Chapter 2 Chaos
Morning sunlight stabbed through the hospital blinds, jarring me awake. For a disorienting second, I forgot—then I looked down at the unfamiliar hands resting on the white sheets. Right. Still trapped in Charlotte Moore's body.
Across the room, Charlotte—the real one, currently wearing my face—was already sitting up, rubbing her temples. "Fucking hell," she muttered in my voice. "I think I have a concussion."
I rolled my shoulders, testing the limits of this smaller frame. "At least you're used to headaches. I feel like someone stuffed my skull with cotton."
Charlotte shot me a glare using my own blue eyes. "Not helpful."
A nurse bustled in with breakfast trays. "Good morning, Ms. Moore, Mr. Cross. Doctor says you'll be discharged by noon."
We exchanged glances. Discharged. To each other's lives.
"What about our..." Charlotte gestured vaguely between us.
"Your medical reports are clean," the nurse said brightly. "No broken bones, just minor soft tissue damage and dehydration."
I bit back a frustrated groan. Of course they wouldn't find anything wrong. Whatever had happened to us wasn't showing up on any scans.
As soon as the nurse left, Charlotte staggered to her feet—my feet—nearly tripping over the IV line. "Christ, you're tall."
"Get used to it," I muttered, then flinched as my phone—Charlotte's phone—buzzed incessantly on the bedside table. The screen showed 27 missed calls and a flood of texts, most from someone named "Sam."
"Your manager?" I guessed, holding it up.
Charlotte paled—an odd sight on my normally tanned face. "Oh shit. The label showcase is tonight."
The next two hours passed in a blur of discharge paperwork and hushed arguments. We agreed on a temporary truce: play along until we figured out how to reverse this.
Outside the hospital, Charlotte's manager Samantha waited in a black Range Rover. Mid-forties, sharp navy suit, calculating eyes that narrowed when she saw me.
"There you are," she said, ushering me into the car while barely glancing at Charlotte. "We need to get you to soundcheck. The label execs are flying in at six."
I opened my mouth to protest, but Charlotte cut in smoothly. "I'll take a cab. Need to check on my team."
Samantha dismissed her with a wave—to her, Charlotte was just some random racecar driver now. The moment the car door shut, she turned to me with unsettling intensity.
"You look like hell, darling. Pop two of the blue pills in your bag and drink this." She handed me a kale smoothie that smelled like lawn clippings.
I pretended to sip it, mentally cataloging the "blue pills" information. Charlotte hadn't mentioned any medication.
The rehearsal studio was a nightmare. Five bandmates greeted "Charlotte" with varying levels of concern and irritation.
"Where the fuck were you?" demanded the guitarist, a wiry guy with sleeve tattoos. "We've been waiting an hour."
I picked up the nearest instrument—a bass guitar—and immediately fumbled it. The band's stares burned into me.
"Still woozy from the hospital," I lied, grabbing the mic stand like a lifeline.
The keyboardist, a petite Asian woman, frowned. "You never hold the mic that way."
"New stylistic choice," I said through gritted teeth.
When they launched into their first song, I froze. The lyrics on the teleprompter might as well have been in Greek. I botched the melody completely, singing painfully off-key.
The band ground to a horrified stop.
"What. Was. That." The drummer's sticks hovered above his snare.
"I—"
Samantha materialized at my elbow. "Charlotte needs rest. Take five, everyone." She steered me into a storage closet, her grip like steel.
"Who are you?" she hissed.
Ice shot down my spine. "What?"
"I've managed Charlotte for six years. She never forgets lyrics, never holds a mic like a baseball bat, and sure as hell doesn't sound like a drowning cat." Samantha's eyes glittered dangerously. "Now. Who. Are. You?"
I barely had time to process her suspicion when my phone—the real one, in Charlotte's possession—rang.
Tyler Walsh's smirking face filled the screen. "Cross! Heard you got your bell rung yesterday. Ready to forfeit the championship?"
Charlotte's voice came out hesitant. "I don't... that's not..."
Tyler's grin widened. "What's wrong, golden boy? Crash scramble your famous reflexes?"
The call disconnected abruptly. When Charlotte redialed, it went straight to voicemail.
Meanwhile, Samantha was still dissecting me with her stare. I opted for partial truth. "Something happened at the hospital. I'm... not quite myself."
Her expression shifted subtly. "We'll discuss this later. For now, just stand at the mic and sway. Let the band carry you."
Back in the studio, I noticed a security camera in the corner. On impulse, I asked the keyboardist, "Does this place record 24/7?"
She shrugged. "Cloud storage, yeah. Why?"
I filed that information away as Samantha shoved a setlist into my hands. "Memorize. Now."
Across town, Charlotte was faring no better. My phone buzzed with her text:
*Your press conference starts in 20 mins. WHAT DO I SAY ABOUT THE CRASH?*
I responded: *Blame Tyler. Say he brake-checked you.*
The reply came instantly: *They're asking technical questions. What's a fucking diffuser??*
Before I could answer, Samantha snatched the phone. "No distractions." She scrolled through my messages, her mouth tightening. "Since when do you text Aiden Cross?"
"Met in the hospital," I said weakly.
Her suspicious gaze lingered before she handed back the phone. "Focus on the music. The showcase is—"
The studio door burst open. A hospital administrator stood there, flanked by security. "Ms. Moore? We need to speak with you about last night's security footage."
My pulse spiked. "What about it?"
The man hesitated. "There was an unauthorized individual in your room around 3 AM. We're reviewing—"
Samantha smoothly intercepted him. "My client is recovering from a traumatic incident. Any questions can go through me." She guided him outside, shooting me a warning look.
The moment she disappeared, I texted Charlotte: *Check your hospital records. Someone was in our room last night.*
Her response chilled me: *Just asked your team about the crash data. Something's missing from your car's telemetry. Like someone erased it.*
As the band launched into another song, I stared at the security camera's blinking red light.
This wasn't an accident.
We'd been targeted.
And whoever did it was still one step ahead.
