I quickly jump to my feet, covering the mole with my hand. Really—now is when people notice it?

The journalist presses on. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a meet-and-greet?” Then her eyes slip to Harper. “And who’s she?”

“Imogen?” Harper asks, giving me a strange look. “What’s happening? Who’s this woman?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and my eyes burn because I’m on the verge of tears, and this is not how I want to be seen in public. This is not how Jessica Stone is seen in public. My chest begins to tighten as I stumble out from behind the booth. “I’m so sorry—”

The first phone camera flashes and I flinch.

I can barely breathe. No, I think. No, this isn’t how this is supposed to happen.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, forcing my way through the gathering crowd, leaving Harper at her booth, surrounded by the chorus of my name.

“Jess! What do you think of the script?” someone shouts.

“Isn’t she at a meet-and-greet?”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“I LOVE YOU JESSICA STONE!”

But all I can hear are the Instagram comments, and all I can see are the Photoshopped images from trolls online. The crowd begins to follow me, and even more people turn to watch. My brown hair is slipping out of my beanie, and I don’t have time to push it back up again.

I break into a run—and they follow.

Please stop, I beg. Stop following me.

Turning down the last artists’ aisle, where the plushies are, I mutter a plea for forgiveness before I toss the entire rack onto the floor in the hopes of blocking the crowd from pursuing me—or at least slowing them down.

The girl in the booth looks up from her smartphone just in time to see me knock over the rack and squawks, “NO!”

But the plushies tumble across the floor, and I sprint toward the emergency exit twenty feet away. The art-deco carpet swims in my vision, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

If I’d never thrown away that script, if I’d never thought of this foolish idea to have Imogen impersonate me, if I’d just breathed and kept to myself and pushed my feelings down beneath my toes and not fallen for Harper Hart, then I wouldn’t be in this situation.

But I can’t get the look on Harper’s face out of my mind, the confusion morphing into betrayal as she realized who I was. The kind of person I am. How long I’ve lied to her. Oh God, I lied to her and that’s unforgivable and I can feel a bit of my heart breaking because I remember how she looked this morning as the sunlight poured through the curtains, her face inches from mine as we whispered to each other, “Good morning.”

And it hurts.