When all the females gathered the next morning they were elated, even Connie and Ruby, who shared looks. I was somehow relieved they both became friends, since Ruby couldn't seem to keep up with the other females. While occasionally blunt and dismissive of her sister, Angel, Connie was actually very childlike herself.

"Tell me what dress you'll wear so I can wear a matching tie," Austen flirted with Olivia, who only turned her head away teasingly.

"Oh, fine. It's purple, and my accessories are gold. Now, we decided yesterday we won't spill anything, right?"

"Yes," Angel chirped. "We are each wearing a different color, and guess mine!"

"You're spilling it already," Connie hissed.

Ruby ate her toast but by the way her eyes moved I could tell she was more amused than scared of their sisterly bickering.

Dylan caught my eye and gave a helpless smile.

I didn't imagine he would still smile at me even with our secret, and I couldn't help but clumsily return one, heart pounding.

I suppose it was too young of me but I still dreamed he would see me as someone. More than Blanche, more than a replacement, and more than Rose.

I wanted to be his one and only.

The day passed quickly with Ruby hanging out with Connie rather than me, and I went to Dylan's study again, this time with Vaughn.

Seeing the lawyer in an enclosed space reminded me again of how much he annoyed me and his cocky attitude. He sat at Dylan's chair and tapped his fingers on the desk as he grinned at both of us.

"What was that about?" I asked immediately. "Last night you lied to Calvin and Austen I was almost assassinated!" I couldn't keep my annoyance in as his smile grew wider and stepped up to the desk. "Do you know this is a breach of—of trust! Between us three!"

Dylan walked up and held my hand as though to hold me back, but I only stiffened, but his grip grew tighter. It wasn't suffocating, but rather firm, like he was making sure I knew I wasn't alone. That he accepted me for everything.

"Last night Rose told me the truth about her identity, too. Vaughn, you've been blackmailing you, haven't you?" Dylan said, voice still stern as always.

"Yes, yes, yes." Vaughn threw up his hands. "Congratulations on your great progress in your trust! But you know, I was never truly part of you, Dylan, less so you, Rose or Blanche or whoever you claim to be. The will is opened and to me you're trash, Dylan. Blanche won't marry and I'm never going to marry her, and you two can't marry."

"What's your point?" Dylan asked, pulling back his hand.

My hand suddenly felt extremely cold, and I looked down at my shoes.

"Listen, my dear Dylan, my dear Blanche. Falling in love at this point is just more suffering for both of you. So Blanche, find a husband. I'll enjoy myself at the ball and live here to save some money, and I forgot to mention—Auguste paid me before his death so I never had any reason to stay and find Blanche, I suppose I did out of curiosity."

I watched his suddenly calm face, as though he was bored of the whole charade.

"And I thought it would be fun seeing the de Winters ruin themselves, and laugh at them as I left with my money, but now that they've became strangely accepting, you too, Dylan, I wanted to stir things up." He turned and took out a lighter and snapped it open, a flame jumping up and down. "Isn't it more exciting this way?"

"What way?"

"Making Calvin conscious you're his enemy. Seeing how far Austen, who always adored his family, could go. Caralette, too, I want to see their last ploy. Then I'll leave, I suppose, and maybe I'll search for Blanche by myself. I've read and copied down all the important documents."

"Why are you acting like this, Vaughn?" Dylan asked. "That's not true, you've always cared for me and wanted to find Blanche because you promised that man! I know despite you talking cruel things you never forgo a job you've taken upon!"

"And I wouldn't have, if you were heir." Vaughn snorted. "Now you're a poor man and can't pay me a single cent! This fake Blanche is smitten, too, and won't be marrying. I'll give you up to tomorrow, Rose—find a man and marry, and maybe you'll keep my mouth shut with some money. I don't ask for a lot, but know I also want some drama as well."

"I'll give you drama, more drama than you can expect," I found myself sneering. "Such a cheap man like you can be easily used instead of using people, but you'll never realize. So yes, I'll get the fortune, but you'll never embarrass Dylan and I. I won't let you do that."

"Did you fall for him?"

Neither of us spoke. Vaughn chuckled like a gremlin.

"Like I thought."

He stood up and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, if you are so desperate, go look for Leroy. He's also desperate for Rose, I mean Rosemarie Blackwood; a girl who isn't his cousin but looks the same would be his dream, wouldn't us?"

"I won't use those feelings," I said. "I won't take advantage of him."

"But Dylan, didn't you want to give her a chance because of that? I've done research on the real Rosemarie. What a pity—she was really pretty and kind-hearted."

"You!" Dylan put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me into him, away from Vaughn, whose grip loosened easily. Vaughn looked at the two of us.

"I shouldn't have left you two alone," he said," and then with a sigh, left the study.

In that pose, my face against his chest, I thought of telling Dylan I didn't like him to assure him, but I couldn't.

I could easily lie about anything, my innocence, my identity, my plans, my greed—but not my love.

***

I was not like my much more pure sister. Growing up, I sought men out to feel desired. Loved. Beautiful.

And to them, I suppose I was pretty, and some said prettier than my sister, but I always knew they were just being sly. I was happy, though, happy enough that I could, for a moment, have my ego boosted.

When I went to the city and saw the much prettier women I realized it.

We all desired to be loved and sought out, whether it was by men, by Hollywood, or through our actions. I saw the girls who grew up pampered and although they were younger than me, they were in minx coats with dramatic blue eyeshadow. And there, dirt poor next to them, I realized beauty didn't really matter.

Only money did.

I was quick to take up Auguste's offer at the Italian restaurant. They preferred Italian workers so I lied that I was a second generations Italian and could only speak a little when I knew none. But my dark hair helped and when I bought my first black coat and makeup I saw their looks for me change as well.

I was often sought out by my customers. Men started coming to the store just to see me, and kindly tipped me more. And more. And then they asked for my number, but I replied I didn't have a phone. They asked where I lived and I made excuses days after days.

Finally, I realized something. One coat and some makeup might get you far, but not far enough.

So occasionally I went out with my customers. It was good to pretend I was a dumb country boor, pointing at pretty dresses and saying how I never saw such a thing and it'd never look good on me, oh, no, please don't buy it—why, thank you so much, I also saw those heels...

On and on it went until men got me higher positions. More pay at fancier restaurants. Receptionist at some grand New York hotel. Salesperson at a department store. Two years passed and I was nineteen. I worked nearly all day and had no friends. I was stressed.

Most of all, a mafia don was taking extreme interest in me. I had an argument with Auguste when he told me he had a good deal.

"What is it?" I asked.

"You wear your hair like that?" he asked. "Recently long hair is more fashionable like this," he said, and there in our private room at some French restaurant, he twisted and pinned up my hair.

I asked him how to do it and practiced until I knew. I remembered how to make the top poofy and tuck the rest inwards.

"Usually they curl long hair like Rita Wayworth, have you seen her new film?"

"What's the interesting new deal you came to talk to me about?" I turned the conversation back. "I am not becoming a mistress."

Somehow, I didn't feel like I had to act around Auguste. He was a business partner rather than client, and yes, I paid him back for what I owed. I remembered he sat down after playing with my hair and looked at me.

"But black hair is better straight, as I thought. Well, you've got something in between, which is very good. Very, very good."

"Why?" I asked cautiously.

"Because Rosemarie Blackwood had the same hair. Black messy hair, and large dark eyes. It was a wonder, she was so beautiful one had to shield their eyes. And you look just like her."

"So? Does she want to meet me?" I asked.

"I hope she doesn't want to meet you," he said as he swirled his wine. "She's dead. Six feet under. I went to her funeral, of course. Only eighteen people were allowed."

"And you were? What's your relationship with her?"

"She's fifteen, I had no relation to her, I was only close to the central Blackwood family and invited because of my status. No one wants to offend me by leaving me out, even funerals—unfortunately."

"Don't tell me you want me to be a fifteen year old for her parents? They wouldn't want to see me, and I'm nineteen."

He sipped his wine slowly and I was done with my appetizer, which was escargot. I was having a hard time eating it but enjoyed it. The waiter came with the entree, some kind of French steak.

"I wanted to propose an idea. Just an idea," Auguste began in his foxy manner, smile and eyes on me. "Wear something less—well, adult like. Something youthful, a white blouse or dress. Pink. I don't know. Then begin appearing around town with your hair down and your usual look. Within a month get closer and closer, give both parents a peek, then see what they choose."

"I don't think a family will replace their daughter," I scoffed. "I'll bet a thousand they can't."

"I'll bet a thousand they will." He flashed his white teeth and leaned back. "Don't worry. You can pay me from the Blackwoods. They still have money despite their frugal ways."

"I'll never become Rosemarie Blackwood."

"What a pity," he hummed.

I glared at him as I drank my wine, for the first time, harboring hard feelings for the man who made me into who I am today.