I wear fake Chanel to work. Every single day. These assholes pulling up in Bentleys, asking if the new G-Wagon has enough trunk space for their golf clubs, they think I’m one of them. Or close enough. My parents think I’m living the dream. “So many opportunities here,” my mom always says, like just being *here* means I’m rich. They don’t know I spent half my last paycheck on a ‘Prada’ bag that smells faintly of glue, from some backdoor spot in Flushing. My cousin hooked it up. “Looks real enough, no?” It started with trying to fit in, you know? First day, everyone’s in these crazy expensive suits, watches that cost more than my apartment rent. I show up in my best Zara, feeling like a high schooler. One dude, client, I think, actually said to my face, "Oh, you must be new, darling. Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it." And he wasn’t talking about the job. He was talking about *me*. My clothes. My whole existence. It pissed me off so bad. So I started buying the fakes. The good ones. The ones that look… authentic. My family, they send money back home every month. We’re supposed to be building something. My dad, he’s like, “You’re working with the rich people, that’s good. Network. Find a husband.” He means a *rich* husband. Because obviously, if I’m there, I must be practically dating a hedge fund manager already. I smile and nod. Tell them about the fancy cars, the free coffee in the lounge. But I leave out the part where I stress about accidentally scratching a fake leather strap, or if someone will notice the stitching isn’t quite right. Sometimes I just look at myself in the mirror before I leave, all done up, hair perfect, lipstick on. And I just think, *who IS this person?* This chic, put-together woman who greets millionaires. She’s not me. I’m the one who checks my bank account six times a day, who eats instant noodles for dinner, who feels a knot in her stomach every time a client asks about my weekend plans. Because my weekend plans are usually trying not to spend money. The other day, a lady, buying her third Porsche, complimented my watch. Said it was "simply divine." My heart almost stopped. It was a knock-off Rolex. From Canal Street. I just smiled. And felt like a total fraud. It’s draining. Every day. It’s so draining.