The Double

ℰ𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

"She. Asked. Me. I didn't go hunting her frown and begging to be her double. You were there." I don't want to be famous, which is such a boring and dull goal for a self-actualized human being that I would be ashamed to admit it. I need the money for my mother—that's why I'm here. Not the applause. Not being seen. Money for Eomma's room.

"You should have said no."

"You should have stopped her if it means so much to you."

He grimaces. "You don't know Duna."

You don't know me either. I ignore him until the elevator doors open, than walk out. My suitcase turns on its side and I struggle to get it back upright as Taehyung stands, arms crossed, and watches. His thoughts might as well be on a huge billboard over his head.

She can't handle it.

Kim Taehyung can get under my skin without even truing, effortlessly pulling out every insecurity by simply being himself—confident, polished. Rich. Honorable. All the things I'm not nor will ever be. Well, fuck him. Maybe I am a loser, but at least I'd help someone with their suitcase. I decide right then to exclude Taehyung from my usual policy of being nice. After I beat the bag into submission and tussle it down to 1010, Ira opens the door and watches as Taehyung follows me in.

"Ms. Lee will be back soon," she says, keeping her gaze on Taehyung . "She had a meeting after your early show finished."

"I'll stay." He goes to the window, which lights up his features like a goddamn sculpture, making me angrier, and pull out his phone.

Ira stares after him, her eyes shining. Then, with a sigh, she turns to much more boring me.

"Your suite is ready."

As promised, it's right next door to Duna's. Again I try to be cool and again I fail when I rush into the space like I've been living in a camping tent and washing in a ditch for the last year. Living room! King-size bed! Big table and windows looking over the ocean and huge mirrors on the closets. My own set of candles. I check the scent; it's called Rose Blossom and I decide it's the only smell I want in my nose for the rest of my life. I release my suitcase, which promptly topples over. Ira prods it with her toe. "Your things?"

"Yes."

"They aren't Ms. Lee's style." Interesting, since she hasn't seen anything in the suitcase. She walks over and pulls open the (walk-in!) closet. "You need to wear these. I'll leave you to get settled."

The second she leaves, I step into the closet, suitcase dragging behind me. The walk-in is big enough to comfortably hold a chandelier of interconnected glass tubes, a chaise longue, and a cabinet in the middle. I walk around the chaise and wonder who they expect t lounge around in a closet.

When I turn to the clothes hanging  in neat tiers along the walls, I realize that person could be me because I could spend all day in here. I tuck my hands in my pockets as I survey my new and very lavish domain. Dresses—color-coded and arranged by length—are on the left beside a row of jackets. To the right are shirts, black shading through to white, and below that pants and skirts. I jiggle the drawers of the cabinets in the middle of the space and realize that must be where the jewelry is and that I'm not to be trusted with. That's fair. I don't trust me with jewelry either. My last pair of earrings—silver threader chains—fell out of my ears and down a grate before I'd had them on for an hour.

The entire back wall is shoes and bags.

Is that . . .? I edge closer. It is. It's Dior. In fact, there are four Lady Dior Bags lined in a neat row below what looks like the quilted leather of several Chanel clutches. I don't even recognizes the other brands but I assume they are expensive.