1 I have always been a chronic runner. I’m the kind of girl who keeps one foot out the door before the welcome mat has even settled. When I dated Chase Mercer online for six months, I never accepted his Venmo requests, never let him send me designer care packages, and occasionally even picked up the tab for his midnight DoorDash orders. In a world where girls circled him like sharks hoping for a piece of his family’s Manhattan real estate fortune, I was an anomaly. Chase genuinely believed I was head over heels in love with him. Until the afternoon I received a screenshot from an unknown number. It was an iMessage thread between Chase and his fraternity brother: Bro: “Mercer, my fault. I gave you the wrong girl’s handle that day. What are you gonna do now?” Chase: “Keep it quiet for now. I already added her roommate on Instagram. Let me figure out what I actually want before I make a move.” Bro: “Make a move on what? Ann is obsessed with you, man. Even if you mess around with her roommate and go back to her later, she’ll be waiting on her knees.” I stared at the glowing pixels on my phone, and an unexpected wave of pure relief washed over me. So that was why he had suddenly turned into an iceberg over the past two weeks. Honestly, I was getting bored anyway. I typed out a single sentence: We’re done. Before the blue bubble could even register as delivered, I blocked his number, deleted our shared Spotify playlist, and scrubbed his presence from my phone. I didn’t even have the patience to see if three dots would appear. People like me—the natural-born runners—don’t refuse a rich guy’s money out of pure, unadulterated devotion. We refuse it because a clean ledger makes it easier to pack your bags in the dead of night without owing anyone an explanation. When I pushed open the heavy oak door of my dorm room, the space was already choked with the sharp scent of expensive tuberose. Three girls were crowded around Natalie Reed’s bunk, their high-pitched coos bouncing off the cinderblock walls. I glanced over. Natalie’s twin XL mattress was buried beneath glossy orange and black carrier bags—Hermès twilly scarves, Cartier red boxes, and tissue paper spilling onto the linoleum. She was holding her phone at arm’s length, angling her jaw for a BeReal selfie. “He said this was just a little gesture. To make up for… you know, reaching out to the wrong person initially.” Natalie was our university’s undisputed campus darling. Sorority royalty, doe-eyed, effortlessly lithe. She had no shortage of trust-fund boys orbiting her, but Chase Mercer dropping several grand in an afternoon was a statement piece even for her. During the six months Chase and I talked, the digital gift cards or casual transfers he sent never exceeded a hundred bucks. The disparity was almost poetic. One of our roommates, Harper, cut her eyes toward me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Some people really have no shame. Just because you have roughly the same bone structure as Natalie, you actually pretended to be her online for six months?” “Seriously,” another joined in, crossing her arms. “No wonder she refused to meet up with him in person. She was probably terrified he’d call campus security for identity fraud.” Natalie offered a soft, rehearsed smile, tucking a strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “Don’t be so hard on her, guys. Maybe she honestly didn’t realize.” “Come on, Nat,” Harper sneered. “After six months? Even if she didn’t know at first, she definitely figured it out. Thank god you two ran into each other at that alumni mixer last week, otherwise he’d still be in the dark. Some girls are about to get dumped so hard they’ll cry themselves into academic probation.” My fingers tightened around my shower caddy. Right. They had no idea I had already cut the cord ten minutes ago. To be fair, Chase probably didn’t know yet either; he had muted our conversation a week ago. Natalie smoothed down the satin ribbon of a gift box, looking up at me with theatrical pity. “I actually feel bad for her. Living under my name for half a year, and what did she get? Not even an iced matcha latte. In fact, she was the one spending money on him.” Chase had pulled his disappearing act exactly seven days before we were supposed to meet in the city. One day, we were FaceTiming until three in the morning, falling asleep to the hum of each other’s breathing, compiling a three-page Google Doc of coffee shops, indie bookstores, and hole-in-the-wall diners we were going to hit. The next, my messages were met with stone-cold silence or a solitary “k” sent six hours late. Now the pieces clicked into place. That mixer. That was when he saw Natalie in the flesh and realized his buddy had linked him to the wrong girl. He had fallen for the idea of the golden girl on the campus brochures, only to end up emotionally entangled with the plain copycat in the corner. I could only imagine the existential crisis he must have suffered. In that leaked chat, Chase had whined to his friend: Looking back at the things I texted her… it literally makes me nauseous. I knew Natalie couldn’t possibly be that unhinged in private. Even if I didn’t notice the mix-up, she should’ve had some self-awareness. I don’t have an ugly fetish; why the hell would I ask for her number? I hadn’t known any of this while it was happening. When the sudden coldness hit, I went through the classic stages of grief. I couldn’t sleep. My chest felt hollowed out by a rusted spoon. Late one night, sitting cross-legged on my tangled sheets, I typed out a long, vulnerable paragraph asking if he was okay, if I had done something wrong. Two days later, he sent back: Busy. Stop overthinking. I remember staring at those three words, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, desperate to fix whatever had cracked between us. And then, suddenly, a cold switch flipped inside my brain. If I reply, he’ll just take another forty-eight hours to give me breadcrumbs. The humiliation vanished, replaced by an old, familiar instinct: Time to pack up and vanish. I was conditioned this way. When I dated a broke scholarship student in high school, I casually dropped hints about wanting vintage Cartier and trips to Cabo because I knew he couldn’t afford them, giving me an easy out when things got too close. When I talked to wealthy boys, I made myself low-maintenance, bought my own tickets, split the Uber, and occasionally paid for their drinks. The moment a dynamic curdled, I pulled the pin. No emotional debt, no financial leverage, zero guilt. I had been wondering how to orchestrate a clean exit anyway. The anonymous screenshot was just the green light I needed. As for how his friend mixed us up in the first place? Natalie and I did share certain features—high cheekbones, dark, almond-shaped eyes, the same sharp jawline. But Natalie was luminous, radiant, the kind of girl who took up space effortlessly. I was quiet, hyper-vigilant, an introvert who preferred blending into the background. People loved comparing us, but always with Natalie as the prize and me as the cautionary tale. Once, I had unknowingly bought the same olive-green slip dress as her; someone snapped a side-by-side on the campus Fizz app and the comments shredded me for days. Ever since, I had lived in oversized Carhartt hoodies and baggy denim, actively erasing myself. Turns out, Chase’s fraternity brother had lost his contact lenses at the tailgate where he supposedly spotted her. He took one squinting look at me reading on a bench, mistook me for Natalie, and grabbed my Instagram handle. I had questioned it at the time. Why would Chase Mercer, a senior varsity athlete with old-money pedigree, DM an unremarkable lit major like me? But vanity is a persuasive liar. I was flattered, so I didn’t dig too deep. Besides, there were perks to dating an exceptionally good-looking boy, even through a screen. It forced me out of my shell. To feel worthy of his aesthetic, I started lifting weights, counted my macros, watched runway makeup tutorials, and began investing in myself. Most importantly, it cured my imposter syndrome. It raised my threshold for what I felt I deserved. Case in point: an hour ago, walking back from the campus rec center. I had been looking down, texting my best friend, when I slammed chest-first into a solid wall of muscle. I stumbled back, looked up, and my breath hitched. The guy standing in front of me was a work of art. Towering—at least six-foot-two—with an austere, aristocratic nose, a sharp, sculptural jaw, and dark, hooded eyes that looked like they belonged in a moody foreign film. My pulse spiked in a violent, dizzying rhythm. Is this what Chase felt when he laid eyes on Natalie? I thought. A few months ago, I would have mumbled an apology, kept my head down, and scurried away like a frightened mouse. Instead, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “Hey. Can I get your number?” The guy looked down, an automatic, practiced sneer of annoyance already pulling at the corner of his mouth, ready to brush me off. But as his gaze locked onto my face, his expression fractured. He froze. The silence dragged out, stretching into awkward territory. “No worries if you’ve got a girlfriend,” I said smoothly, offering an easy, indifferent shrug as I turned on my heel. “Have a good one.” Behind me, the rustle of a leather jacket signaled a sudden movement. A low, gravelly voice cut through the evening air: “Wait. Hand me your phone.” I handed it over. There. Direct, straightforward, no third-party fraternity idiots involved, zero risk of mistaken identity. In that department alone, I was already leagues ahead of Chase Mercer. Stepping out of the bathroom after my shower, I found Natalie curled up on her bed, her voice dialed into that breathy, cooing register women use when they want a man to feel like an apex predator. It wasn’t hard to guess Chase was on the other end of the line. I paid her no mind. I climbed into bed, opened my messages, found the minimalist black icon I had saved an hour ago, and typed: Hey husband, you awake? I had seen a trend on TikTok: Don’t chase hot guys. Just call them your husband for three months until their subconscious accepts it as fact. I didn’t actually believe it, but I loved a low-stakes social experiment. The guy was ice-cold. Thirty minutes passed before a grey bubble appeared: Wrong number? Me: Right number. I’m talking to you. Him: My name is Cole. Not husband. Me: Got it, Cole husband. Cole: … He pretended to be aloof, but he replied to every single text. Polite, restrained, and ridiculously handsome. The truth is, chasing a top-tier stunner is often easier than chasing a slightly-above-average guy. The truly gorgeous ones are usually grounded; they care about genuine energy and emotional resonance. It’s the mid-tier guys who just discovered pomade and jawline gum who develop inflated egos, becoming hyper-critical and exhausting to deal with. Over the next few days, Natalie spent hours getting ready for her dates with Chase. They went glamping in upstate New York, went to high-end escape rooms, had rooftop dinners in SoHo. Every time Natalie returned, she would regale the room with how attentive and tender Chase was, how he had researched every single photo spot and curated a playlist that matched her exact tastes. She didn’t know that every single one of those itineraries had been drafted by me during my late-night calls with him. Their relationship moved fast. Chase was generous, and Natalie’s private Instagram feed shifted from simple campus selfies to a parade of Bottega Veneta bags and Michelin-starred tasting menus. Whatever she posted, an identical shopping bag would appear in our dorm room the following evening. Harper and the others practically drooled over it. Chase had once been burned by a girl who used him for his trust fund, making him hyper-sensitive to gold-diggers. But with Natalie, he felt a massive, lingering debt of guilt from having “neglected” her for six months. He was overcompensating. I assumed they were officially dating, until I overheard Harper whispering to another girl by the sinks: “If Chase likes Natalie so much, why hasn’t he asked her to be his girlfriend yet? She’s basically throwing herself at him.” “Rich boys are cautious. Spending a few grand is like spending loose change to them.” “You’re just jealous. Chase is taking her to his family’s estate in the Hamptons tonight. She bought matching La Perla silk pajamas. You know what that means…” That night, Natalie didn’t come back. At 2:00 AM, she posted a photo to her grid. Two silhouettes tangled in an embrace against a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling oceanfront glass. Her caption read: New title unlocked. He loves me so fiercely. The comments were an avalanche of heart-eyes: Power couple of the century. Some people in suite 402 are definitely punching their pillows tonight. I looked at the screen, a quiet, genuine satisfaction settling into my ribs. Perfect. They were locked in. That meant the embarrassing chapter of Chase texting the wrong girl would be swept under the rug and forgotten by midterm week. I didn’t waste time brooding. Between my heavy course load, I signed up for a beginner’s boxing class and an advanced masterclass in editorial makeup. Self-preservation requires skills; you never know when you’ll need to throw a hook or look devastating under harsh fluorescent lights. In my downtime, I continued my campaign on Cole. Good morning, husband. I’m heading to the law library, want me to save you a seat? Husband, that new A24 thriller just dropped at the IFC Center. Care to escort me? Did you eat? The grilled chicken at the dining hall looks almost as edible as you. Cole maintained his stone-faced facade: Stop calling me that. No. Ate already. Not watching. Yet his response time steadily dwindled from three hours to thirty minutes, down to three seconds. By the following week, my 30,000-word senior literature capstone swallowed my life whole. I didn’t sleep for seventy-two hours, living on cold brew and adrenaline, barely touching my phone. I figured giving Cole a little breathing room wouldn’t hurt. A classic tactical retreat. Then, out of nowhere, my phone buzzed on the library desk. Cole: No ‘husband’ today? Message unsent. Cole: Are you busy? Message unsent. Cole: What are you doing? I stared at the retracted notifications, biting down a grin. Me: Submitting a massive literature review, so my brain is fried. Don’t be mad at me, husband! The second I click submit, you’re the first person I’m hitting up. Cole: I’m not mad. What department are you in? Me: Comparative Lit. Across from me, Harper scoffed from behind her laptop, clearly catching my grin. “Look at her, catfishing some other poor soul. Wonder whose identity she stole this time?” “Leave her alone,” another roommate giggled. “With that face, the internet is her only shot at a love life.” I calmly clicked my pen, stacked my index cards, and slid them into my canvas tote. “You guys seem awfully fascinated by my roster. If you’re that jealous, why don’t you try it? Or are you worried you couldn’t even bag a guy through a screen?” Harper’s mouth dropped open. “You—” I ignored her, swinging my bag over my shoulder. Lately, though, an odd sensation had begun creeping up the back of my neck. During my morning lectures in the massive humanities hall, I kept feeling a heavy, persistent gaze burning into the back of my head. Every time I turned around, all I saw was a sea of anonymous faces buried behind MacBooks. I wrote it off as sleep deprivation. Finally, at 4:00 PM on Friday, the green checkmark flashed on my portal: Assignment Submitted. I crashed into bed, slept like the dead for fourteen hours, woke up, and immediately texted Cole: Husband, I survived! I’m completely drained, though. If I could see your face right now, hold your hand, and maybe steal a little kiss, I’d be at one hundred percent. He replied instantly. A location pin dropped into our chat: a private lounge downtown. Cole: Friend’s birthday. Stuck here for a bit. If you don’t mind the noise, come over. Wait. I was just running my mouth. The banter was supposed to stay theoretical. If I went… what if he actually expected that kiss? I stared at the screen for two seconds before springing out of bed. Me: On my way, husband. Time to put those makeup tutorials to work. Across town, in the dim, amber-lit VIP booth of an exclusive downtown club, Cole Mitchell lowered his phone, the barest trace of an amused smirk tugging at his lips. A guy sitting next to him nudged his shoulder, holding a glass of bourbon. “Who is that? The girl who’s been blowing up your notifications calling you her husband?” Cole’s expression instantly shuttered, his jaw hardening into granite. “None of your business.” The rest of the booth erupted into quiet chuckles. “Come on, Mitchell, who has the balls to chase you like that? Everyone knows you treat women like they’re radioactive.” Chase Mercer, lounging in the corner with his arm draped possessively over Natalie’s shoulders, glanced over, swirling his scotch. “Seriously? Someone’s actually cracking Cole’s ice?” “Dude, she’s relentless,” the friend laughed. “Acts like she worships the ground he walks on.” Chase let out a low, nostalgic chuckle. “Sounds familiar. Reminds me of that girl who had my number by mistake. Same desperate energy.” “Speaking of which, Mercer,” someone asked, “you ghosted her out of nowhere, right? She’s probably sobbing into her pillow every night.” The guy turned toward Natalie. “Nat, you live with her. Is she really as tragic as the pictures you posted in the group chat?” Natalie’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a flash of unease flitting across her eyes. She quickly softened her voice into that trademark gentle cadence. “Looks aren’t everything, guys. Inner beauty matters most. Even if she isn’t… conventionally attractive, we shouldn’t sit here mocking her.” “Man, Natalie, you’re too pure for this world,” someone toasted. Cole set his tumbler down on the marble table with a sharp, echoing clack. He swept a cold, disgusted look across the table. “A bunch of bottom-feeders.” He stood up, grabbing his jacket. “I’m out.” “Woah, Cole, don’t be like that!” The birthday boy jumped up, holding his hands up placatingly. “We’re just messing around. It took an act of God to get you out tonight. Give me a break, man, just stay for one more drink.” At that moment, the velvet curtain was pulled back by the hostess. I stepped into the ambient glow of the private lounge, scanning the plush leather booths. When my eyes landed on Chase and Natalie sitting front and center, I paused, completely caught off guard. Then, my posture straightened. I had done nothing wrong in this entire ridiculous saga. Why should I be the one looking for an exit? I scanned the rest of the room, looking for Cole’s sharp silhouette. Not seeing him immediately, I assumed I had read the room number wrong. I turned on my heel to leave. “Ann?” Natalie’s voice pierced the low hum of the lounge music, sweet and dripping with shock. “What are you doing here?” Every head in the booth snapped toward the doorway.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “643262”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply