I straighten, a warmth spreading through me as I head out, the conservatory's peace lingering like a promise, even as the shadow of Carolyn's return looms on the horizon.
Chapter Six
JULIET
It's been one month—thirty days that have blurred into one long haze of transformation, each one ticking by like the slow drip of honey from a spoon, sweet with promise but sticky with effort.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror that I scavenged from a stoop sale two years ago, its frame gilded with cheap gold paint that's flaking at the edges. The late summer light filters through the single window, hazy and golden, casting long shadows across the scuffed hardwood floors. On the fire escape outside, a breeze rustles the leaves. I can't believe how much time has passed; it feels like yesterday I was wiping counters at Yellow Cup, and now...
Now I'm someone else.
I quit my job. Carolyn insisted I needed to focus on the weight loss and the training, without distractions. No more double shifts or aching feet from standing all day, but God, the pounds didn't melt off easily. I starved on salads from the bodega downstairs, and ran laps around Tompkins Square Parkuntil my lungs burned. The result: I've lost eight pounds, but about two linger stubbornly, clinging to my hips like, well… fat.
Still, my reflection shows a waist that's nipped in, and collarbones that are sharper under my skin, and my boobs stand out more too. I stand in the simple black sheath dress Carolyn had delivered, a sleek Calvin Klein number that luxuriously hugs my body like a lover's hand. I run my palms over my hips, feeling the new leanness, a sensual thrill mixing with unease.
Who is this woman staring back?
I almost don’t recognize myself. My hair's been cut in Carolyn's style—a chic asymmetrical bob by a stylist at Sally Hershberger downtown, the strands falling just above my shoulders in honeyed waves. My eyes are lighter blue with the new contacts, and my face is more defined—cheekbones honed by the weight loss, jawline sculpted. I look expensive, and smell it too, with the special perfume Carolyn sent. Sophisticated. Nervousness coils in my belly like a live wire. Soon I will have to leave the safety of this shoebox—my sanctuary. My bed is piled with thrift-store quilts, my tiny kitchenette where I brew good coffee. But I console myself with the thought that maybe I can sneak back here if it gets too overwhelming. Slip back here for a night of normalcy, curl up with takeout Thai and forget I'm playing pretend.
I look at the clock. It's nearly time to leave.
The ‘training’ is complete now—the speech instructor, a stern woman named Lydia with a voice like velvet over steel, drilled me for hours a day in her Midtown studio, mimicking Carolyn's clipped cadence, or the way she pauses for effect.
Mannerisms too: the tilt of the head, the cool arch of a superciliously raised brow.
Carolyn guided me from her hotel suite, going through her routines—morning green smoothies from the Vitamix, spaappointments at the Mandarin Oriental, charity luncheons at Le Cirque.
A few clothes and accessories have been delivered already: a Hermès scarf in soft silk, Louboutin heels that pinch but make my legs endless, a cashmere sweater from Loro Piana that whispers ‘impostor’ against my skin. But the real wardrobe waits at Carolyn’s house. I'll head there later today to dive into the closets that she has filled with designer dreams in my size.
My new phone, a sleek iPhone courtesy of Carolyn, buzzes on the nightstand, its screen lighting up with a text:
Your taxi is waiting outside.
My heart stutters, but I grab my purse and, taking one last look at my appearance, head out, locking the door behind me with a click that echoes in the narrow hallway. The stairs creak under my new leather shoes as I descend to the bustling street below.
We’re meeting at The Pierre, where Carolyn is supposed to be “recovering”—The Pierre. It’s a grand Fifth Avenue icon with a marble lobby and views of Central Park's turning leaves, but following her instruction, I'm hustled in through a private entrance, a discreet side door off East 61st Street. A uniformed doorman nods without a word. The air inside is cool, scented with the scent from the hotel's diffusers. I am ushered into a service elevator by a waiting member of staff. I smile vaguely at her as the doors close on her. As the elevator hums smoothly upward, my reflection in the mirrored walls multiplying me into infinity—endless versions of this new Juliet. Nervous but poised.
As instructed, I head straight to the bathroom of the suite. It is empty of staff or guests. For a few moments, it's just me, the marble counters and the sleek gold faucets gleaming under soft recessed lights. The mirror, framed in gold, is massive.
I smooth my dress, my palms damp with sweat.
Carolyn steps in then, and it's so eerie—God, we're dressed the same as agreed, identical black sheaths and flats, her bob mirroring mine down to the last wave. I almost can’t tell us apart. Our eyes meet in the mirror, blues clashing like twins separated at birth, but twins don't even look this uncannily similar. A shiver races down my spine, making me wonder if there's some lost connection, some blood tie hidden in our shared features.
Is this fate, or just a cosmic glitch?
"Perfect," Carolyn says, in that polished drawl I've practiced endlessly. She circles me slowly, her heels clicking on the marble floor. She assesses me with a critical eye, raking over my form. "Still a little overweight, but you can spin a believable lie about the surgery preventing you from dieting and exercising for a while."
The words sting, and offense blooms hot in my chest. I thought I did well to lose that weight. It’s hard to lose eight pounds in four weeks, and I've struggled to lose it, nights of hunger pangs twisting my gut, muscles aching from runs in the park. I swallow down the retort and force a nod. No point arguing; this is her show.
She smiles then, a cool curve of her lips, and wishes me good luck, her tone almost sincere as she slips her purse—a quilted Chanel in black lambskin—into my hands. She follows that with the engagement and wedding ring. I slide them on, the platinum bands cool and heavy on my finger. I admire it despite myself: a radiant-cut diamond centerpiece at least five carats, flanked by baguettes that sparkle like captured stars. The whole thing must be worth a million, maybe more. It is a reminder of the rich life I'm stepping into—private jets, estates, a life where money flows like water. I still can't quite believe how rich these people are. Just thinking about it makes a rush of awe and envy mingle in my veins.
It's time to go.
“Good luck,” she calls as I head out, my steps hesitant, towards the private elevator, out the side entrance where a black Bentley waits, its sleek lines gleaming under the midday sun, the engine purring like a contented cat.
The chauffeur opens the door for me, his uniform crisp and black, and panic flares in my throat—I realize I’ve forgotten his name. What if I slip already? I try to recall Carolyn's offhand mention of it once during my training, but nothing comes. I slide into the butter-soft leather seats. The interior is cool and expensively scented. As I settle back against the upholstery, our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.
The chauffeur’s gaze is expressionless. "Welcome back, Ma'am."
