JULIET

Carolyn’s floral perfume still lingers in the air, evocative and expensive, and mingles with the ever-present aroma of ground beans and the faint, sticky sweetness of spilled syrup from earlier. My hands tremble slightly as I wipe the counter for what feels like the hundredth time, the damp cloth sliding over the smooth wood in slow, absent circles.

Her proposition echoes in my head like a fever dream—two hundred thousand dollars, a life swap, no sex involved, separate bedrooms even. I can’t shake the image of her face—my face, but polished and cold.

It all still feels like some kind of waking dream. I stare at the foggy glass where her reflection had overlapped with mine just a while ago. Part of me can’t believe it was real. Did a woman who looks exactly like me just walk in here with an offer to pay me to become her? It feels illusory, like a plot from one of those rom-coms I binge on Netflix, but the card she slipped to me—her number scrawled in elegant script—is burning a hole in my jeans pocket.

“Juliet? Earth to Juliet.” Carla, the owner of Yellow Cup calls.

She’s been busy baking tomorrow’s pastries in the kitchen, and she’s eyeing me from the doorway, her arms crossed over her floury apron, a dish towel slung over her shoulder. “You’ve been wiping that same spot for the last five minutes. We’re closing, chica. Lock up and go home before I make you mop the floor.”

I walk over to the sink and drop the sponge into it with a wet plop. “Sorry, Carla. I think I just zoned out.” My voice sounds distant even to me. Must be the shock settling in my bones. Inside, my thoughts are a whirlwind, but I force a smile, the one that has gotten me through endless shifts. Grabbing my worn canvas tote from under the counter, I flip the sign to Closed. Carla follows me through the kitchen, waves me off with a grunt, and locks the back door.

I step out into the evening, and the balmy air wraps around me like a blanket. It carries the scents from the street food vendors grilling kebabs around the corner. The sidewalks of Mulberry Street are bustling with locals. The sun’s golden light casts long, cool shadows from the historic buildings as I start walking toward the East Village.

What if I say yes?

What if I slip into her world of mansions, chauffeurs, and a husband who doesn’t touch her?

Blake.

The name alone sends a strange shiver through me. Even though I’ve never seen or met him, something about him intrigues me. I’m curious about his daughter too. Freya, the girl who loathes her stepmother. And his mother, who appears to be driving her daughter-in-law mad.

It’s suffocating, Carolyn said.

But for two hundred thousand…

Heck, that money would mean I could breathe for the first time in years. Pay off my debts, maybe travel a bit. My heart races again, a mix of fear and that forbidden thrill, like standing on the edge of a rooftop. The thought makes my steps falter, and I nearly bump into a guy on a Citi Bike. He swears and swerves. My apologies are lost in the breeze.

Fifteen minutes through the eclectic streets of Nolita bleed into the East Village, past graffiti-covered walls and the quirky shops on St. Marks Place. The sky has deepened to a rich indigo as I reach my cramped walk-up on East 6th Street—a narrow brownstone with peeling paint and a buzzer that sticks. The air in the hallway is stale with the neighbors’ cooking smells as I climb up the three flights of stairs.

Usually, this is a time I start to relax and look forward to a pleasant evening with a glass of wine and a home-cooked meal in front of the TV, but today, I can’t settle. I need to talk this out.

I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up the dim hallway as I fumble with my keys. It’s 8:30 now, the evening is still young. I dial Emma’s number, leaning against the doorframe of my apartment, my bag slipping off my shoulder.

“Hey, Jules,” she answers on the second ring, her voice bright, the faint sound of a TV in the background. “What’s up? You done for the day?”

“Hmmm… just got home.” I hesitate, my thumb tracing the edge of the phone. “Are you home?”

“Of course. I’m just chilling with Rory and Lorelai. Why? Is everything okay?”

Gilmore Girls. Her go-to comfort watch. The unreal nature of my situation hits me all over again. “I need to talk to you. Can I come over?”

There’s a pause, then concern creeps into her tone. “Sure, babe. I’ll have wine ready.”

“I’ll take the subway and be there in about thirty minutes.”

Sighing with relief, I toss my bag inside my tiny studio and head back out. The warm night air greets me like an old friend.

At the station, I swipe my MetroCard and descend into the humid underground. Astoria’s not far—about twenty minutes up the line. My mind races the whole way: Carolyn’s eyes, so like mine, but colder. Much colder. The money. The madness of it all. By the time the train pulls into 30th Avenue, my palms are sweaty with nerves.

Emma lives in a cozy one-bedroom on the third floor of a pre-war building. Her neighborhood is quiet compared to the Village. The door swings open, and Emma stands there: wild dark curls, yoga pants, an oversized tee, and holding out a glass of red wine for me. It’s probably a Malbec, her favorite.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says, pulling me into a quick hug. The TV is paused on Gilmore Girls, Lorelai mid-quip, and the room smells of lavender candles and takeout Thai.

“That’s one way to put it.” I take the wine, the glass cool in my hand, and sink onto the couch beside her. The Malbec is velvety on my tongue; berries, and a hint of spice.

She turns to me, her green eyes sharp. “Okay, spill. What’s going on?”

Where do I even start? I realize it will all sound quite insane. I take a deep breath.

“Something happened at work this evening. Right before closing. This expensively dressed woman came in. I mean, she looked like she stepped out of the pages of Vogue, but Emma, she looked like me. I don’t mean a little bit or a passing resemblance. She looked exactly like me. Real doppelganger stuff.”

Emma’s brows shoot up, but she doesn’t interrupt, just waits patiently for me to get it all out.

I lean forward, my hands gesturing excitedly as the words tumble out. “She said she hired a whole bunch of private detectives to find her lookalike. One of them found me. She then offered me two hundred thousand dollars to impersonate her for three months while she goes to Europe to get her mojo back. Fifty up front, the rest monthly.”

Emma chokes on her drink. “What? Are you serious? That’s… that’s movie-level crazy. Who is she?”

“Her name is Carolyn Bessant.” The name feels foreign on my tongue. “She said her life is suffocating her and she needs a bit of time to gather herself. Apparently, her husband has lost all interest in her, her stepdaughter hates her, and her mother-in-law’s a nightmare. I just have to slip in and pretend to be her. The important thing is… There won’t be any sex involved. They have separate bedrooms.”

Emma leans back, her expression a mix of disbelief and intrigue, her fingers tap the arm of the couch restlessly. “Holy shit, Jules. Two hundred grand? That’s life-changing. But… how? You can’t just swap lives. No matter how much she looks like you, her husband is bound to realize you’re not her.”

I nod, pulling Carolyn’s card from my pocket, the paper smooth and thick. “I know. That’s what I thought, but she has it all planned out. To the last detail. If I agree, a speech instructor will spend the next month coaching me on how she speaks, her intonation, her accent, and all that stuff.” I pause, recalling Carolyn’s precise words, the way she laid it out like a business deal. “During that month, she will also guide me on her mannerisms and attitudes. Basically, she’ll teach me everything about her routine and her life.”

Emma’s eyes widen. “Wow! She’s really serious about this. A whole month of training.”

“Yeah,” I say softly, a nervous laugh escaping. “And because our noses are a little different, and I have bigger breasts, she’ll pretend to have a nose job and a boob job, so they’ll be expecting some small changes in her appearance. She’s going to wear bandages for a couple of weeks before I show up. In that way they put the changes down to the surgeries.”

She whistles low, shaking her head. “That’s… really detailed. Creepy detailed. What else? There has to be more.”

“That’s it.” I shrug and take a sip of wine. “She’s expecting my call tomorrow. If I say yes, her solicitor will draw up an NDA for me. Once I sign it, she’ll announce her surgery plans to the family and start building up the pretense. She’ll tell them she is going to have some surgery and it’ll need time to ‘heal’, and will be the cover story to explain away the small differences.”

Emma tilts her head, curiosity burning. “And if you say no?”

“Then she’ll carry on searching to find someone else, I guess.” The thought stings unexpectedly—losing out on that money and escape. “Or maybe she won’t be able to. What are the chances she’ll find someone else who looks like me? Like her, I mean.”

Emma nods thoughtfully. “I see.” I can see her processing, her foot tapping absently against the scuffed hardwood floor. This kind of hesitation is rare for her; she’s usually the one with quick-fire opinions, the friend who talks me off ledges. My own thoughts swirl, an undercurrent of doubt and temptation coiling in my chest, making my skin prickle.

“Does it feel too good to be true? Too risky?” I venture hesitantly.

“I don’t know.” She frowns. “Are the two of you the same size as well?”

“We’re more or less the same height, but I’m thicker than she is. She’s stick-thin.”

I sigh, glancing down at my generous curves. “So yeah. I’d have to lose about ten pounds. And wear contact lenses—my eyes are a lighter blue than hers.”

Emma’s expression is suddenly excited. “Ten pounds? Contacts? Bandages? Jules, I’ve been trying to be mature and sensible, but this is freaking wild. Just think about it—the money, the adventure. What are you leaning toward?”

I don’t answer right away. The soft light from the string lights cast a warm glow on us, as my mind spins with possibilities, fears, and the sensual pull of the unknown. I think of Carolyn’s touch on my arm earlier—cool, lingering, and promising something I’d never imagined I could ever experience in my lifetime.

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