

“I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Cross, but we’ve decided to go with another vendor.”

I sighed. “Can I ask why?”

There was a pause on the other end.

“My husband… he’s very sensitive. We can’t take any risks, especially not with food.”

I frowned. “I’ve never had a complaint about…”

“I heard what happened at the Hilton,” she cut in. “Salmonella, right? I’m sorry, but I don’t want my husband to die from food poisoning.”

She hung up too.

I stared at my phone until the screen dimmed.

And then came the package.

It was a small black box, left at my door. No return address. No note.

Inside was a glossy photo of a woman who looked exactly like me. Her hair was straighter. Her skin tanner. But it was my face. My eyes.

The name Eden Larose was scribbled on the back.

Below the photo was a round, silver compact mirror. When I opened it, one side reflected my face, the other had a small inscription:

“Are you sure you’re Janelle?”

I dropped it like it was hot metal.

And then the last straw.

My lawyer called.

“Good news,” he said flatly. “Mr. Robbins wants to settle.”

The billionaire who’d accused me of poisoning his guests.

I sat up straighter. “Settle?”

“Well… not legally. He, uh, suggested a private arrangement.”

“What kind of arrangement?” I asked.

There was a pause.

“He… wants to sleep with you. Once. Then he’ll drop the case.”

I laughed out loud. The kind of laugh that comes from disbelief and fury wrapped in one.

“You’re joking,” I said.

“I wish I was.”

I ended the call without another word.

Then I picked up my phone and texted the man I’d sworn I wanted nothing from.

“Let’s talk.”

We met the next morning at a quiet café in Westwood. No bodyguards. No suits. Just him, in a grey T-shirt that did nothing to hide how broad his shoulders were.

He looked tired… and maybe a little hopeful.

I didn’t sit immediately. Just stood by the table, arms folded.

“You win,” I said.

His jaw tightened. “This isn’t a game.”

“It sure feels like one.”

I finally sat, crossed my legs, and leaned forward.

“I’ll do it. I’ll play your girlfriend. For the cameras. For the board. For your precious merger.”

He looked like he wanted to smile, but I didn’t let him.

“But,” I added, holding up a finger. “There are rules.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“One. No sex.”

He blinked. “I wasn’t…”

“I’m serious. No touching, no midnight creeping into my room, no ‘accidental’ hand on my back.”

“Fine,” he said.

“Two. No emotional manipulation. Don’t gaslight me. Don’t lie to me. Don’t use my past or this Eden woman to play with my head.”

He opened his mouth, but I kept going.

“And three. No surprises. If something’s coming… paparazzi, interviews, dinners with the devil… I want a heads up. No blindsiding.”

He leaned back, lips twitching. “You done?”

“For now.”

“Then welcome to the circus,” he said quietly.

Our first public appearance was that same weekend… his cousin’s engagement party in Malibu.

I wore a silk champagne gown he had delivered to my door. The label still had the price tag. I almost fainted when I saw it.

He didn’t say much in the car.

But the second we stepped onto the red carpet, his hand found the small of my back like it belonged there.

Flashbulbs. Cameras. Microphones shoved in my face.

“Grayson, who’s the mystery woman?”

“Is she your fiancée?”

“Is she Eden Larose?”

That one caught me off guard. I froze, but he kept smiling and pulled me closer.

“She’s mine,” he said simply.

And just like that, we were trending.

The photo of us at the party hit social media within minutes.

And by morning, The Larose Theory subreddit had exploded.

“Eden is alive.”

“Grayson faked her death.”

“Janelle Cross is Eden in disguise.”

I scrolled through dozens of theories that connected dots I didn’t even know existed.

One user even posted a side-by-side comparison of Eden and me.

The resemblance was terrifying.

I felt like I was falling into someone else’s life… someone I didn’t remember being.

A few days later, I walked into Grayson’s penthouse.

He was on a call, pacing the living room, his voice low and sharp.

“No, I don’t care what they dug up,” he snapped. “Keep the Reddit thread buried. Buy it if you have to.”

I paused.

“I said make it disappear. She can’t know yet.”

He turned just as I stepped in.

His eyes locked with mine.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I have to call you back.”

He hung up, slid the phone into his pocket.

I didn’t say anything at first.

Just stared at him.

“Janelle,” he began.

I cut him off.

“Did you kill her?”