I trace the stem of my wine glass with one fingertip. Tempted? The word sends an electric shiver through me, like the brush of silk against bare thighs in the dead of night. Of course, I am. The cafe's endless shifts, the way my current account hoverslike a ghost at zero, the dreams I shove into drawers because there's no room for them in this life.
"Of course I am," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. I meet her eyes, my own stinging a little, and the confession spills out. "Emma, I just about afford my rent and bills right now. Any unexpected expenditure will completely obliterate my savings account. You know there’s only three thousand in it, right? And it has been at that level for the last three years." I pause, my chest rising and falling. “And you know, I always wanted to open my art studio, remember? Maybe this will be my only real shot at something stable, something mine."
She nods slowly and reaches out to cover my hand with hers again. There's fierce loyalty in her eyes, the kind that makes my throat ache. I can see the wheels turning in her head, the way her brow furrows just a touch—practical Emma, always the one to poke holes before leaping.
"Yeah, okay," she murmurs, squeezing once again before letting go. "But... we now need proof that your body double is not some con artist spinning fairy tales." She grabs her phone from the arm of the couch, the screen lighting her face in a cool blue glow, and her thumbs fly across it, quick and sure. "Google time. Let's confirm her claims—see if Carolyn Bessant is who she says she is."
I watch, my heart beating hard in my chest, as she types: Carolyn Bessant, New York.
The search loads in seconds, the room's soft light flickering across her expression as she scrolls. Her eyes widen, then narrow, lips parting in a soft exhale. "Holy shit, Jules." She turns the phone toward me. There she is—Carolyn, in a glossy society page photo from last year's Met Gala after-party.
"She was not lying. Carolyn Bessant, maiden name, Harrington, married into the enormously wealthy Bessant family three years ago. Blake Bessant—tech mogul, billionsin real estate and investments. Looks like they're like the Rockefellers of the Hamptons crowd."
I grab the phone, my fingers brushing hers, and swipe through the results—headlines from the New York Post, profiles in Town & Country. The Bessants: old lineage tracing back to railroad barons, now diversified into everything from luxury hotels to green energy startups. Carolyn's name pops up in charity galas, yacht parties off Nantucket. It's all there in black and white, all verifiable, making the offer feel less like a dream and more like a door cracking open.
Emma leans in, her shoulder pressing warm against mine, and we dive deeper together, the phone passing between us like a shared secret. She pulls up images first—the mansion, a sprawling Georgian estate on the Gold Coast of Long Island, just outside the city in Sands Point.
The photos steal my breath: manicured lawns rolling down to Long Island Sound, where the late-summer sun glints off the water like scattered diamonds; grand columns framing a white facade with black shutters, ivy climbing the stone walls with elegant restraint.
Inside, glimpses of opulence—a sun-drenched conservatory with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking formal gardens bursting with late-blooming hydrangeas and roses, a library lined with leather-bound books, and a massive marble fireplace.
I'd be living there for three months. Sleeping between the best linen sheets money can buy, waking to views of the sea. The thought sends a delicious thrill through me, my skin tingling as if already touched by that life—cool linen against bare skin, the salt-kissed breeze from the sea whispering through open French doors.
Then the family photos, magnified on the screen in high-res detail that makes my pulse stutter. Her husband—Blake—first, and God, the sight of him hits like a slow burn, low but insistent.A candid shot from some Hamptons polo match last summer: dark hair tousled by the wind, icy-gray eyes sharp under thick lashes. His physique carved like a statue under a crisp white button-down rolled to the elbows. Khaki trousers hug his lean hips.
There is no other way to describe him but dazzlingly good-looking. He carries an effortless masculinity—the kind that makes your breath hitch, your body remember it's alive. I linger on it, my thumb hovering, a forbidden heat pooling between my legs despite myself. Who wouldn't feel seen by eyes like that? But he's hers. Distant and disinterested, but still hers. Not mine. I have to have that clear in my mind. Or this job will turn out to be a tragic mistake.
I swipe again, and there's Freya, Carolyn’s five-year-old stepchild—a little sweetheart in a soft pink sundress printed with wildflowers. She is standing knee-deep in flowers in a garden, her chubby cheeks dimpled. A big, happy grin reveals a gap where a front tooth should be. Golden curls tied with ribbons, one hand clutches a stuffed rabbit, the other waves at the camera with unfiltered joy. Innocent, untouched by the fractures Carolyn described. My heart softens, and an ache blooms, maternal and unexpected. I'd never thought of kids in my future, but this one... she looks like the kind of light that could fill empty rooms.
Finally, the mother-in-law, Frances. She is wearing a cashmere twinset in dove gray in a formal portrait. A strand of pearls adorns her throat. Her silver hair is swept into a chignon, and her skin is pale and translucent like fine porcelain. There's a regal bearing about her. Her eyes are undimmed and sharp, holding a lifetime of command, and her posture is straight as a queen's despite the cane hooked over her arm.
I think of Carolyn’s face, her voice clipped with resentment as she described her family, but seeing them now—in pixels thatfeel achingly real—sinks it deep. This isn't abstract anymore; these people are real. The photos blur the line between my scrappy life and their glittering ones.
I will be the imposter entering the most intimate parts of their lives.
Emma snatches the phone back, her breath quickening, excitement lighting her face like fireworks. "I don’t think we can leave this decision entirely to you, Juliet, my darling. You’ll fuck it up.” She grins. “These little trips to the Spa and lunches at expensive restaurants, they concern me. So, I vote for you to take this job. Just think… two hundred grand to play dress-up in a mansion. And then think of how your life will change. The experiences—the stories you'd have to tell your grandchildren. You can’t say no, Jules. You just can’t. It would be a crime.”
Her words rush over me, tempting, pulling. I fish Carolyn's card from my pocket — thick and cream, her number etched in gold-embossed script. "This is her number. I have until tomorrow to decide." My voice wavers, hesitation coiling tight in my gut, a voluptuous tug-of-war between fear's cool grip and desire's heated promise. But Emma's right; the pros outweigh the shadows. The Internet has literally sealed it like a kiss. The decision is inevitable, like honey dripping from a spoon, or the night deepening.
"Okay," I whisper, my hand trembling slightly as I pick up my phone. "I think... I think I'm in."
Emma nods, fierce and proud, scooting closer until our thighs press together, her presence a witness, a shield. "I'm here," she says softly. “I’m your backup. If anything goes wrong, we’ll handle it together. And we’ll keep records of everything.”
“Alright,” I reply.
It’s time. I key in Carolyn’s number, the ringtone trilling in the charged air. One ring. Two. My free hand twists in mylap, nails digging half-moons into my palm, the humid warmth making my skin slick. Three rings, and then—click.
"Carolyn Bessant." Her voice, smooth as ever, that upper-crust polish wrapping around the words like velvet.
"It's - it’s Juliet.”
I pause and hold my breath, scared all of a sudden that maybe she has changed her mind. Maybe it was all nothing but a sick joke from the very beginning. The room narrows to this moment—the fan's whir, Emma's steady gaze, the distant train rumble like fate rolling in.
"I... I’m calling about what you said earlier when we met at the coffee shop. Your proposition. Well, I… I accept."
Chapter Five
BLAKE
