The Malbec inside Emma’s glass swirls lazily, a deep ruby. After what feels like an eternity—maybe two minutes heavy with tension—Emma shifts and turns to face me fully, her yoga pants whispering against the couch.
"Trap?" she says slowly, her voice low and measured. "That’s the problem with you. You never trust the Universe. Every time it sends you a gift, you second-guess the damn thing until it gets taken away. Let’s be smart here. What are the upsides to this? Like, beyond the money. Let’s make a pros and cons list. Pen and paper time."
She reaches for a notebook from the side table—a spiral-bound thing cluttered with doodles of hearts and stars. She clicks open her pen with a sharp snap.
"Wait, really? I thought you'd tell me not to take it. That it's sheer madness, too dangerous."
She pauses, pen hovering over the page, her expression contemplative, but something deeper flickers in her eyes. Shesets the pen down and reaches out to squeeze my hand. Her touch is warm, her callused fingers feel real, dependable.
“Jules, life is for living. Sometimes things that seem like sheer madness can lead to wonderful things. Besides, you could use the money. Like, really use it. You don't have any family. No safety net. Financial stability is everything. I've seen you stress over rent, over those student loans that just won't lie down and die.”
She pauses. When she speaks again, her voice is laced with that protective edge she gets when she's concerned about me. “I'm always worried that one day you'll need help, real help, and you'll have nowhere to turn. Not even to me, because let's face it, I'm not well off either. Scraping by on tips and that crappy side gig is not a stable way for either of us to live.” She swallows, her throat working, emotion raw in her gaze. "Maybe this is a blessing in disguise. A weird, twisted one, but something to set you up, give you that stability you've never had. We can't just throw out the offer without looking at it properly."
The truth hits me low in the gut, a sadness and vulnerability I almost never indulge in, swamps me for a second. She's right. I am alone, an orphan in a city that chews up the unsecured. No parents, no siblings, just me against the grind. The thought of that money, that cushion, sends a shiver through me, not cold but heated, like possibility igniting under my skin. I nod and lean in. Our knees touch. I smile at her.
"Okay. Pros and cons. Let's do it."
She smiles back, and that determined glint returns. I watch her scribble ‘Pros’ at the top of the page in her loopy handwriting, and underline it with a flourish.
"Alright, start with the obvious—the cash. Two hundred K. But what else did she dangle?"
I exhale, my mind drifting back to Carolyn's polished pitch in the café. Her face haunts my memories like a ghost. "On theupside, I'd also get a whole new designer wardrobe. All mine to keep once the gig's over."
Emma's eyes light up, pen flying. "Designer wardrobe." She taps the page, grinning wickedly. "And you could sell most of it, or return what you can for even more money. Imagine—Chanel, Gucci, whatever she's got. Turn that into cash flow."
I laugh at how quickly her brain works. "Yeah, that’s something to explore. And it's not just clothes. Full access to all her credit cards, store credits, her chauffeur, and membership to her exclusive spa."
She nods, writing furiously. "Good. Very good." She pauses, looking up with a sly arch of her brow. "You'd have to clarify a spending allowance, though. Make sure it's unlimited, or damn close. Use those for even more purchases—stuff that pays dividends later. Jewelry, bags, art—things you can sell down the line." Her voice gains enthusiasm, a conspiratorial whisper. "Milk the situation as much as you can, Jules. Turn this into a goldmine."
I feel a twist of skepticism, and my body tenses, the couch cushions shifting under me as I pull my knees up. The fan's breeze ghosts over my bare legs, raising faint goosebumps despite the warmth.
"Whoa, slow down. What Carolyn's doing is unethical as hell. And I’ll be putting my life at risk. I could go to prison for fraud or whatever, if this blows up." My voice cracks a little, emotion surging, a mix of fear and that dark allure. "If I'm going to do this, yeah, maybe you’re right, I should milk it for all it's worth. Squeeze every drop of juice out of it. But... buying art and jewelry. God, Emma, it feels wrong."
She meets my gaze, her expression steady. "My point exactly. It's shady on her end, so make it worth your while. Maximize the perks."
“I’m not a criminal.”
“I know that. It’s not criminal. You’re helping her and helping yourself. She’s rich. Money’s obviously not a problem for her or her husband. Sounds like they’ve got too much.” Her pen scratches softly as she draws a heart and colors it. "And… she said, you can take your friends out to lunch wherever, whenever you want, right?” Per Se, Le Bernardin—sky's the limit, right?”
I can’t help the sudden grin that spreads across my face. Emma really is incorrigible. “Yeah,” I say dreamily and lean back against the cushions. I imagine it: pristine white linen tablecloths, crystal glasses… the kind of places I've only seen through the window. The fantasy of luxury wraps around my senses like silk. "Yeah... that would be no problem. I could do lunch every day if I wanted to.”
Emma adds it to the list, her handwriting tilting with excitement. "Unlimited lunches with friends – me.” She looks up, head tilted to one side. “What happens if there is ever a problem?”
“I can call her on a secret phone number. It’s like a lifeline."
“Wow! A secret hotline for issues." She sets the pen down, the notebook open between us, and we both stare at it, the air thick with possibility. My heart beats a little faster, the wine buzzing in my veins, that inner conflict twisting like a slow, heated dance—fear and desire, risk and reward, all tangled in the humid night.
Chapter Four
JULIET
“That’s it,” Emma says.
The notebook’s pages are filled with her hurried scrawl—pros stacked like temptations, cons a short, but stark list of shadows: legal risks, emotional toll, the sheer weirdness of wearing someone else's skin.
My skin feels flushed, not just from the wine but from the opportunity coiling low in my belly like a secret touch, sensual and insistent, promising escape from the grind that's worn me thin.
I can feel Emma’s gaze on me, waiting, probing. She sets her glass down with a clink, the ruby liquid sloshing gently, and leans forward, elbows on her knees, her oversized tee slipping off one shoulder to reveal the freckled curve of her collarbone. "Well? Are you tempted at all? Even a little?"
