I Know What You Did
Prompt: I know what you did
Rated T or maybe even K, to be honest.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. The Twilight Saga and all characters involved within are the property of Stephenie Meyer.
Unbeta'd because I'm lazy. Also, I tried a different tense than what I'm used to writing in to challenge myself a little more...and I probably failed on that.
A/N: So this little prompt is the result of a Facebook gab fest between me, duskri123, elleleigh, dolphindreamer, Geezer, and my friend Heather. Some of us challenged each other to a prompt and though I'm like forever late posting this, it's what I came up with.
My stomach twists and clenches with nervous fear and I have to wipe my sweaty palms along the light cloth of my slacks. I wonder for the hundredth time if I should back out of this, wonder if I'm crossing the line, wonder what I really expected to get out of this...but then my name was called and any time I had for wondering was gone.
"Ms. Peters? Ms. Brandon is ready for you, please follow me."
.
.
.
"It's so nice to meet you, Ms. Peters!" Alice Brandon chirps as she stands, bright gauzy fabric swishing around her petite frame as she rises to greet me and shake my hand. "Your resume is so impressive; I think we could do so much with someone with your background and experience. I'm working on expanding the spa and am so excited to see what you could bring to it!"
"Thank you, Ms. Brandon. I've looked forward to meeting you myself." I respond demurely as I pull a folder out of my bag and slide it across her shiny desk. "Here are all of my licenses and certifications as you requested. Oh, and I've updated my resume which might be of interest you."
Alice smiles brightly and accepts the folder eagerly. Though I hate it, I can admit that Alice is an attractive woman. Petite and pert. Perky, almost elfin, features. Short black hair, tanned skin, and bright makeup to compliment her bright bohemian ensemble.
She is nothing like me. Nothing at all.
.
.
.
I watch with a sick, morbid curiosity as she opens the folder containing all of my false certifications and licenses. The only thing I was interested in was watching her face as she read the corrected resume I had included.
The one with my real name.
The one with my real qualifications and worth.
The one I had painstakingly filled with all of the real highlights of my life.
As her face pales to a startling shade of gray, I can only assume that she's finally reached the resume.
Isabella Whitlock
Objective
To meet my husband's mistress.