Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
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.
I feel a shiver. A team of private detectives? To find me? That has to be classed as... unusual behavior. What kind of person does that? And why?
My happy-go-lucky nature wants to laugh it off as a whim of a wealthy woman with not much to accomplish but to do lunch with her friends and look good, but there's an intensity in her expression that makes my stomach twist with warning.
I glance around the empty café in a daze, and for a moment, I wish Lena, the other barista, were here. I want to ask her if she too can see Carolyn Bessant, because right now, it feels like I’m hallucinating. Maybe the exhaustion has gotten to me. I fell asleep while standing up, and this is all just a very crazy dream.
I turn back towards Carolyn warily. "You hired a team of investigators to find your doppelganger? Why?"
Her smile widens. It appears artless, but there's a calculated edge to the expression in her eyes, like she's rehearsed this scene. "Because I have a proposition for you. I want to hire you to impersonate me for three months. And in return, I will transfer two hundred thousand dollars into your account tax-free." She says it casually, like she is offering to buy me a cappuccino and a slice of cake, but her words hit me like she has injected a strong drug straight into my veins.
My breath catches, and my eyes widen. Two hundred thousand just to impersonate her for three months? That's life-changing money—enough to pay off the rest of my student loan, move to a better apartment, and maybe even start that little art studio I've always dreamed about. A mix of excitement and fear bubbles in the pit of my stomach.
“Fifty thousand upfront on the day you agree to my proposal," she continues in a matter-of-fact tone, "and the remainder to be split into three equal amounts and deposited into your account at the end of every month you manage to stay in character."
Her expression is serious. There is not the least hint of a joke that I can see.
The warmth and humidity are causing sweat patches under my arms, but she seems impervious to the heat. I grip the table edge to steady myself. The wood feels firm and smooth under my fingers. Can she be real? No, hang on, Juliet... This is too easy. Too good to be true. I'm kind, but not naïve: If there is one thing New York has taught me, it is to question everything. People don't throw this kind of cash at you for nothing.
Can this deal be an elaborate con? Is she going to scam me out of the three thousand dollars I have in my savings account? But would a woman like her be wasting this much time to gain three thousand dollars? Her belt alone probably costs that much.