Page 21 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Seventeen

Charlotte

I arrive at Xzander’s studio nearly twenty minutes after we’re scheduled, but fortunately, Xzander has his own excuses for running late this morning.

“Your doppelganger forgot to drop the key back off to Tameka last night, so I had to double back to find the spare.” He pulls the key in question from his pocket, though he doesn’t seem very annoyed that Olivia ducked out of her shift early.

This close to the CFDAs, with Xzander serving on Impact ’s board to uplift Black and brown talent in fashion, plus designing my outfits for the awards show, he likely doesn’t expect a moment’s peace.

I make an apologetic face. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her.”

Like most of the Garment District, Xzander’s studio is near Midtown South, on Seventh Avenue somewhere southeast of Bryant Park and north of Penn Station.

Despite all the tourists that frequent this part of the city, with Broadway and Times Square so close by, I’ve always enjoyed this neighborhood, especially this early—when the streets are clear and the new morning light makes it feel like the day is full of endless possibilities.

There’s something a little sexy about the city that never sleeps, and I think sometimes the people who’ve lived here all their lives take that for granted.

Kansas could never compare.

“Coffee?” Xzander asks, nodding to where his assistant Isabela’s waiting.

Clearly, she’s going to be the one to fetch it for us, though if she’s anything like Siobhan, Xzander’s other assistant, she likely knows our orders by heart now. Xzander’s been designing for me almost exclusively ever since I debuted to the press beside Lucifer.

I’m one of his top clients these days.

I recite my order anyway—a Venti latte with white mocha, sweet cream, and caramel drizzle with an extra shot of espresso, hot, exactly the kind of warm, sugary pick-me-up I need—before Xzander pushes the key into the studio lock and we step inside.

The inside is dark before he flicks on the lights—none of his other staff have arrived. The first floor functions as a showroom while the second floor is where the true magic happens, the home to all his textiles and sewing machinery.

I glance around, my eyes adjusting to the lighting, and my brow furrows at the sight of my purse from yesterday on the floor. Or a replica of it anyway. “Olivia must have left her bag here.” I move to pick it up.

Xzander drops a limp wrist at me, shaking his head. “You need to get better help if your doppel-girl is this sloppy.”

But Olivia isn’t this sloppy. Not usually, anyway.

She’s been a real dream. The perfect me. On time and eager to follow directions on every occasion we’ve needed her. Honestly, sometimes it feels like she’s better at being me than I am.

Not a hard job these days.

I push the thought aside, ignoring the feeling of unease I get as I glance at Olivia’s bag in my hand. I’m sure she just forgot it. She was probably eager to get home for the evening.

Completely unbothered, Xzander leads me toward the elevator with an old-school metal grate.

“I think you’re going to love what I have in store for you, diva,” he says when we reach the second floor, spreading his arms in the shape of an invisible rainbow as he reopens it.

“Picture this. Dark brocade. All handmade. And—”

And that’s when I see myself lying there.

On the second-floor tile. In a puddle of blood.

Or what looks like me, anyway.

Xzander freezes. “Ah, hell naw,” he swears quietly, his voice way more Harlem than usual. “This is not the kind of rich-white-people bullshit I signed up for.”

I step off the elevator, feeling like I’m looking down at myself from above, though I’m suddenly trembling from head to toe.

I stare down at the body of the woman who was supposed to be me.

At the blood that formed around her hair like a macabre halo.

Hair that was dyed and styled to look exactly like mine.

“Olivia?” I whisper.

I don’t know why I say her name. She can’t hear me. From the looks of it, she’s been dead for ... several hours? Longer maybe?

Long enough not to return Xzander’s key.

Bile burns at the back of my throat as I slowly approach and crouch beside her, desperately trying to make sense of all this, but I ... feel nothing.

I’m more numb than I’ve ever been.

“What ... what do we do?” I reach out a hand to brush her eyes closed, put her at peace.

“Charlotte,” Xzander says, his voice several octaves lower as he grips me by the shoulders, bringing me back to myself before I can touch her. Gently, he urges me back. “Charlotte, you’ve got to get outta here now, diva.” He swallows, his features turning ashy as he nods toward the window.

Several nondescript cars pull to a stop outside the studio.

My legs go weak.

The paparazzi.

They found me, of course.

With Olivia dead, there’s no one left to deter them.

And with last night’s hit on the Righteous in today’s papers ...

A sour taste coats my mouth as I back toward the exit.

“What about you?” I ask, my eyes darting toward Xzander.

“Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.

Now, go. Round the back,” Xzander mutters, more grave and focused than I’ve ever seen him.

He grabs a nearby hat and several scarves off a mannequin, shoving them toward me like they’re supposed to be some makeshift disguise as he ushers me inside the elevator.

“Xzander, what if they—”

“ Go , Charlotte,” he snaps, causing me to jump.

Adrenaline kicks in suddenly, the awful numbness inside me melting and paving the way for something far more debilitating.

Everything I’ve been holding back. All my fears, my anxieties, all of it unravels inside me.

I jam my finger into the elevator button, struggling to control my breath.

There’s not enough oxygen in the room, and I’m more than grateful for the security standing guard outside the front door.

I make my way to the first floor, several members of my security detail running up the stairs, having just heard Xzander’s calls for help. They don’t even notice me.

Slowly, I back against a nearby wall, dropping all the items Xzander shoved into my arms ...

It would have been me.

Should have been me.

The room spins, and I try hard to think clearly, but my vision blurs, my eyes watery.

Olivia.

All those people. All those people.

All because of me . . .

The temperature in my body drops, a cold sweat coating me, and before I fully recognize what I’m doing, I’m running toward the back door.

Fight-or-flight takes over, and apparently, I choose flight, my thoughts stuck on repeat.

All those people. All those people.

This can’t be happening. It can’t. But I know from the anthrax that was sent to the penthouse before that it is. It is happening. And this time, people have died.

People have died because of me.

I slam through the back entrance to the studio, the door nearly coming off the hinges from my newfound strength. I don’t have time to register the flash of panic that sparks in me as I stumble into the back alley just as I hear the first paparazzo reach the front door.

My chest starts to tighten to the point of pain, but I don’t stop, don’t hesitate.

I run down the back alleyway, wherever my feet will take me.

I don’t care where I’m headed. I just ..

. need to escape, need to keep moving. When I come out onto another street, losing one of my heels as I go, I push past the sea of morning commuters, colliding with several of them, unaware of my surroundings.

My breath comes in ragged pants as I struggle to breathe, my vision blurring.

All those people. All those people.

And now . . .

My fault, that ugly thing inside me starts to hiss, rearing its monstrous head.

My fault, my fault, my fault .

I clutch at my chest, trying to slow my heart rate, but the sounds of the city, the glow of the traffic lights, the morning sun—all the sights, all the smells and sounds, are too loud, too much.

I don’t stop. I don’t stop running for several blocks until I feel myself stumble; until suddenly my lungs give out, my vision turning black at the edges.

Until the monster inside me wins.

And I collapse to the ground, feeling nothing.