Chapter 2

Her thumb hovered over Jaque’s number. It was 2:37 AM. He’d said he had an early meeting. But she needed to hear his voice. Needed to believe that the warmth she’d felt all week was real, not just a performance.

She called before she could talk herself out of it.

It rang four times. She almost hung up. Then the line clicked open, and his voice came through, rough and slow, like she’d pulled him out of deep water.

“Wila?”

“I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just…” She trailed off, the lie already forming. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A pause. Then the sound of him shifting, blankets rustling. “Me neither. I was just lying here thinking about you.”

Her chest tightened. That was the right thing to say. The perfect thing. And that was exactly what scared her.

“Can we video call?” she asked. “I want to see you.”

“Give me a second.”

The call ended, and a moment later his face appeared on her screen. He was in bed, hair mussed, eyes heavy. The lamp behind him cast a soft glow across his features. He looked tired. Human.

“Hi,” he said, and the word was so gentle it made her throat ache.

“Hi.”

She propped her phone against her pillow and lay on her side, so they were face to face through the glass. It felt almost like being in the same room.

“What’s keeping you up?” he asked.

She wanted to say it was him. That she’d found a photo that didn’t make sense, a message from a stranger, a reflection that looked like two of him. But the words stuck. Instead, she said, “Just thinking. About the conference. About meeting you.”

His smile was soft. “I think about it too. I keep imagining what you’ll be like in person. Whether you’ll be nervous or confident. Whether you’ll let me hold your hand.”

“I’m always nervous,” she admitted.

“Good. Me too. That way we’re even.”

She laughed, and it felt like the first real breath she’d taken all night. He laughed too, a low, quiet sound that seemed to fill the space between them.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he said. “Something no one else knows.”

She thought about it. “When I was twelve, I used to hide in the art room during lunch because I didn’t have any friends. I’d draw the same tree over and over, trying to get the leaves right. I never did.”

“Why a tree?”

“Because it was outside the window. And it was always there. It didn’t care if I was lonely.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I used to hide in the library. I’d read biographies of people who’d done something extraordinary. I thought if I read enough of them, I’d figure out how to be extraordinary too.”

“You are extraordinary.”

“I’m good at pretending.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than he probably intended. She watched his face, looking for a crack, a tell. But he just looked sad. And real.

“What are you pretending?” she asked.

He blinked, then shook his head. “That I’m not terrified of letting you down.”

It was such a human answer. Such a vulnerable one. She felt the suspicion in her chest loosen, just a little.

“You couldn’t let me down,” she said.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“Then tell me. Tell me what I don’t know.”

His gaze dropped. For a long moment, she thought he might actually say something. But when he looked up again, the mask was back. Not a cold mask—a warm one. A careful one.

“I’m just tired,” he said. “And I’m not used to someone actually wanting to know me. It’s scary.”

“I want to know you. All of you.”

“I know.” His voice was barely a whisper. “That’s what scares me.”

They lay in silence for a while, the hum of the connection the only sound. She watched his eyelids droop, then flutter open. He was fighting sleep.

“You should rest,” she said.

“I don’t want to hang up.”

“Then don’t. Just close your eyes. I’ll stay.”

He hesitated, then nodded. He adjusted the phone so it was propped on his nightstand, his face still visible in the frame. His breathing slowed. His features softened.

She watched him fall asleep.

It was the most intimate thing she’d ever witnessed. The vulnerability of unconsciousness. The way his lips parted slightly, the way his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He looked young. Unarmored.

She wanted to believe in him. Wanted to believe that the man sleeping on her screen was the same man who’d messaged her, who’d called her, who’d said her name like it was precious. But the photo was still in her gallery. The warning still echoed in her mind.

She pulled up the image again, zooming in on the reflection. Two figures. Two silhouettes. She held her phone next to her laptop and opened a reverse image search. Nothing. She tried to enhance the brightness, but the result was only more noise.

Then she noticed something else.

The photo had been posted from a location tag: a hotel in Chicago. But Jaque had told her he was in New York for a book signing. She checked the date. The post was from yesterday. The book signing was today.

He could have flown. People did that. But the photo showed a sunrise. If he was in Chicago for a sunrise, he would have had to be there the night before. Which meant he wasn’t in New York.

Or he was, and someone else took the photo.

Her stomach dropped.

She looked back at the screen. He was still asleep, his face peaceful. She wanted to shake him awake and demand the truth. But she also wanted to crawl through the screen and curl up beside him.

The two impulses warred inside her as the minutes ticked past.

At 3:42 AM, his phone buzzed softly. A notification. She saw the screen light up with a name: “Cynthia.” His assistant. The message preview read: “Tomorrow’s schedule is set. Remember, you have two appearances. Don’t mix them up.”

Don’t mix them up.

The phrasing was odd. Two appearances. As if he might confuse them. Or as if someone else might be covering for him.

She filed it away, her heart pounding.

He stirred, blinking awake. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah. You were out for about an hour.”

He rubbed his eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. That’s not very romantic.”

“It was actually kind of sweet.”

He smiled, and it was the same smile she’d fallen for. But now she saw the edges of it. The practiced curve. The timing.

“I should let you go,” he said. “You need to sleep too.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. We can talk about the conference. I’ll send you the details.”

“Okay.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Wila?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.”

He blew her a kiss—a silly, old-fashioned gesture—and the call ended.

She lay in the dark, the silence rushing in. The room felt emptier without his voice. She checked the photo again. Then she checked the message from the anonymous account. She’d screenshot it earlier, just in case.

She opened a new browser window and started searching: “Jaque Deeds doppelgänger.” “Jaque Deeds multiple appearances same time.” “Jaque Deeds clones.”

The results were mostly fan theories and jokes. But one thread caught her eye. A forum dedicated to conspiracy theories about public figures. The title read: “Is Jaque Deeds more than one person?”

She clicked.

The thread was two years old. The original poster claimed to have seen Jaque in two different cities on the same day, each time interacting with fans as if he were alone. Others chimed in with similar stories. Someone posted a side-by-side comparison of two photos—same outfit, same pose, but different backgrounds. One was dated June 3. The other June 3 of the same year, but the time stamps were only two hours apart. Impossible, given the distance between the locations.

Most commenters dismissed it as a stunt. A publicity trick. But one user wrote: “He’s not one person. He’s a brand. And brands get replicated.”

The thread had been locked after that. The user’s account was deleted.

Wila’s hands were shaking.

She saved the thread. She saved the screenshots. She didn’t know what she was building, but she felt like an investigator assembling a case.

At 4:15 AM, she finally put her phone down. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn’t come. She kept seeing his face—the softness of his expression as he fell asleep. And then the coldness of the reflection.

Which one was real? Or were they both real, in different ways?

She didn’t have an answer. But she had a week to find one.

Her phone buzzed one last time. A text from an unknown number. She opened it, heart in her throat.

“You’re getting closer. Don’t stop. But don’t trust him either.”

She typed back: “Who is this?”

No reply.

She stared at the ceiling, the phone warm in her hand. Outside, the sky was starting to lighten. A new day. New chances.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking into a trap dressed like a dream.

And the worst part was, she still wanted to walk in anyway.