The smell of sizzling meat and smoky barbecue sauce filled the warm evening air as I stepped through Jill’s front gate. The party was already in full swing—laughter, clinking beer bottles, the murmur of friendly conversation. It was my first company barbecue since starting the job three months ago, and I had to admit, my boss knew how to throw a party.
The golden glow of the late summer sun stretched across Jill’s manicured lawn, where coworkers lounged in folding chairs, balancing paper plates piled high with food. I scanned the crowd, still struggling to remember names.
“Liz! You made it!” Jill’s voice rang out from near the grill, her spatula waving in greeting. She wore a bright yellow apron with “Queen of the Grill” written in sparkly letters—so fitting for her bold and warm personality. In just a short time, she had proven to be the best boss I’d ever had.
Smiling, I weaved through the crowd, accepting a cold beer from Tom in accounting, and dodging Karen from HR, who was already trying to rope someone into her latest MLM scheme. The food looked incredible—juicy burgers sizzling on the grill, creamy potato salad sprinkled with fresh dill, and Sandra’s legendary seven-layer dip that everyone raved about.
“Perfect timing,” Jill said as I reached her. “Second batch is almost ready. How are you settling in?”
“Everyone’s been so welcoming,” I replied, grabbing a plate. “Oh, by the way, those quarterly reports you wanted are almost done.”
Jill laughed. “No work talk! This is a party.” She flipped a burger expertly. “Oh, my husband, Mark, just got home.”
I followed her gaze to the tall man stepping through the gate. Someone had mentioned he was a financial advisor, always tied up with clients, which explained why he was late.
He looked exactly how I’d imagine a financial advisor—crisp button-down shirt, neat haircut, an expensive-looking watch that practically screamed responsibility. A photographer from marketing snapped pictures for the company newsletter as Mark strode over to Jill and wrapped her in a warm hug.
It was a sweet moment—until his eyes met mine.
He froze mid-embrace. The smile on his face flickered and then vanished. His expression twisted into something unreadable. Recognition? Shock? No—something deeper, something unsettling.
It was like he knew me.
My stomach tightened. That was impossible. I had never seen this man before in my life.
At first, I thought I imagined it, but as the night wore on, I couldn’t ignore it. His eyes kept finding me in the crowd, not in a casual way, but in long, burning stares that made my skin crawl.
I shifted uncomfortably, pretending not to notice. But I felt his gaze like a physical weight pressing down on me. He was looking at me like… like we had history. Like I was someone who meant something to him. But how?
“Want another beer?” Sandra appeared at my side, making me jump.
“God, yes,” I said, probably too quickly.
I was about to follow her to the cooler when a firm hand gripped my elbow.
“Hi, Liz.”
I froze. Mark. He was standing way too close, his cologne sharp in the evening air. How did he know my name? I was the newest hire, and we’d never been introduced.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “Meet me behind the house in ten minutes.”
I should have said no. I should have walked straight to Jill. But instead, my feet betrayed me, and I found myself nodding, curiosity winning over common sense.
Nine minutes later, I slipped around the side of the house, telling myself this was just some weird work thing. Maybe Jill put him up to this. Maybe it was about a promotion or—
Mark was already there, pacing in the shadows. His face lit up when he saw me, relief and something almost desperate flashing in his eyes.
“Thank God,” he said. “We need to figure out a cover story. I didn’t realize you work for Jill. She doesn’t have to know about us.”
My stomach dropped. “Know what?”
“That we’re—” He lowered his voice. “Having an affair.”
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. “We’re what now?”
His face darkened. “This isn’t funny, Liz. You knowing Jill complicates things, but we can make it work.”
He took a step closer, and I instinctively moved back. “Whoa! I don’t know who you think I am, but I’ve never met you before.”
“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped. “Not now.”
His fingers flew over his phone screen, and then he thrust it at me. “Look.”
My breath caught in my throat. The screen was filled with messages—hundreds of them—from “me.”
Not me. Someone using my picture, my name. My fingers trembled as I scrolled through nine months of texts—inside jokes, subtle flirting, and then… things far beyond flirting.
“This isn’t possible,” I whispered. “I never—” I looked up at Mark. “You’ve been catfished.”
He stared at me like I’d just told him the sky was green. “Liz, please. I know you’re scared, but—”
“No, you don’t understand. This isn’t me. I didn’t write these.”
Then it hit me. Almost a year ago, I had made a dating profile as a joke. I never used it. But someone else had.
Realization slammed into me. My blood ran cold.
“Oh my god.” I grabbed my phone with shaking hands and dialed a number. The moment she picked up, I snapped, “You need to get here. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, she appeared.
She froze when she saw Mark. The guilty look on her face was all the confirmation I needed.
“Mom.” My voice was eerily calm. “Have you been texting him from my account for the past nine months? The one we made when we joked about mother-daughter double dates?”
Silence. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air.
Mark’s face drained of color. “You… you were the one I was talking to?”
“I never meant for it to go this far!” my mom burst out. “It was just texts! We never met in person. It wasn’t real!”
Mark’s voice cracked. “It wasn’t real? We talked every day. You told me… I thought…”
“He’s married!” I snapped. “And you stole my identity to catfish men? How could you?”
“Mark?”
Jill’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.
We all turned. She stood there, eyes dark with fury.
“Get out,” she said, her voice like ice.
“Jill, I can explain—”
“No. You can’t.” Her voice trembled, but her resolve didn’t. “Everything in that house belongs to me. Pack a bag and leave.”
The next morning, I typed my resignation letter. Two paragraphs. Professional. Brief. I couldn’t face the office after this.
As I hit send, my phone buzzed again. Another message from my mom. The sixteenth since last night.
I deleted it without reading it.
Some betrayals cut too deep. Some things you just can’t fix.
I turned off my phone, took a deep breath, and walked away—without looking back.
