Chapter 1

You don’t just message Jaque Deeds. He’s one of those people who exists in a different dimension — on stages, in interviews, in the kind of light that makes normal people look washed out. But Trektime was supposed to be different. That’s what the ads said: "Real connection, real people." He’d joined three weeks ago, and his follower count had already hit half a million. Wila had been following him since day one, watching him post candid shots of his morning coffee, a blurry sunset from a plane window, a single line about how he missed being anonymous.

And tonight, at 2:17 AM, she’d cracked. Her roommate’s breathing was soft and even from the other bed, the city hummed outside the window, and Wila had typed: "I know this is insane, but I’ve followed your work for years, and I just wanted to say that the way you talk about reinvention — it made me feel less alone. That’s all. Sorry for bothering you."

She pressed send.

The little blue message turned gray. Delivered.

Wila dropped her phone face-down on the pillow and buried her face in her hands. What had she done? He probably had people whose entire job was to delete messages from strangers. He’d never see it. Or he’d see it and laugh. Or he’d see it and feel sorry for her, and that was worse.

She was still spiraling when the phone buzzed.

Not a notification sound. A buzz. A direct reply.

Her hand shook as she flipped it over. The screen glowed with his name — Jaque Deeds — and a message that read: "You didn’t bother me. I’ve been sitting here thinking the same thing about reinvention. What’s your name?"

Wila let out a sound that was half laugh, half wheeze. She typed her name. Then deleted it. Then typed it again. Then added: "I’m an art student. At State. I paint, mostly. Nothing important."

His reply came within seconds. "Art is always important. What do you paint?"

And just like that, the barrier between her world and his cracked open.

They talked for three hours that first night. She told him about her senior thesis project — a series of portraits exploring how people hide their real selves behind the faces they show the world. He told her about his first startup, the one that failed, and how he’d learned that failure was just a data point. He asked questions that felt like he actually wanted the answers, not like he was filling silence. When she mentioned her favorite spot in the city — a rooftop garden behind the public library — he said he knew it. He’d been there once, years ago, before anyone knew his name.

"That’s where I’d go if I wanted to disappear," he wrote.

Wila’s fingers tingled. She felt like she was standing at the edge of something huge, and she was terrified and thrilled in equal measure.

By the end of the week, they’d exchanged phone numbers. He called her on a Tuesday evening, and his voice was exactly the way she’d imagined — warm, a little rough at the edges, with a laugh that sounded surprised at itself. They talked for two hours. Then three. He told her about his mother, who’d raised him alone, and about the scholarship that had changed his life. She told him about her dad, who’d left when she was twelve, and how she’d learned to fill the empty spaces with paint.

"You’re not filling an empty space," he said. "You’re making something new. That’s different."

She pressed the phone so hard against her ear it hurt.

On Friday, he asked if she’d be willing to video call. Wila spent an hour changing shirts — three times — and another twenty minutes trying to make her hair do something other than the frizzy mess it always was. Her roommate, Lena, watched from the doorway with a knowing smirk.

"You’re going to marry him, aren’t you?"

"Shut up."

"I’m just saying. You’ve got that look. The one that says you’ve already named your future cats."

Wila threw a pillow at her, but Lena caught it and tossed it back. "Seriously, be careful. Famous guys don’t just fall for random art students."

"He’s not famous famous. He’s just... known."

"He has half a million followers. That’s famous."

But Wila wasn’t listening. Her phone was ringing, and Jaque’s face appeared on the screen — stubble, tired eyes, a smile that crinkled the corners. He was sitting in what looked like a hotel room, a single lamp glowing behind him.

"Hey," he said, and the word felt like an arm around her shoulders.

"Hey," she breathed.

They talked for another hour. He told her about a speaking engagement he had in her city next week — a conference on innovation and ethics. He was nervous, he said. He always got nervous before big audiences.

"You? Nervous? You’re Jaque Deeds."

"That’s the problem. Everyone expects me to have all the answers. But I don’t. I’m just a guy who got lucky and worked hard."

She wanted to reach through the screen and touch his face.

"Would you come?" he asked. "To the conference. I could get you a pass. And maybe afterward... we could get coffee. Or dinner. If you want."

Wila’s mouth went dry. "Yes," she said, before she could think about it. "I want that."

He smiled, and it was like watching the sun come up.

After they hung up, she floated through the rest of the night. She didn’t sleep. She lay in bed, replaying his voice, his laugh, the way he’d said her name like it was something precious. She grabbed her phone and opened Trektime, scrolling through his profile again, looking at the photos she’d already memorized. There was one from two days ago — him at a coffee shop, holding a cup, the morning light catching his face. The caption read: "Starting the day right."

And then she noticed something.

The photo was timestamped 8:14 AM.

But at 8:14 AM two days ago, she’d been on a video call with him. He’d been in a hotel room — she could see the generic art on the wall behind him. Not a coffee shop. And he’d said he’d just woken up.

Maybe he’d taken the photo another day and posted it late. People did that. It wasn’t a big deal.

But something about it itched at the back of her mind.

She was still staring at the photo when a notification popped up. A direct message from an account she didn’t recognize. The username was a string of numbers and letters, no profile picture, no followers.

The message read: "You’re talking to him. I know you are. Be careful. He’s not what you think."

Wila’s blood went cold.

She typed back: "Who is this?"

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then nothing.

She refreshed the page. The account was gone.

Her heart hammered as she stared at the empty space where the message had been. She thought about calling Jaque back. But what would she say? Some random person sent a weird message? He’d think she was paranoid. And maybe she was. Maybe it was just a troll, someone who’d seen his follower count spike and decided to mess with his fans.

But the photo. The timestamp.

She pulled up the video call log. Two days ago, 8:14 AM. She’d been talking to him. He’d been in a hotel room. The coffee shop photo had been posted at the exact same time.

It didn’t add up.

Wila sat in the dark, phone clutched in her hands, and tried to convince herself it was nothing. But the feeling wouldn’t shake — that she’d stepped into a story where she didn’t know all the rules yet.

She opened their chat and typed a message: "Hey, random question — do you ever post photos late? Like, take them one day and post them another?"

She hit send before she could overthink it.

His reply came almost immediately. "Sometimes. Why?"

She stared at the word. It was a perfectly reasonable answer. But something in the way he’d said it — too fast, too casual — made her stomach twist.

"No reason," she typed. "Just curious."

He sent a smiling emoji. "Can’t wait to see you next week. I’ve been counting the hours."

She should have felt the flutter. Instead, she felt the cold hand of doubt wrap around her throat.

She didn’t sleep that night. She lay awake, scrolling through his old posts, looking for other inconsistencies. A photo from a beach — but he’d said he was in a different city that day. A comment on someone else’s post that seemed to come from a different time zone. Small things. Things you could explain away.

But they added up to a shape she couldn’t quite see.

At 6 AM, her phone buzzed. A new message from Jaque: "I meant what I said. I want to know everything about you. Even the parts you don’t show anyone."

It was the kind of message that had made her fall for him in the first place. But now, with the doubt lodged in her chest, it felt different. Like he was saying exactly what she needed to hear.

She typed back: "I want to know everything about you too."

And she meant it. Even the parts he wasn’t showing her.

She had a week until the conference. A week to figure out what was real and what was a carefully curated image. And she had a feeling that the truth was going to be stranger than anything she could paint.

Her phone buzzed again. A new Trektime notification. This time, it was a public post from Jaque — a photo of a sunrise, captioned: "New day. New chances."

And in the background of the photo, barely visible through the window, was a reflection. Two figures. Both with the same sharp jawline, the same eyes.

Wila’s breath caught. She zoomed in, but the image was too grainy. It could have been a trick of the light. A double exposure. Anything.

But she knew, in the hollow of her gut, that it wasn’t.

She saved the photo to her phone and started searching for answers.