Ethan couldn't focus. It had been three days since her last post. No videos. No updates. No response to his message.
He was worried.
Which was insane.
He barely knew her. Correction: he didn't know her. Not really. But the silence was loud. Deafening, even.
"Mr. Grant?" Julia's voice crackled through the intercom. "The board is waiting for you in the conference room."
Right. The quarterly board meeting. The one he was supposed to be ready for. He grabbed his notes—half-scribbled and disorganized—and headed out the door.
The meeting was a train wreck.
He stumbled through the opening slides. Forgot entire sections. Couldn't recall basic metrics about their latest product rollout. He watched, helpless, as the CFO leaned forward time and again to cover for him, smoothing over his missteps with practiced grace.
By the end, even the board's usual fake politeness had evaporated.
"Is everything alright, Ethan?" the chairman asked as they filtered out. His tone wasn't concerned. It was evaluative.
"Just a lot on my mind," Ethan muttered, barely making eye contact. "I'll be better prepared next time."
Back in his office, he shut the door, loosened his tie, and immediately checked his phone.
Still nothing.
No videos. No replies. No signs of life from TheWittyOne88.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "I don't even know her name."
He stared out at the skyline, the city glittering beneath him like a promise he couldn't quite reach. Was she okay? Had something happened? Or had she just… moved on?
His phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
Charlie: How was the board meeting?
Ethan sighed and typed back: Terrible. I couldn't focus.
Charlie: Still thinking about TikTok girl?
He didn't bother denying it. She hasn't posted in days. I'm worried.
A pause.
Charlie: You know that's not normal, right? Being worried about a stranger?
Ethan frowned. Charlie wasn't wrong. This was weird. But it didn't feel weird. It felt… necessary.
You're right, he typed. I need to get a grip.
He set the phone down and turned to the stack of reports waiting on his desk.
He read the same paragraph five times before admitting defeat.
This wasn't just distraction. This was something else.
And Ethan Grant wasn't the kind of man who let things go.
"I have to find her," he said aloud.
Later that night, in Charlie's penthouse, the mission took shape.
Charlie looked at him, exasperated but intrigued. "You seriously want to track her down? You realize how creepy that sounds, right?"
"I'm not talking about stalking," Ethan said. "I just… want to make sure she's okay. That's all."
Charlie snorted. "Sure. And I only go to the gym to use the vending machine."
Ethan ignored him, pacing. "She was different in that last video. Her energy was off. She made that joke about her fiancé marrying her for fame—what if it wasn't a joke?"
Charlie sat up straighter, suddenly more focused. "You think something's wrong?"
"I don't know. Maybe. But I need to find out."
There was a beat of silence, then Charlie said, "Alright. Let's think. What do we know?"
"Not much," Ethan admitted. "She goes by TheWittyOne88. Doesn't show her full face. Doesn't share personal details."
Charlie tapped on his phone, fingers flying. "Okay, but she has dropped hints. Remember that one video where she ranted about how every influencer goes to brunch at that place in SoHo?"
Ethan blinked. "The one with the flower wall?"
Charlie nodded. "Yeah, and she made a snide comment about how she only goes there for the 'avocado toast and existential dread.'"
Ethan smirked despite himself. "That sounds about right."
"I'm telling you," Charlie said, pulling up a map, "if we track down the spots she mentions, maybe we catch a break. Narrow down her routine. Find a pattern."
"I can't believe we're doing this," Ethan muttered, rubbing his forehead.
"Dude, you run a tech empire. You stalk competitors for a living. This is basically the same thing—just with more brunch."
Ethan let out a dry laugh. "That makes it sound so much worse."
But he couldn't deny the tiny spark of hope that flickered inside him. The idea that maybe—just maybe—this woman wasn't just a fantasy or a passing obsession. Maybe there was something real behind the screen. Something worth chasing.
He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.
But the game was on.
****
She hadn't meant for things to get this far.
The ring on her finger felt heavier every day, like it was made of iron instead of diamonds. It caught the light when she moved, sparkled on camera, dazzled her followers—and made her stomach twist every time she looked at it.
But that was the point. Right?
Fake it until you make it. Pretend until the pretending becomes real. Or at least, until you forget what it was like to not pretend.
She sat on her usual balcony, oversized sunglasses shielding more than just her eyes. The sun was warm against her skin, but her coffee had gone cold. Again.
The phone lay face down beside her. Her latest draft video was still sitting in the editing app, unfinished. She couldn't bring herself to post it.
Her followers were used to the sarcasm. They expected the dry jokes, the "I-hate-romantic-comedies-but-secretly-love-them" vibe. But this? This new chapter—the so-called engagement—felt like a storyline from someone else's life.
She hadn't even planned the announcement. It just… happened. A spontaneous video. A well-timed joke. A borrowed ring. And now, three million views later, the internet thought she was about to walk down the aisle.
And worse—he had messaged her.
Her stomach turned.
She'd seen the DM. She'd read it a dozen times. A tech guy, clearly intelligent, charming in a surprisingly grounded way. The message wasn't creepy or desperate. It was thoughtful. Witty. It made her smile.
But it also scared her.
Because for a second—for a dangerous, glittering second—she wanted to reply.
And she couldn't. Because it wasn't just a DM from a stranger. It was a chisel against the wall she'd built around her real life. A wall she couldn't afford to let crack.
Not now. Not when things were already spiraling.
Inside the apartment, James was still asleep. Or pretending to be. He wasn't really her fiancé. Not technically. He was her friend—a long-time collaborator who pitched the "engagement" idea after her follower count started to plateau.
"Just think about it," he'd said, grinning like a marketing devil. "One video. One ring. Boom—numbers through the roof."
And it had worked. Sort of.
Until it didn't.
Now the comments were full of wedding questions. Brands wanted to sponsor dress reveals and "his and hers" skincare kits. Her content calendar was bloated with fake relationship fluff she didn't believe in.
And she missed herself—the version of her that used to post whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. The version who laughed at her own jokes and didn't worry about algorithms or the expectations of three million strangers.
She picked up her phone, hesitating. She opened the DM app and scrolled until she found the message again:
"Your take on corporate America's desperate attempts to seem relatable is spot-on. As someone who works in tech, I can confirm it's even more absurd behind the scenes."
She smiled again.
Then she did something reckless.
She clicked Reply.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. She could just say thank you. Or something sarcastic and safe. But before she could type anything, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the black screen.
She looked tired. Not just from lack of sleep, but from carrying the weight of a persona that no longer fit.
She locked the phone and set it down.
Not yet.
Later that night, after James left for a networking dinner she had no interest in attending, she sat alone at her kitchen counter, a half-empty glass of wine in front of her and a notepad in her lap.
She scribbled one question at the top of the page:
What am I doing?
No answers came.
Just static.
And the quiet echo of a DM she hadn't sent.