“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 timesince 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.
Chapter Two
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 heartraces 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.”
