Chapter One
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 likecrazy. 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.
