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)
"Impersonate you? Why?" My voice trembles, revealing how vulnerable I feel.
She leans closer, and her eyes look haunted. "Because I just need a break from my life, Juliet. I swear, I'll go mad, otherwise." She pauses, and her gaze shifts towards the window before returning to me. "My life... It's suffocating me. I just need a little time away, to breathe again and become strong. I’ve lost my way, Juliet. I need to find myself."
Empathy stirs inside me despite my skepticism. I've felt trapped too, in this job, this city. But hers is a designer world. What’s she got to be unhappy about? "Okay, but... what's so intolerable about your life that you need to run away?” I let my eyes trail down her expensive outfit. “At first glance, you look like you have an enviable life."
She shakes her head, and something close to real despair flashes in her eyes, but when she speaks, her tone is brisk and cold. “What’s so intolerable? Where do I begin?” She raises her hand and begins to tick off the points on her fingers. "Top of the list, my workaholic husband, Blake. Day and night, he works, oblivious to everything and everyone else. Especially me, his own wife. I hate to admit it, but he has lost all interest in me. To the point, he doesn't even notice when I come into the room.”
There's real bitterness there. The hurt in her eyes is genuine too. It makes her seem more human. I believe her and feel a pang of sympathy for her. Blake. The name conjures an image of an aloof tycoon.
“I’m sorry. That sounds rough," I concede.
She nods and resumes ticking off her list on her fingers. "Next is my stepdaughter, Freya. How she loves to loathe her wicked stepmother." Her voice cracks just a little on the word stepmother.
How old is she?” I ask.
“Five going on seventeen,” she replies, rolling her eyes.
The sarcasm and contempt in her voice make it obvious that she detests the child too. Poor kid. She is evidently caught in an adult mess.
“Then,” she continues, hitting her middle finger. “There is my dear mother-in-law.” Her wry smile is full of frustration. "She drives me up the wall. You know the kind, right? So judgy, so full of sage advice. She always knows better. The interference in my marriage is so well-meaning and endless."
Her life sounds like a soap opera, but the money... God, the money. "So, what exactly would I have to do?"
"All you have to do is slip into my life for three months. You don’t know them, and you don’t owe them anything, so you can just ignore them all. Spend most of your time shopping and meeting your friends," she says, her voice gaining enthusiasm, like she is selling a vacation.
I bite my lip. “And what will you do while I’m impersonating you?”
“I’ll be in Europe,” she says simply.
Europe—images of sipping coffee in beautiful Parisian cafes, and watching sunsets over quaint Italian towns flash into my mind, a stark contrast to my sweaty reality.
“I need some time in places where no one knows me,” she explains. “So, I can rejuvenate and find the strength inside me to come back and do things differently. I realize I’ve let things slip, and if I don’t make some changes quickly, everything is going to fall apart. And I’m going to lose everything.”
“Why can’t you just tell your family the truth? That you want to go away for a while to get your act together. I’m sure they’ll support you.”
“I can’t do that. Such an absence will cause a scandal in my social circle. People will talk. My marriage will not survive the merciless gossip.” She looks at me intently, gauging my reaction.
I feel the tension build inside me. Can this really be happening? To me?
“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 time since 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.