I am running on caffeine and delusion.
Three hours of sleep. Maybe four if I count the twenty minutes I passed out at my desk yesterday before a coworker's startled laugh woke me up. My reflection this morning looked like a cautionary tale about poor life choices wrapped in my grandmother's old cardigan.
The spreadsheet in front of me swims with hostile numbers. I've typed the same formula six times, and Excel keeps screaming ERROR like a disappointed parent who expected better things from their only child.
"Rory?" Greg materializes at my cubicle like a bad omen in khakis. "The Henderson files were supposed to be on my desk an hour ago."
Henderson files. Right. The ones buried in the digital graveyard of my downloads folder because I completely forgot they existed.
"I'll have them shortly," I manage.
"Shortly was an hour ago." He walks away shaking his head, radiating disappointment like cheap cologne.
I want to cry. Or sleep. Possibly both simultaneously.
At lunch, Lena finally corners me. Yesterday's strategic conversation got derailed by an urgent meeting, but today she's not taking no for an answer. She physically steers me toward the supply closet with the determination of a woman on a serious mission.
The door clicks shut behind us.
"Okay, spill." She crosses her arms. "Yesterday you looked bad. Today you look like you've been surviving on spite and vending machine coffee for a week straight. What's happening?"
"Everything's falling apart." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I forgot the Henderson files. I sent the wrong report to accounting this morning. Greg is documenting my mistakes now, Lena. I can feel it."
"This can't continue. You're going to collapse."
"I know." My voice cracks. "I know it can't continue. But every night I'm Viola, every day I'm barely surviving as Rory, and I don't know how to stop the wheel from spinning."
"Then step off the wheel. Pick one life."
"It's not that simple anymore." I lean against the paper towel shelf. "There's something else. Nathan's been acting strange. Stranger than usual, I mean."
"Strange how?"
"He's been near my desk three times this week. No deliveries to make. No reason to be on my floor. Just hovering like a vulture in business casual." I swallow hard. "I feel like I’m going insane."
Lena's expression hardens into something fierce and protective. "That's stalking, Rory. What you're describing is textbook stalking behavior."
"Grayson already put him on administrative leave. It's being handled."
"Handled doesn't mean finished. Men like Nathan don't just stop because someone slapped their wrist. They escalate. They get creative. They get dangerous." She grabs my shoulders hard. "You need to be careful. Stay aware of your surroundings. Document everything weird that happens."
"Document that my ex-boyfriend might be stalking both versions of me? That'll be a fun HR conversation."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are." I exhale slowly. "That's what scares me most."
That evening, Julian picks me up—Viola, not Rory—for drinks at a wine bar in SoHo. The kind of place with exposed brick and jazz music and prices that make my bank account weep silently into the void.
I'm wearing contacts that feel like sandpaper and a wig that weighs approximately seven thousand pounds. My smile is held together with bobby pins and desperate prayer.
"You look beautiful," Julian says, guiding me to a corner booth with leather seats. "But exhausted. More than usual lately."
"Rough week. Work stress."
"Work?" His hazel eyes sharpen with curiosity. "I didn't realize models had quarterly deadlines."
Shit. Shit shit shit.
"Industry stuff," I recover quickly. "Brand negotiations. Contract reviews. Very boring corporate adjacent tedium."
"Ah." He doesn't look entirely convinced. "I know something about corporate stress myself. The quarterly review cycle is particularly brutal right now."
"I can imagine." The words escape before my brain can catch them. "All those spreadsheets and performance metrics and Greg breathing down everyone's—"
I freeze. Julian's expression shifts into something sharper. More focused.
"Greg?"
"Generic name," I laugh, too high and too fast. "Every office has a Greg. Middle management archetype. You know how it is."
He studies me for a long moment. The jazz music suddenly feels very loud.
"Viola." His fingers brush mine across the table. "What's really going on? You seem distracted. Exhausted. Like you're somewhere else entirely."
"Personal stress," I admit, clinging to half-truth like a lifeline. "Family stuff. Nothing I want to burden you with."
"You're not a burden." His thumb traces circles on my wrist. "I want to know the real you. Not just the confident woman who shows up and deflects every personal question with a charming smile."
The irony burns like acid.
He wants the real me. The real me sits ten feet from his office every single day, invisible and forgettable in grandmother sweaters.
"I appreciate that," I say carefully. "I'm just not ready to share everything yet. Some things take time."
Disappointment flickers in his eyes, but he nods. "I can wait. Just know I'm here when you're ready."
We finish drinks with conversation that feels heavier than before. His concern presses against my ribs like a warning.
By ten, I claim exhaustion—not a lie—and he walks me to where I parked six blocks away. The precaution feels paranoid until I remember why I take it.
He kisses me goodnight. Gentle. Questioning.
I wait until his car vanishes, then walk to my actual car that takes seven minutes.
I feel it at minute three.
Eyes on my back. Prickling awareness that something's wrong.
I turn sharply, scanning the street.
Nothing. Just shadows and closed storefronts and a car parked halfway down the block.
Its headlights are on.
My heart hammers. I walk faster, keys clutched in my fist like a weapon. The parking lot feels miles away instead of meters.
I reach my car, lock the doors, sit there breathing hard.
The drive home is torture. My eyes keep darting to the rearview mirror, searching for headlights that follow too close, cars that take the same turns.
No one follows me.
I think.
The apartment is quiet. Mrs. Patterson left hours ago. Milo sleeps peacefully, dinosaur nightlight casting prehistoric shadows on his walls.
I stand in my bathroom, take off my second personality and stare at my reflection.
Hazel eyes. Mousy brown hair. The face Nathan never looked at twice when we were together.
But he's looking now. Watching. Waiting.
The question gnaws at me like hunger: which version is he hunting? The invisible woman he abandoned, or the goddess he's been obsessing over?
Does he know they're the same person?
Does he suspect?
I think about Lena's warning, Grayson's protection, the car with its lights on. Julian noticing my exhaustion. Leo knowing my secret. Nathan circling closer every single day.
The reflection stares back, offering no answers.
I'm not sure which version is real anymore.
I'm not sure it matters.