JULIET

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hj3uXzAjmeI

-Mercedes Benz-

It’s nearly closing time at Yellow Cup, the tiny coffeeshop, tucked away in the heart of Manhattan on Mulberry Street, Nolita. I work here. It’s an odd little place with mismatched wooden tables painted a sunny yellow and higgledy-piggledy shelves lined with rusty old coffee tins repurposed as pots for lavender plants, but in my opinion, it’s a hidden gem.

We serve the finest slow-roasted coffee and pastries in all of New York.

The espresso machine hisses softly behind me, filling the air with the rich, nutty aroma of freshly ground beans. The sky beyond the glass windows is already a deep golden-orange, and the streetlights are starting to glow on the sidewalk, however, if the weather app on my phone is correct, the summer temperature is still hovering around 88 degrees Fahrenheit. Even the ceiling fans spinning overhead are no match for this balmy heat.

My uniform feels sticky against my skin, and my lower back aches slightly from hauling trays of muffins and croissants from the back kitchen. I’ve been on my feet since this morning, and my strawberry-blonde hair tied back into a ponytail is starting to frizz from the humidity.

Tips were slim today. The tourists rushing past our door seemed too busy to stop in for a latte. I’ll have to think of more ways to be extra nice to my regulars. I seriously need the money. My wages on their own barely cover the rent on my cramped apartment in the East Village. I dream of something more than a life of endless grind. I need a break. Just a little break. Sighing, I wipe down the counter with a damp cloth and glance at the clock.

Only five minutes more, thank God.

But at that precise moment, the bell above the door tinkles. A gust of warm evening air sneaks in, making the napkins on the counter flutter. It carries with it the sound of honking taxis and the scent of the city’s baking-hot pavements. I glance toward the door, expecting a tourist. My regulars know better than to come in at closing time.

“Sorry, but we’re closing in five minutes. I can only do take-outs,” I call, my voice is laced with that New York directness I’ve picked up after five years in the Big Apple.

But the woman pushes the door shut behind her with a decisive click and walks toward the counter. Her heels click sharply against the worn hardwood floor. She is expensively dressed in an ivory silk blouse and a pair of elegant, tailored black slacks. Her belt carries the Gucci logo, and the purse slung over her shoulder is the latest Chanel quilted flap in black. I recognize it from my Instagram feed.

I straighten, my eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion. She is no tourist. And a woman like her wouldn’t be seen dead in such an unglamorous establishment as this. Also, why is she keeping her face slightly tilted away from me? Then, as she approaches the counter, she slowly turns her head and faces me. The low-hanging pendant lights catch her features, and I freeze. The dishcloth slips from my nerveless fingers onto the counter.

Good God!

Under her expertly applied makeup—flawless foundation that evens her skin to porcelain perfection, smoky eyeshadow that accentuates her blue eyes, and red painted lips—she looks… like me.

Exactly like me!

The resemblance is startling. Uncanny, really. I stare at her in astonishment.

She has the same high cheekbones, the same slight dimple in her chin. She is blonde too, but I suspect it is from a bottle, and her hair is sleeker and cut in a chic, asymmetrical style that swings just above her shoulders. The only small difference I can see is her nose, which seems more refined at the tip, and she is slimmer than me. Clearly, she’s never indulged in a leftover pastry. I sneak one at the end of every shift. Even so, if I had her haircut and makeup, we could pass as identical twins.

Looking at her is more eerie than I can put into words. Like staring into a mirror, only my reflection has been polished and upgraded. A mix of shock and unease ripples through me. Is this some kind of prank? Or am I hallucinating from too many double espressos?

She comes to a stop at the counter and rests her hands lightly on the edge. A smile curves her lips. She is not just pleased, she’s triumphant, like she’s won something important. Her eyes, a shade of blue similar to mine, but perhaps a fraction deeper, sparkle as she assesses me from head to toe. My mind races like crazy. Who is she? And why does she look so… happy about this chance encounter with her doppelganger?

“I’m Carolyn Bessant,” she says, her voice smooth and polished. It has a hint of an upper-crust accent that conjures up images of private schools and summer homes by lakes. She extends a hand, revealing manicured nails in a neutral polish.

I hesitate, my own hand hovering uncertainly for a second, before I shake hers. Her grip is cool and confident, while mine is clammy from heat and nerves. Carolyn Bessant. The name rings a vague bell, perhaps a mention on a society page or a gossip column, but I can’t quite place it. My thoughts whirl—doppelganger stories from those late-night Reddit scrolls flash in my mind, tales of long-lost siblings in odd coincidences. But this meeting feels too deliberate. She’s not surprised to see me. She knew she would find me here.

“Juliet. Juliet Redgrave,” I manage, my voice a little breathless. “As I said, we’re almost closing up for the evening, but what… can I do for you?”

She chuckles softly, a low, throaty sound, but her mirth doesn’t reach her eyes. She leans in slightly, as if sharing a secret. The scent of her perfume wafts over—complicated and sophisticated. “I think you and I can do a lot for each other, Juliet. Do you mind if we have a little chat?”

I’m dying of curiosity to know more, so there’s no chance I’m going to refuse her request. Nodding, I walk around the counter, and we find a table by the window.

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” I ask politely, as we settle down opposite each other.

She smiles and waves her hand carelessly. “You’re closing, remember.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” I try to cross my legs to display some element of refinement, but fail thanks to the low table. Squaring my shoulders, I focus on her.

“You’re clearly intelligent, so you’ve probably deduced that our meeting is not accidental,” she begins. “In fact, it was very hard and very expensive for me to find you. Five months ago, I hired a whole bunch of private detectives. My brief to them was simple. Find my double. They tried, and I looked through so many photos of women who looked nothing like me that I nearly gave up. Fortunately, one of them hit gold. He found you.” She pauses, her gaze locking with mine.

I feel a shiver. A team of private detectives? To find me? That has to be classed as… unusual behavior. What kind of person does that? And why?

My happy-go-lucky nature wants to laugh it off as a whim of a wealthy woman with not much to accomplish but to do lunch with her friends and look good, but there’s an intensity in her expression that makes my stomach twist with warning.

I glance around the empty café in a daze, and for a moment, I wish Lena, the other barista, were here. I want to ask her if she too can see Carolyn Bessant, because right now, it feels like I’m hallucinating. Maybe the exhaustion has gotten to me. I fell asleep while standing up, and this is all just a very crazy dream.

I turn back towards Carolyn warily. “You hired a team of investigators to find your doppelganger? Why?”

Her smile widens. It appears artless, but there’s a calculated edge to the expression in her eyes, like she’s rehearsed this scene. “Because I have a proposition for you. I want to hire you to impersonate me for three months. And in return, I will transfer two hundred thousand dollars into your account tax-free.” She says it casually, like she is offering to buy me a cappuccino and a slice of cake, but her words hit me like she has injected a strong drug straight into my veins.

My breath catches, and my eyes widen. Two hundred thousand just to impersonate her for three months? That’s life-changing money—enough to pay off the rest of my student loan, move to a better apartment, and maybe even start that little art studio I’ve always dreamed about. A mix of excitement and fear bubbles in the pit of my stomach.

“Fifty thousand upfront on the day you agree to my proposal,” she continues in a matter-of-fact tone, “and the remainder to be split into three equal amounts and deposited into your account at the end of every month you manage to stay in character.”

Her expression is serious. There is not the least hint of a joke that I can see.

The warmth and humidity are causing sweat patches under my arms, but she seems impervious to the heat. I grip the table edge to steady myself. The wood feels firm and smooth under my fingers. Can she be real? No, hang on, Juliet… This is too easy. Too good to be true. I’m kind, but not naïve: If there is one thing New York has taught me, it is to question everything. People don’t throw this kind of cash at you for nothing.

Can this deal be an elaborate con? Is she going to scam me out of the three thousand dollars I have in my savings account? But would a woman like her be wasting this much time to gain three thousand dollars? Her belt alone probably costs that much.

“Impersonate you? Why?” My voice trembles, revealing how vulnerable I feel.

She leans closer, and her eyes look haunted. “Because I just need a break from my life, Juliet. I swear, I’ll go mad, otherwise.” She pauses, and her gaze shifts towards the window before returning to me. “My life… It’s suffocating me. I just need a little time away, to breathe again and become strong. I’ve lost my way, Juliet. I need to find myself.”

Empathy stirs inside me despite my skepticism. I’ve felt trapped too, in this job, this city. But hers is a designer world. What’s she got to be unhappy about? “Okay, but… what’s so intolerable about your life that you need to run away?” I let my eyes trail down her expensive outfit. “At first glance, you look like you have an enviable life.”

She shakes her head, and something close to real despair flashes in her eyes, but when she speaks, her tone is brisk and cold. “What’s so intolerable? Where do I begin?” She raises her hand and begins to tick off the points on her fingers. “Top of the list, my workaholic husband, Blake. Day and night, he works, oblivious to everything and everyone else. Especially me, his own wife. I hate to admit it, but he has lost all interest in me. To the point, he doesn’t even notice when I come into the room.”

There’s real bitterness there. The hurt in her eyes is genuine too. It makes her seem more human. I believe her and feel a pang of sympathy for her. Blake. The name conjures an image of an aloof tycoon.

“I’m sorry. That sounds rough,” I concede.

She nods and resumes ticking off her list on her fingers. “Next is my stepdaughter, Freya. How she loves to loathe her wicked stepmother.” Her voice cracks just a little on the word stepmother.

How old is she?” I ask.

“Five going on seventeen,” she replies, rolling her eyes.

The sarcasm and contempt in her voice make it obvious that she detests the child too. Poor kid. She is evidently caught in an adult mess.

“Then,” she continues, hitting her middle finger. “There is my dear mother-in-law.” Her wry smile is full of frustration. “She drives me up the wall. You know the kind, right? So judgy, so full of sage advice. She always knows better. The interference in my marriage is so well-meaning and endless.”

Her life sounds like a soap opera, but the money… God, the money. “So, what exactly would I have to do?”

“All you have to do is slip into my life for three months. You don’t know them, and you don’t owe them anything, so you can just ignore them all. Spend most of your time shopping and meeting your friends,” she says, her voice gaining enthusiasm, like she is selling a vacation.

I bite my lip. “And what will you do while I’m impersonating you?”

“I’ll be in Europe,” she says simply.

Europe—images of sipping coffee in beautiful Parisian cafes, and watching sunsets over quaint Italian towns flash into my mind, a stark contrast to my sweaty reality.

“I need some time in places where no one knows me,” she explains. “So, I can rejuvenate and find the strength inside me to come back and do things differently. I realize I’ve let things slip, and if I don’t make some changes quickly, everything is going to fall apart. And I’m going to lose everything.”

“Why can’t you just tell your family the truth? That you want to go away for a while to get your act together. I’m sure they’ll support you.”

“I can’t do that. Such an absence will cause a scandal in my social circle. People will talk. My marriage will not survive the merciless gossip.” She looks at me intently, gauging my reaction.

I feel the tension build inside me. Can this really be happening? To me?

“What I’m asking for is quite simple,” she adds persuasively. “Pretend to be me. Live in my world for three months. That’s it. And then you’re out. You’ll never have to see my Addams family or me ever again.”

I hesitate, my mind whirling with the possibility. Slip into her life? It sounds thrilling and terrifying. “But… what about intimacy? I mean, with your husband…” My cheeks flush faintly.

She waves a hand dismissively. “There will be no intimacy at all involved, I can promise you that. It’s been a very long time since my husband wanted to have sex with me. We have separate bedrooms. You won’t have to suffer even the occasional peck on the cheek or the accidental brush of his skin against yours. I think you’ll find he’s quite a cold fish.” Her tone is flat and resigned, but I detect an undercurrent of sorrow.

It makes me pity her. A marriage of separate bedrooms and not even any accidental physical contact. It sounds lonely and sad. The cafe suddenly feels smaller, and the air seems even thicker with heat. My fingers trace the wood grain on the table top absentmindedly. This could change everything for me… or ruin me.

She watches me expectantly, and I can’t deny the pull—the allure of escape, even if it’s into someone else’s chaos.

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