I Became My Own Lookalike

After graduation, my pride got the better of me. I lied to my college classmates, telling them I was heading overseas for my master's degree. In reality, I slunk back to my dead-end hometown, working a soul-crushing job that barely paid minimum wage.

Two years later, my absolute ride-or-die best friend called me out of the blue.

She asked if I still remembered Arthur Sinclair.

Then she dropped the bomb. Arthur Sinclair was actively searching for a body double of his college crush. The compensation? One hundred thousand dollars a month. A cool million if you signed on for a year.

I froze right there in my cubicle. Since when did the universe hand out free money like this?

Back in college, I was the ultimate fake-it-till-you-make-it queen. For four solid years, I put on an Oscar-worthy performance.

On the surface, I was a delicate, sheltered trust-fund baby with an impeccable aesthetic.

Behind closed doors, I was surviving on a hundred bucks a month.

The only reason I pulled off the rich-girl illusion was because of my best friend, Harper. She had a walk-in closet bigger than my entire childhood home. Not only was it stuffed with every designer label imaginable, but she let me borrow whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

One act of kindness from her bought my absolute loyalty for life.

It was worth it. Completely worth it.

Originally, Harper and I planned to open a boutique creative agency in New York after graduation. She would be the angel investor, and I would handle the creative tech.

But life loves a cruel plot twist. My mom got into a horrific car accident back in Ohio. A drunk driver left her in a persistent vegetative state.

The settlement money barely covered the ICU bills, let alone a private, full-time caretaker.

My biological father, who had started a new family years ago, showed up at the hospital just long enough to hear the prognosis. He shoved fifty bucks into my hands and told me to never contact him again.

Harper cried on the phone, offering to wire me the money for a top-tier nurse so I could still move to New York and start the business with her.

As much as I loved keeping up appearances, I knew I couldn't drain my best friend's bank account. After agonizing over it for days, I gave up my glittering future, packed my bags, and went back to Ohio to take care of my family.

By day, I worked an entry-level clerical job for a miserable salary. By night, I relieved my grandmother at the hospital, sitting by my mom's bedside.

Meanwhile, my college group chats were constantly buzzing.

People kept tagging me, asking why I missed the alumni dinners.

When you step out into the real world, you get to write your own narrative. My pride was a fragile, stubborn thing. I literally set five different alarms in the middle of the night just to post aesthetic photos and reply to messages, creating the perfect illusion that I was living my best life in Paris.

And incredibly, it worked.

They bought it completely, begging me to bring back authentic French pastries and luxury perfumes. Some asked about my program, while others gossiped, dying to know if I was dating a gorgeous European model.

The questions got so ridiculous that I finally had to mute the chat and go ghost. I couldn't risk my carefully constructed bubble bursting.

Sometimes, karma comes for those who fake it.

During rush hour the very next day, I was packed into the subway like a sardine. By the time I stepped off the train, my phone was gone. Pickpocketed.

For someone already drowning in medical bills, this was a devastating blow.

Scraping together what little cash I had, I bought the cheapest, bulkiest burner phone I could find. A literal brick.

I only gave the new number to Harper. We kept in close touch, and she would occasionally fly out to Ohio just to grab drinks and check on me.

She asked if I wanted her to add my new number back into the alumni group chats.

I thought about it and declined. Covering up one lie requires a dozen more. It was easier to just use the stolen phone as an excuse to fade into the background.

Two years went by just like that. Then, on a slow Tuesday afternoon while I was slacking off at my desk, Harper called.

"Stella! Massive news!"

Her voice was so loud it leaked through the speaker, catching the attention of my miserable micromanager, who immediately glared at me and started walking over to confiscate my phone.

I ducked behind my monitor, covering my mouth. "What is it, Harp? I'm literally at work."

Harper sounded like she had drank five espressos. "Do you still remember Arthur Sinclair?"

I searched my memory. It rang a bell, but just barely. I only remembered him as the heir to one of the wealthiest real estate empires on the East Coast. A guy with more money than God.

Harper's next words made me accidentally shriek.

"He is literally searching for your body double! One hundred thousand dollars a month! A million a year!"

"He's doing what?"

I bolted upright, making direct eye contact with my furious manager.

"I'm dead serious," Harper swore. "He put the word out himself. Half the girls in the city are trying to make themselves look like you right now just to get a piece of that payout!"

"I swear to God, I don't understand it. Why is he looking for your clone? And why is he dropping that kind of insane cash?"

Harper kept rambling, but the audio completely faded out.

The only thing echoing in my brain was: One hundred thousand a month. A million a year.

I hadn't even secured the bag yet, but I was already planning how to spend it.

Step one: fire my boss.

My manager was standing right in front of my desk, hands on her hips, screeching about company phone policies.

I gave her a look that was seventy percent absolute ice, twenty percent pure disdain, and ten percent pity. I grabbed the massive stack of unfinished paperwork on my desk and slammed it right against her chest.

"I am absolutely done with this twelve-dollar-an-hour nightmare. Find some other corporate slave to torture!"

"Goodbye and good riddance!"

Basking in the awe-struck stares of my miserable coworkers, I strutted out the door. I even grabbed the little potted money tree from the reception desk on my way out.

A company that refuses to offer a 401k doesn't deserve good feng shui anyway!

Riding the high of finally quitting, I rushed straight to the hospital to process my mom's transfer paperwork.

I was moving my mom and my grandmother to New York.

First, it would be easier to take care of them. Second, the medical facilities in the city were world-class. With top-tier neurological rehab, there might actually be a miracle.

It took a full week to get my mom safely settled into a private room at one of Manhattan's premier hospitals. I paid for an upgraded suite so my grandmother had a comfortable place to rest, and rented a tiny, closet-sized studio apartment nearby for myself.

By the time all the logistics were sorted, my savings and the remainder of the settlement money were completely wiped out.

I stared at the three-digit balance in my checking account.

My fingers acted on their own, dialing Harper's number.

"Harp, I'm in the City. Where exactly do I go to audition for this body double gig?"

Harper texted me a sprawling estate address and a private phone number, telling me to call it when I arrived.

I checked the time. It was still early. I dug through my duffel bag and pulled out my designated "interview blazer."

When I sat down in front of a cheap two-dollar mirror to do my makeup, reality hit me. I hadn't bought a single new beauty product in two years.

I was no longer the delicate, glowing college girl. I was an exhausted corporate drone beaten down by two years of late nights and cheap ramen.

I hesitated.

Eventually, I walked into a Sephora and used the tester products to do a full face of free makeup. To hide the dark circles and my exhausted complexion, I had to layer on a ridiculous amount of foundation.

I barely looked seventy percent like my old self.

But the commute was brutal. The bus felt like a rolling sauna, and the air conditioning was practically non-existent because an older passenger insisted on keeping the windows open.

My carefully applied makeup completely melted off in the heat.

My eyeliner smudged into massive raccoon circles, making me look like a sleep-deprived goth.

When I stepped off the bus and checked my reflection in a storefront window, I nearly passed out from pure anger.

But victory was right in front of me. I wasn't about to give up now.

Gritting my teeth, I pulled a wet wipe from my purse and scrubbed my face completely clean.

I was naturally gorgeous anyway. Auditioning to play myself? Piece of cake.

I confidently pedaled a rented Citi Bike right up to the gates of an ultra-exclusive billionaire's row.

The moment I clicked the bike lock, a security guard marched over to chase me away. "What do you think you're doing? If you don't have an invitation, take this piece of junk and get lost!"

Excuse me?

The absolute disrespect!

My inner diva flared to life. I gave the guard a withering side-eye and elegantly pulled my device out of my pocket.

My Nokia brick phone.

I dialed the number Harper gave me. "Hello. I'm here for the body double audition. I'm currently standing at the front gates, and your security guard is trying to throw me out. Could you please come out and get me?"

A smooth male voice came through the receiver. "You're here for the audition? Understood. Please wait a moment, I'll be right out."

I put the phone on speaker and glared at the guard. "Did you hear that? Consider that my invitation."

"Try to chase me away one more time. I dare you. I will personally ensure the homeowner gets you fired!"

The guard snapped his mouth shut, gave me a wary look, and retreated to his little booth.

I waited by the gate for a few minutes.

A sleek, midnight-black Bentley rolled out of the estate.

Assuming it was one of the rich residents leaving for the day, I took a step back to let it pass.

Instead, the luxury car stopped perfectly in front of me.

The window rolled down. The driver was a devastatingly handsome man in casual designer clothes. His voice matched the one on the phone perfectly.

"May I ask your name?"

"Hi, my last name is Bennett."

"Alright, Miss Bennett. Please get in. I'll take you inside."

First came the shock of being chauffeured in a Bentley. Then came the sheer, overwhelming shock of walking into a penthouse mansion that had to be at least six thousand square feet.

I knew Arthur Sinclair was wealthy.

I just didn't comprehend that he was this wealthy.

I admit it, I'm shallow. I love money.

If this meant I had to fall in love with Arthur Sinclair, I was absolutely willing to take that bullet.

The moment I stepped into the grand living room, I saw over a dozen women sitting on the plush velvet sofas. Their heads snapped toward me in unison.

Every single one of them had recreated my signature "effortless" college makeup look. The bizarre, uncanny valley feeling of seeing a room full of almost-me's made the hair on my arms stand up.

But I had to admit, two of them actually looked strikingly similar to me with all that contouring.

All the other candidates were dressed in stunning, high-fashion outfits. In contrast, I was standing there in a cheap blazer.

I looked less like a romantic body double and more like the new maid.

I found a quiet corner on the sofa and sat down. The gorgeous girl next to me immediately pinched her nose and scooted away.

"Ugh, what is that cheap perfume..."

Was she seriously insulting the hand-stitched magnolia sachet my grandmother made for me?

My patience snapped. I stared at her, desperately trying to find a flaw so I could visually destroy her.

I looked her up and down. Left and right.

To my absolute horror, I realized something.

Aside from my actual face, I didn't have a single thing on her.

Is this what pretty privilege felt like?

I clicked my tongue and casually touched my slightly dry cheek. "Honestly, girls who look absolutely nothing like Mr. Sinclair's first love really shouldn't even bother showing up."

"Unlike me. Even without a ten-step skincare routine, I'm still a solid seventy percent match."

Perfume Girl's face turned a violent shade of green.

She couldn't refute a single word because I was spitting pure facts.

Frustrated, she resorted to cheap emotional damage.

"Hmph. Look at how pathetic and broke you are. Even if Mr. Sinclair doesn't pick me, there is zero chance he'll ever look twice at a beggar like you."

She made a very valid point.

Any normal person would have folded right then and there.

But I wasn't normal.

I was a master of faking it.

I said I was going to secure Arthur Sinclair's bank account, and I meant it.

Just then, heavy oak doors opened down the hall. A stunning girl walked out, looking utterly defeated.

As she walked past us, I caught her muttering to herself.

"I was disqualified because I have a mole on my neck? If his standards are this psycho, why doesn't he just fly overseas and chase the real girl down?"

"Next," a deep, magnetic voice called from inside the room.

The handsome guy from the Bentley walked over and asked who wanted to go next.

Before I could even open my mouth, Perfume Girl pointed directly at me.

"Let her go first. She smells weird, and I'm suffocating out here!"

I stood up, completely unbothered. "I smell like Mother Nature. You just smell like desperate capitalism."

With that, I marched into the room, leaving her furious sputtering behind the heavy doors.

I turned around with a perfect customer-service smile, locking eyes with a visibly stunned Arthur Sinclair.

"Hello, Mr. Sinclair. My name is Ella."

He stared at me, completely mesmerized, not saying a word.

It wasn't until I confidently sat down in the chair across from his mahogany desk that he finally blinked. "You..."

Arthur had shed the youthful vibe of his college days. He looked incredibly mature, powerful, and intimidatingly handsome in his bespoke suit.

He paused, measuring his words carefully. "You look very much like her."

I nodded enthusiastically, taking the opportunity to flatter myself.

"To be compared to your stunning, unforgettable first love is the greatest honor of my life."

Arthur took a slow breath before delivering the killing blow.

"However, you only look similar. Your eyes aren't quite as large as hers, and your nose isn't as perfectly sloped."

"Furthermore, your skin seems much duller than hers."

Dude, have you never heard of the magic of highlighter and concealer?

I swallowed my protests.

He was technically insulting me, but also praising the "real" me. It was a bizarre paradox.

I honestly didn't know how to respond.

I just maintained my fake corporate smile and looked at him with puppy-dog eyes.

"Those are just minor imperfections. I can easily fix all of that with a good makeup artist."

"As long as you hire me, I am willing to learn and adapt to anything you need!"

Arthur's eyes flickered with a strange light. He asked a very direct question.

"Why exactly are you applying to be a body double?"

What kind of question was that?

"For the money, obviously."

Arthur stared deeply into my eyes.

I held his gaze without flinching.

After a long moment, a faint smile curved his lips. He picked up his sleek phone from the desk.

"Understood. Let's exchange contacts. My team will notify you of the results shortly."

I chirped a bright "Okay!" and pulled my brick phone out of my bag. I mashed the physical buttons a few times before sliding it across the desk.

"You'll have to type your number in. My camera is completely busted, so I can't scan anything."

Arthur finally got a good look at my ancient Nokia.

His expression didn't change, but he gave me a long, unreadable look. He didn't say a word.

After exchanging numbers, I floated out of the room feeling like a million bucks.

Before leaving the waiting area, I blew a dramatic kiss to Perfume Girl. "Good luck in there, sweetie!"

The very next day, while sitting in the hospital cafeteria, I got a text from Arthur.

He told me I passed the interview and sent an address, demanding I meet him there immediately.

I opened the location on my map app.

Well then. It was the most exclusive, ultra-luxury designer boutique on Fifth Avenue.

Did Arthur think I looked too tragic and decided I needed a complete makeover?

Music to my ears.

For the first time in years, I splurged. I ordered a premium rideshare and cruised all the way into the city in comfort.

It only took twenty minutes to arrive.

Arthur was already sitting inside the boutique.

I was about to walk in and greet him, but a snobby sales associate immediately blocked the entrance.

"I am so sorry, miss. Our boutique does not allow casual browsing or trying on garments without an appointment. Perhaps you would be more comfortable looking at the stores down the block?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What, do I look like someone who can't afford your clothes?"

She gave me a strained, patronizing smile. "That is not what I meant"

"You're absolutely right, I can't afford a single thing in here," I interrupted her, pointing straight at Arthur, who was looking up from his phone. "But he can."

The associate froze. She turned around just in time to see Arthur Sinclair nodding in my direction.

Her attitude shifted faster than a sports car.

A second later, she was beaming radiantly, ushering me inside with royal treatment.

I sat down on the velvet sofa across from Arthur.

The handsome guy from the Bentleywho I learned was his assistant, Noahpulled two items out of a leather briefcase and placed them on the glass coffee table.

"This is your employment contract, Miss Bennett. Please review the terms. If everything is acceptable, you may sign at the bottom."

I flipped through the pages.

My hand actually started to shake.

Arthur Sinclair was the patron saint of capitalism.

Forget the 0-000,000 monthly salarythis man was offering a full 401k match, premium dental, and platinum-tier health insurance!

I suddenly felt intensely grateful that two years ago, after my father's betrayal, I had legally changed my last name to my mother's maiden name.

If I was still walking around as Stella Wright, I wouldn't have dared accept this kind of corporate package from him.

Tears of pure joy pricked my eyes as I signed the last page: Ella Bennett.

Aside from the contract, Noah also handed me a sealed box containing the newest, most expensive smartphone on the market.

The boutique's AC was blasting, but the sleek phone box felt burning hot in my hands.

To show my immediate gratitude to my new billionaire boss, I unboxed it right in front of him, saved his number, and set his contact name to "The Boss."

He caught a glimpse of the screen and immediately frowned. "Isn't 'The Boss' a little too corporate?"

Fair point. I tested the waters. "Well, what did your unforgettable first love save your name as?"

Honestly, I didn't expect him to have an answer.

Because as the actual girl in question, I had never even added his number in college, let alone given him a cute nickname.

Or maybe I did add him, but completely ignored his existence. Either way, no memory of it.

To my absolute shock, not only did he answer me, but the tips of his ears turned slightly red.

"Arthur."

"Her friends told me she had my name saved simply as 'Arthur', with a red heart."

Wait, seriously?

If Harper was the one feeding him this information, I could perfectly picture her getting annoyed by his questions and just making up the most clich romantic garbage to get him to leave her alone.

Poor, naive CEO. Completely manipulated.

I typed out "Arthur <3" and showed him the screen.

Arthur looked incredibly pleased.

He handed me a sleek, heavy black card and told me to swipe it on whatever I wanted.

Before leaving the boutique to head back to the office, he gave Noah a set of instructions.

"After she finishes shopping, drive her back to the estate."

"You got it!" I chirped.

Wait, hold on.

"The estate?"

By the time we left the shopping district, Noah's arms were overflowing with luxury shopping bags.

Before heading to the mansion, I asked Noah to make a quick detour to the hospital.

During the ride, I awkwardly asked to borrow a little cash from him, promising to pay him back the second my first paycheck hit.

It was a desperate move, but I had no choice.

My grandmother was getting older, and I couldn't leave her alone to handle my mom's intensive care while I was living at Arthur's estate.

I needed to hire a professional daytime nurse immediately.

Medical care in New York was astronomically expensive, and my pathetic three-digit bank account was laughable.

As for why I didn't just swipe Arthur's black card?

I wanted to, but I'm pretty sure freelance nurses don't carry point-of-sale card readers in their scrubs.

Thankfully, Noah was incredibly understanding. Without asking a single question, he wired me six thousand dollars on the spot.

It was exactly enough to cover the nurse until payday.

I quickly sorted out the hospital logistics. By the time we finally pulled up to the sprawling Sinclair estate, the sky was painted in brilliant shades of sunset orange.

Arthur wasn't home.

Noah explained that he was still tied up with meetings at the corporate headquarters.

I couldn't help my curiosity. "Does he work this late every day?"

Noah set the mountain of shopping bags down in the foyer and smiled faintly. "Pretty much. He usually has dinner out with clients before heading back."

"But don't worry, Miss Bennett. No matter how late he works, Mr. Sinclair always comes home."

That sounded a bit odd, but before I could analyze it, Noah handed me a heavy, metallic keycard.

"This grants you full access to the gates and the front doors. If you don't need anything else, I'll be heading out."

10

After seeing Noah out, I gave myself a grand tour of the mansion.

The interior was minimalist, breathtakingly expensive, and entirely devoid of warm colors.

It matched Arthur's intimidating aura perfectly.

I didn't just sit around. I got to work.

Since I didn't know the specific rules of being a body double, I assumed I needed to stay in full "college crush" character until he went to sleep.

I carefully applied my signature "effortless" makeup look and sat gracefully on the living room sofa, waiting for him.

I figured he'd be late, but I didn't realize he'd be this late.

The grandfather clock chimed midnight before I finally heard the electronic lock click open.

I snapped out of my doze, looking toward the entryway with sleepy eyes.

The moment Arthur saw me sitting there, pure shock flashed across his face.

But he quickly masked it with calm indifference.

He shrugged off his tailored suit jacket, draping it over a chair, and loosened his silk tie as he walked toward me.

The sofa dipped beside me. Arthur sat down, his voice smooth. "Why are you still awake?"

"I was waiting for you to come home."

I brushed my messy hair out of my face, desperately fighting back a massive yawn.

Arthur's fingers paused on his cufflink. "If you're tired, you don't have to wait up for me."

I nodded, letting out a soft hum of agreement.

Just as I was about to retreat to my assigned guest room to wash off my makeup and pass out, my stomach let out a violent, echoing growl.

In the dead silence of the massive living room, it sounded like a dying whale.

My traitorous stomach...

Making me absolutely humiliate myself on day one of the job.

My ears burned. I tried to casually stand up and sprint out of the room, pretending nothing happened.

But Arthur stopped me. "I'm a little hungry myself. Care to join me?"

Join him? Eating what?

Five minutes later, I was sitting awkwardly at the massive marble kitchen island, staring at the back of Arthur Sinclairbillionaire CEOas he expertly worked the stove.

I tried to jump in and take over the cooking multiple times.

But Arthur just waved me off. "No need. Just sit there."

I obediently sat back down and waited.

Who would have thought a man worth billions would have such a domestic, grounded side?

He carried over two steaming bowls of artisanal noodles topped with fresh scallions. He sat down, leaving a full empty seat between us.

Wasn't this distance a bit too professional?

If I didn't bridge the gap, how was I going to survive my one-month probation period?

Determined, I picked up my heavy ceramic bowl and boldly slid into the seat directly next to him.

Arthur's chopsticks paused mid-air. He looked over at me.

"What's wrong? Is the food not to your liking?"

I shook my head, lowering my eyes in a display of perfect, manufactured shyness. "No, I just wanted to be a little closer to you."

"Besides, hot noodles taste better when you eat them right next to someone."

I blew gently on the steam, channeling my most elegant college-girl table manners as I took tiny, delicate bites.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Arthur staring at me intently. After a long moment, he looked back down at his bowl, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips.

"Yes. They do."