The next morning, Willow awoke an hour before her alarm. Her legs already ached, but it was time for her last training session before her big run on Saturday. Stretching forward, she reached her toes and held the pose, blinking into the darkness of her studio apartment. And, with a jolt, she remembered: she’d awoken for a reason.

Reaching for her laptop, she quickly brought up the online edition of the Houston Star, clicking through to the local interest section. At the very top of the page was the headline, “Local Runner Raises $100,000 for Rare Disease.”

Her heart felt squeezed with excitement. But then she saw that, immediately beneath the headline, was a photo of a tall, tanned brunette, seated at a cocktail bar with her hand around a drink, pouting for the camera. Her hair hung in curls down her shoulders, and her body was turned in a movie-star way, assuring that the camera took in every curve of her slim frame.

Willow wasn’t sure what it was, but something about the photo made the woman look calculated, mean. What’s more, she looked absolutely nothing like Willow.

Annoyance crashed over her like a wave. Nostrils flaring, she scanned through the rest of the article. It was tight writing, one of Summer’s best pieces

Willow Hart’s younger brother, Paul, lost his life to Jayne’s syndrome ten years ago, leaving a large gap in his sister’s life. Using her little brother’s memory as fuel, Willow has been fundraising for over five years, working tirelessly to raise funds that will combat this ferocious disease. With just days to go before her next marathon, she’s reached the milestone fundraising total of $100,000.

Of the fundraising, Hart said, “It’s my dream to support as many families as I can. Paul’s diagnosis blindsided my parents and me. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through, and it was heartbreaking for my family. My life’s purpose these past five years has been minimizing that pain for others.”

Perhaps worst of all, beneath the photograph of the mean-looking woman with the cocktail were the words, “Willow Hart, activist raising awareness for Jayne’s syndrome, in honor of her brother.”

Reaching for her phone, Willow was surprised to see that Summer was already calling her. She lifted it to her ear, confusion making her tongue feel sluggish and weak.

“Summer. Who is this woman?” she asked, hating how hurt she sounded. She’d never been great at hiding her emotions.

“Babe, I’m so sorry!” Summer said, almost shrieking. “I have no idea what happened. I sent the photos over yesterday, after our lunch, but something must have gotten switched around. They still ran your photo, but it’s been all mixed up with another article, somewhere in the gossip section.”

“What?” Willow exclaimed. She clicked through to the next page, her fingers flying. Sure enough, at the top of the page was a photograph of her in her bright purple running gear, her hands on her hips and her blond bob shining. “Ah. There I am. I look like such a dork!”

“Stop it,” Summer commanded. “You see which article you’re in? It’s all so messy. I don’t know how they could have—”

“This is prime-time gossip, isn’t it?” Willow said, scrunching her nose. “Playboy Sheikh Gives Up Lifestyle for Houston Model,” she read out loud. “I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my life.”

“Well, some people in Houston are a bit more tuned into gossip than you are,” Summer sighed. “You’re out there fundraising while most people are on social media, swapping rumors about Sheikh Ibrahim Al-Deban.”

“Ibrahim Al-Deban?” Willow echoed. “Am I supposed to know who this guy is?”

“I did a few pieces on him last year, before I got the heck out of the gossip section,” Summer said. “He’s probably one of the most famous people in Houston. Although, for you, I guess that doesn’t mean much.”

“Ha. It’s not like I live under a rock, Summer,” Willow sighed.

“He’s from some tiny Middle Eastern country…Rebai, I think it’s called? But he’s not directly in line to the throne, and he moved here a few years ago to start his business. We saw him when we were in college, actually, at some sports bar. He was making out with that redhead friend of yours. What was her name?”

“Cynthia?” Willow asked, frowning. “Why don’t I have any memory of this at all?”

“Anyway, since his hotel business went stratospheric, he’s mostly been partying and making his way through our great nation’s hottest celebrities. I’m surprised he’s settling down. And, apparently, the rest of the world is going to think he’s settling down with you!”

“Ha. Imagine that,” Willow said softly.

She leaned closer, eyeing the photograph of the Sheikh, alongside the one of her at the park. Ibrahim was pictured in what looked like his penthouse suite, a glass of what looked like Scotch in his hand and a smirk on his lips. He was broad-shouldered, handsome and wearing an immaculate suit, perfectly cut to highlight the strength of his body.

He was standing in the photo, showing his height—at least 6’2. He seemed the right level of careless, and suave. Entirely rich. Entirely arrogant. Entirely someone Willow had absolutely no respect for.

“There’s no way anyone would think this was anything but a mistake,” Willow said, comparing the two photographs. “He’s, well. He’s probably the most handsome person in Houston. And I’m very clearly a twenty-five-year-old loser who works at a call center.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short,” Summer said sternly. “They mixed up the photos for a reason. Someone in the editing department clearly thought you two belonged together.”

Declining to dignify her friend’s comment with a response, Willow began to chew at her bottom lip, apprehension filling her.

Suddenly, it all felt like too much. Foolish, even, that she was preparing to run twenty-six miles the following morning. And now, she’d been mistaken for the Sheikh’s fiancée. Was her life really filled with purpose? Or was it more of a joke than she could possibly realize?

“Listen, I’ll get this cleared up,” Summer promised. “The mistake will be corrected before the end of the day. In the meantime, enjoy your status as future wife of the Playboy Sheikh. It’s not every day you’re poised to be a billionaire!”

“Sure,” Willow grimaced. “Whatever you say.”

After hanging up, Willow read the gossip piece more closely. According to the article, Sheikh Ibrahim was supposed to marry the gorgeous Texan underwear model, Eva Brooks-Hernandez, in his home country of Rebai in just a few months.

Apparently, Eva had announced the engagement just the previous day, despite the world knowing nothing of the Sheikh’s “incredibly private, yet fiery affair with the model.”

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t hold it in any longer,” Eva had explained to the press. “It’s just that Ibrahim and I are in love, and I’m tired of keeping it a secret. We’re getting married. And I want to scream it from the rooftops.”

Willow tilted her head at the words, surprised at how insincere they sounded. She scanned back to Summer’s fundraising article, glaring at the photo of Eva which had taken her spot.

With this backstory, Willow considered the woman with fresh eyes. A gold-digger, perhaps, at the tail-end of her modeling career? Or a woman completely in love, without the literary words to describe it?

Sunlight had begun to stream in through the window, alerting Willow to the lateness of the morning. Jumping out of bed, she dressed quickly in her running clothes and then raced out the door, attempting to loosen up. With only twenty-four hours left until the race, she knew she had to forget about the newspaper flub-up and focus on the task at hand.

So what if her photograph was alongside that of the Playboy Sheikh? It was a humorous mistake. One easily rectified, in just a few hours.

Once out the door, she began a slow jog, feeling her muscles awaken. On either side of her, Houston had begun to awaken, too: mothers opening car doors and placing their babies in car seats; fathers donning baseball hats and leaping into pickup trucks, ready to face the day ahead. Young children bounced backpacks on their shoulders, attending the last few weeks of school before summer break.

Everything around her was filled with memories, the world in which she and Paul had grown up.

That last summer with Paul, Willow had spent nearly every afternoon at his hospital bed. The air conditioning had been turned off, since Paul had had trouble retaining heat. This had left Willow sweating copiously beside him, flipping through comic books and reading to him when his eyes had grown too fatigued.

She remembered that often. She’d awaken him when he’d begun to drift off—telling him they were nearly done with the story. “Don’t sleep now. We’re so close.”

But her parents had told her, each and every time, that he needed his rest. That it was going to help him get better.

As thoughts of Paul spun through her brain, Willow sped up: faster and faster, until she had to screech to a halt at the next stoplight.

Panting, she leaned her hands heavily on her knees, staring up at the shining high-rises that made up the Houston skyline. She wondered, somewhere in the back of her mind, if Sheikh Ibrahim lived in one of those luxury penthouse suites.

Certainly, he’d had no tale of misfortune. He’d had years of money, of cocktails and good luck. And now, it was coming to the penultimate moment: the arrival of his drop-dead gorgeous, underwear-model fiancée.

He wanted for nothing. But Willow was left missing everything, knowing only that she could remedy other people’s pain, if she fought hard enough. If she ran fast enough.