“Oh no,” I comment, dreading it more than a little.

Harper laughs. “That’s the point!”

“I’m good,” I say, pushing the cup back toward Bran. “I, um, don’t drink.”

His black eyebrows—dusted with glitter—shoot up. “Seriously?”

“It’s a personal thing,” I amend, because in truth I wouldn’t mind a drink to calm my nerves, but I don’t know any of these people.

Even though my secret is safe with Bran and Milo, my PR senses are tingling. Every one of these people has a phone. With a camera. They can snap a picture and send it to the highest bidder, and then I’ll wake up to the headline JESSICA STONE INTOXICATED BY THE NORMAL LIFE? or some such nonsense.

I’m lucky that the room is dark and no one actually thinks the Jessica Stone would be here. I just look like someone who looks like Princess Amara, too strange to be Imogen but not quite Jessica Stone either.

Somewhere in the middle, that’s where I teeter dangerously. One slip and everyone will find out.

“Well, then you’ll be great company with Harper. She also isn’t drinking tonight. Meanwhile,” Bran says, then downs the drink he offered me and thrusts up his hands. “Whoo! ELSA! YES, YOU!” He turns to the gender-bent Elsa and Captain Marvel as they finish their Pokémon rap and challenges Elsa to “The Story of Tonight” from Hamilton.

Harper shakes her head. “Oh No is way more vodka than common sense.”

“Why aren’t you drinking?”

She gestures to the rest of the party. “I’ve learned my lesson: don’t drink unless you want to wake up with regrets, and I have way too many commissions to do tomorrow. Come on, let me introduce you to some people.”

And she does. I’m used to memorizing faces and names quickly, since most of my social outings involve a lot of meet-and-greets and work-related introductions. Harper’s friends are people who’ll probably never wear Gucci gowns or get endorsements from ridiculously fake diet-pill companies, but their fingers are ink-stained and their smiles are genuine, and I wish they were the kind of people who did get those endorsements instead. They’re people I couldn’t have met if I were Jessica Stone, because they would think they didn’t need to talk with me to know me. They would just assume they know me already. Jessica Stone.

“Are you the one who chased Natalia’s cat earlier?” asks the green-haired fashion designer.

Harper laughs. “Guilty as charged.”

“So it was Stubbles?”

“Sadly,” I mutter into my cup of water and the green-haired girls laughs.

“Oh! I was wondering, Harper. Do you still have that print of Darielle at your booth? I keep meaning to buy it and I swear I will this time.”