I barely had time to explain my diabolical "best friend" plan to Mera and Cheon when my phone lit up again. I'd turned the ringer off, but the screen still illuminated with an incoming FaceTime call.
"Fuck," I muttered, seeing the name displayed.
Mera peered over. "Who's Vivi?"
"My sister." I stared at the phone like it might explode. It probably would, metaphorically speaking.
"Are you going to answer it?" Cheon asked.
"I'd rather gargle glass." But I picked up the phone anyway. Some calls you just don't ignore, unless you want worse problems later.
I swiped to accept, and Vivian Angelo's face filled my screen. She looked exactly as I remembered from the bits of the novel I'd skimmed—angular cheekbones that mirrored my own, long white hair pulled into a severe ponytail, and heterochromatic eyes matching mine but reversed: left eye gray, right eye green.
The perfect female version of me, if I'd been born with a god complex and zero impulse control.
