When cracks start forming in an influencer’s curated life, she finds out that jealousy is just as viral as a video in this riveting suspense novel by bestselling author Jesse Q. Sutanto.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Jesse Q. Sutanto’s You Will Never Be Me, which is out now.
Influencer Meredith Lee didn’t teach Aspen Palmer how to blossom on social media just to be ditched as soon as Aspen became big. So can anyone really blame Mer for doing a little stalking? Nothing serious, more like Stalking Lite.
Then Mer gets lucky; she finds one of Aspen’s kids’ iPads and swipes it. Now she has access to the family calendar and Aspen’s social media accounts. Would anyone else be able to resist tweaking things a little here and there, showing up in Aspen’s place for meetings with potential sponsors? Mer’s only taking back what she deserves—what should have been hers.
Meanwhile, Aspen doesn’t understand why her perfectly filtered life is falling apart. Sponsors are dropping her, fellow influencers are ghosting her, and even her own husband seems to find her repulsive. If she doesn’t find out who’s behind everything, she might just lose it all. But what everyone seems to forget is that Aspen didn’t become one of TikTok’s biggest momfluencers by being naive.
When Meredith suddenly goes missing, Aspen’s world is upended and mysterious threats begin to arrive—but she won’t let anything get in the way of her perfect life again.
- Meredith
I’m stalking my best friend. there’s no use denying it. When I first started, I told myself we were so in sync that we were like the same person torn into two halves, and those two halves were linked by an invisible thread that was always pulling us back to each other, so of course we’d constantly be running into each other. Simpatico. That’s what we always used to say. Simpatico! Followed by a wink, content and smug, because out of almost eight billion humans in the world, the two of us somehow managed to find our soulmates in each other, and what is that if not pure and beautiful magic?
And anyway, it’s not really stalking, not like the kind you see in the movies with the stalker prowling in all black (contrary to popular belief, black is not for everyone; it certainly does my skin tone no favors), a chloroform-soaked rag in one hand and zip ties in the other. I’m not trying to kidnap Bestie. It’s more like . . . Stalking Lite. I just want to know how she’s doing. I need to see if our earth-shattering fight mauled her the way it did me. That’s reasonable. And I sure as hell won’t find out anything through her social media accounts, which are all glossed over with giddily ju- bilant content. No, if I want to see signs of the wreckage under- neath, I need to see her in person—catch a glimpse of the tightness around the right corner of her mouth, or the way she licks her lips like a lizard does (a rapid twitch that does nothing to moisten them).
And that’s why I’m sitting in a car around the corner from the twins’ school, waiting for her car to appear out of the drop-off line. Damn it, I know it sounds bad; I’m literally parked outside of her kids’ school. But this has nothing to do with her girls, even though I miss Noemie and Elea so much (and I’m sure they must miss Aunt Mer), and Luca misses little Sabine.
“Don’t you, Luca?” I coo, glancing back at my eight-month-old son. “You miss baby Sabine, don’t you, sweetie?”
He’s too busy sucking on his toes to give me a reply. But I can tell. I know he misses Sabine. Sabine is two months older than Luca, and he hasn’t spent a single day away from Sabine’s side up until her mother and I had our catastrophic fight. It’s not fair to the kids. Why can’t she see that?
I tap the steering wheel impatiently, my eyes scanning each car as it leaves the school. Have I missed her already? I’m not cut out for this spy shit. What if she sees me? What if she recognizes the car? I was careful-ish. I switched cars with Clara this morning, telling her that I had plans to drive up to Griffith Park for a shoot and needed her four-wheel drive. Of course, I’ve driven my sister’s car a few times, so maybe Bestie will still recognize it. Maybe I should drive home. What the hell was I thinking?
But just then, I spot it. Her SUV pulling out of the school driveway. My breath catches in my throat, emotion welling up at the painfully familiar sight of her car. I can practically smell the inside of her car already—her Miss Dior perfume, the girls’ raspberry shampoo, and homemade kale chips. Then, as it drives past, I catch sight of her face, her eyes hidden behind her oversized Chanel sunglasses and her hair falling in loose mahogany waves down her shoulders, and tears rush to my eyes (behind my similarly oversized Jimmy Choos). Damn it, but I miss that bitch, Aspen. A bitter snort tumbles out of my mouth at her name. As- pen. I gave that to her. What’s in a name? Well. A name is the beginning of your brand, so, what’s in a name? Everything. In a way, you could say I made Aspen into who she is today. She owes me everything.
Nine Years Ago
I know it’s en vogue to hate LA—the dry heat, the fake cocaine- and wheatgrass- and matcha-fueled cheerfulness of everyone, the way that the checkout girl at the supermarket looks like she just stepped off a runway—but honestly? I love it. I can be as manically cheerful as the best of them, and I don’t even snort coke (except when I’m trying to lose weight, but ever since I started doing the celery juice fast, I haven’t done any lines). Back in Ohio, I was always “too much,” but it turns out that in LA, you can never be “too much.” Everyone here loves me. Some people—I won’t name names—even describe me as their “happy pill.”
I’m invited to so many parties that some evenings I literally spend just five minutes at each venue—just enough to make the rounds (Hi, sweetie! Oh my god, you look FAB! Ah! OMG, it’s been too long! We must catch up soon. We MUST! Oh, let’s take a selfie, you look AMAZING!), kiss cheeks, and make sure we’re photographed—before I make my exit (Sorry, gotta run. Chell is celebrating her birthday at the—yes, we MUST catch up soon! Okay, love you, bye! Bye! Kisses!). Then I zip down the 405, bill- boards grinning and winking at me like we’re all in on some great secret, to another party, glitzier than the one before; then to an- other party, more exclusive; then another, and another.
(Do you hate me? You mustn’t. I’m just a girl trying to make it big. Trying to thrive.)
It’s at one of these parties that I meet her. Ryleebelle. I only notice her because among the skinny, shimmering LA bodies and glinting fake smiles, she looks so out of place. Picture this: a non- skinny Asian woman in an ill-fitting black dress (black is less cruel to her than it is to me, but still—who wears an LBD to a party in LA, for fuck’s sake?), both hands clasped around a martini glass that she’s holding against her chest like a shield. Too much eye makeup. A terrified look on her face. I’m about to glide past her when she glances up and I catch the look that crosses her face.
Pure and unadulterated admiration. Imagine a fan being called backstage after a BTS concert. That’s the look on her face. More than just a fan. A worshipper. It seizes me (and do not try to tell me that it wouldn’t have seized you too).
I give her a kind smile. I’m gracious, generous. I like to help. There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, etc. When she sees my smile, the relief that goes through her face is that of a drowning person who’s just been thrown a lifeline. I go to her.
