“Do you remember, Max? Is your childhood pal the one who always cried?”

My sister Sophia inquired in a charming voice that usually indicated disaster. “I just feel so terrible that he never gets invited to anything,” she told me. “Since you’re single, why don’t you bring him as your date? That way, at least you won’t be alone at my wedding.”

I nearly chuckled. She felt sorry for him after almost drowning him in the water as a child and laughed when he sobbed to his mother. I questioned it, but I consented to her request. Max was always a kind child, even if he hid behind me when he was bullied and wept all the time.

But I didn’t understand my sister Sophia had anything else in mind until she neglected to hang up the phone properly. I heard her return to chuckling with a buddy on her laptop.

“My sister is actually bringing Max. Can you believe it? I told her to bring him out of goodwill and she genuinely accepted it. Wait till everyone notices her going in with that bawling loser. They’ll see how desperate and sad her dating life is compared to mine.”

My eyes widened. I’d fallen into her trap. And if I backed out now, I was confident she’d flip it around and make me appear petty and envious.

So, I hunted out Max through old school contacts and instantly told him everything, hoping to save one of us from disgrace. When I phoned, he seemed shocked but agreed to come.

“I appreciate you watching out for me, but I will not leave you to go through this alone. Besides, I haven’t attended a wedding in years,” he remarked. “This may be entertaining.”

On the day of the wedding, I was braced for disaster. I’d even practiced clapping back when others laughed at Max. Then the doorbell rang.

I opened it expecting to find the same thin youngster with thick spectacles and bad allergies. Instead, I was standing face to face with a 6’3” man dressed in a perfectly cut suit.

“Hi, I’m looking for Max,” I murmured nervously, shuffling about.

“Yep, that’s me. Ready to go,” the attractive man said.

My brain was unable to grasp what I was witnessing. This was not Max. Sure, everyone had a little bit of a glow up since high school, but nothing like this.

“Shut up. You’re not crybaby Max.”

He cracked a joke. “Well, I’m not a crybaby anymore, but if it helps, the suit does make me look a little different.”

But it was not the outfit. Even as we came inside the wedding hall, every head turned. Some mouths dropped so low they almost hit the carpet.

My sister’s false pleasant welcome perished on her lips.

“Maxim…?” Her eyeballs nearly popped out.

“Hey, Sophia, it’s been years. Thanks for inviting me to your wedding.”

No one could concentrate on the ceremony with tall and handsome seated near the aisle, utterly taking the spotlight. My sister was upset.

During the reception, she tried to regain control by loudly telling her bridesmaids about Max crying in PE class. But Max was prepared. He looked at me with a gentle grin and remarked kindly, “That’s why I was lucky to have this girl help me through my panic attacks. She was like an angel.”

My sister had no option but to smile and agree with the compliment while her bridesmaids cooed about how nice I was.

She tried again during the wedding toasts, mentioning how Max used to get crammed in lockers, but he laughed.

“And now I barely fit in one,” he replied, indicating his muscles. Every woman around swooned.

Then she took out her final trump card. She recounted his strange anime drawings and how he probably still watches it as a nerd, but her new husband’s face lit up.

“Hey, I’m a huge anime nerd too,” he smiled.

Sophia’s face wrinkled up. “What the? You never told me you watched cartoons.”

Max and I chuckled on the sidelines as we saw them quarrel for the first time since their wedding.

Things became much worse when my mother drew Elaine away and raved about Max, saying, “Why didn’t you tell me your sister was dating someone so successful?”

During the first dance, no one saw the bride and groom. Everyone was watching Max as he danced with me.

Sophia eventually snapped and confronted me in the restroom. “All right, spill. Where did you find this actor? This isn’t the real Max.”

When I attempted to explain that it was actually Crybaby Max, she refused to listen and hauled me back to reception.

She urged the DJ to stop and focus the spotlight on us. “Everyone’s curious! What’s your little love story?”

She expected me to acknowledge it was all a setup, a trick. But Max jumped in and grabbed the microphone.

“She called me out of the blue. I was honestly shocked because I’d been wanting to date her since we were kids. I just never had the courage. But this wedding finally gave me the chance,” he told me with a straight face.

My pulse raced as the entire audience burst into applause. I couldn’t help but giggle in surprise that her malicious intention had transformed her into the best matchmaker.

But the true shock arrived the next morning.

Sophia emailed me a yearbook photo of Max from his high school. The person in the photo was not the same as the man I had dated. Completely different face and height.

She texted, “Interesting date choice. Wonder what happened to the actual Max.”

I turned to face the man still asleep in my bed. “If you’re not Max, who are you? And what happened to Max?”

He flashed me a nasty smile. My entire body turned cold as I stared at that sneer. My phone continued vibrating on the nightstand, but I couldn’t take my gaze away from his face.

The man in my bed was not Max. He never was.

My fingers began to shake as I grabbed my phone and noticed three texts from Sophia, each with a yearbook photo attached. The boy in the snapshot looked nothing like the person who was currently sitting up in my blankets.

I pushed my voice to remain calm despite the fact that my heart was hammering so loudly in my ears. “Who are you? What’s your real name?”

He stretched as if it were just another morning and smiled calmly, making my skin crawl.

“My name is Lucas. I assumed you would realize sooner.”

Honestly, he stated it nonchalantly, as if we were talking about the weather.

I glanced at him, expecting a more detailed explanation. He sat up against my headboard, seeming utterly relaxed.

“I know Rodney since we were youngsters. I thought it would be poetic justice to appear as him at your sister’s wedding, given how she treated us back then.”

His statement sounded polished, as if he had prepared it. But something seemed odd about the entire situation. My head kept screaming at me to get him out of my place immediately.

I drew the blanket tightly over me and stood. “You should go right now.” My voice was firmer than I imagined, but my hands remained shaky.

Lucas didn’t move quickly. He took his time getting out of bed and collecting his clothing from the previous night. He continued saying how genuine our connection felt and how I was overreacting to something that didn’t matter. He gently pulled on his shirt as if he had all the time in the world.

“We had fun, right? Does it really matter which name I used?”

I wanted to yell at him, but instead I pointed at my door. “Get out. Now.”

He eventually went, but not before giving me a look that suggested I was being unfair.

I locked and double-checked my door as soon as it closed. Then I picked up the phone and called Isabella because I wanted someone to reassure me I wasn’t insane for feeling afraid and violated right now.

She picked up on the second ring, and before I could finish my sentence, I burst into tears. She instructed me to stay put and said she’d be there in twenty-five minutes.

I sat on my couch waiting at the door until I heard her knock. Isabella arrived with two coffees and her laptop already open. She sat next to me and placed her arm around my shoulders.

“Okay, tell me everything from the beginning.”

We began going over every encounter I’d had with Rodney — from the initial message until last night. Isabella opened the Instagram account that had messaged me about the wedding. Sophia’s account was created three weeks before her wedding. Only three weeks. The profile picture was fuzzy enough that I couldn’t see his face.

“Well, I should have spotted it.”

Isabella clasped my hand. “You were trying to be nice. It wasn’t your fault.”

I brought up the yearbook photo Sophia gave me and placed it next to the wedding photographs on my phone. The contrasts were so clear now that I was looking.

Real Rodney had a rounder face and was much shorter, about 5’8″. His looks were drastically different. The man that left my flat this morning stood 6’3″ and bore little resemblance to Rodney from boyhood.

“How did I miss it?”

Isabella then asked me a difficult question. “Did anything happen last night that you did not agree to?”

I had to dwell with that for a moment. I agreed to everything we did, but I assumed he was someone else. The violation felt complicated in ways I couldn’t articulate yet.

Maya nodded as if she understood, even if I couldn’t quite get it. “We need to find the real Rodney and prove that Lucas isn’t him.”

Mia opened her laptop and began searching. I attempted to recall particular details about Rodney’s youth that only he would have known — the birthmark on his left arm, how he became afraid of dogs after one chased him in third grade, how he collected Pokémon cards and stored them in a blue binder.

Isabella typed while we chatted. She opened Facebook initially, but there were too many individuals with that name. Then she tried LinkedIn and filtered for our hometown.

“There’s a profile for a Rodney around our age. Works in information technology for a Portland-based corporation.”

His profile photo revealed a man who looked just like the yearbook photo, only seventeen years older, but unmistakably the same person.

Lucas is distinguished by his round face, shorter physique, and spectacles.

As I glanced at the photograph, my hand began to shake again. I was absolutely duped, and I allowed it to happen so effortlessly.

Isabella took my laptop and started a new tab. “We need to secure everything right now.”

She opened my email account and began leading me through password changes. I changed the passwords for my email, bank accounts, social media, and even Netflix since I couldn’t recall what Lucas had seen in my apartment.

Isabella made me write down each new password in a notepad and keep it in my desk drawer. She took out her phone and searched up how to alter an apartment door code online. I followed the directions, my fingers trembling as I punched the new six-digit code onto the keypad near my front door.

The beep verifying the change felt like the first real action I’d taken to defend myself since Lucas walked out this morning.

But even as we went through the security routine, my mind kept repeating events from the wedding — how he knew just what to say to counter Sophia’s insults, how he stroked my arm as we danced, how he gazed at me during his microphone address as if he cared.

Every memory seemed polluted now.

Isabella gripped my shoulder. “You couldn’t have known he planned this.”

I took up the phone to call Sophia. Maya raised her eyebrows, but she did not stop me.

Sophia answered on the second ring. I told her everything in one hurried explanation — Lucas was not Rodney. He lied about his whole identity. He exploited both of us.

The stillness on the other line lasted about five seconds before Sophia’s voice became angry and defensive. “Okay, so you brought some random guy to my wedding and now you’re trying to make it my fault?”

I noticed that my jaw was tense. “You set me up to be humiliated. You wanted everyone to laugh at me for bringing the crybaby kid. That’s what created the opening for Lucas to step in and pretend to be him.”

Sophia cracked a joke. “I didn’t tell him to lie about who he was. That’s on you for not recognizing your own childhood friend. Maybe if you’d stayed in contact with people instead of being so secluded, you might have known what Rodney looked like.”

Her words landed exactly where she wanted.

“You basically provided me a yearbook photo confirming he is not Rodney. You know I was duped and you’re still attempting to blame this on my judgment rather than accepting responsibility for setting up a terrible trap at your own wedding.”

Sophia’s voice became louder. “I was just having fun. Everyone plays little jokes at weddings. You’re the one who slept with a complete stranger and now you want to blame me because you feel stupid.”

I hung up. My hands were shaking so violently that I nearly dropped the phone. Isabella grabbed it from me and placed it on the coffee table.

“She’s not going to help.”

“I know,” I said, “but I needed to hear her say it out loud.”

Isabella nodded and drew her laptop closer.

She began typing something while I sat there, the fury burning hotter than the dread for a minute.

Lucas must have been aware of Sophia’s plot in some way. He knew precisely what she was up to, which suggests he was either observing our family dynamics online or had a prior connection to us who informed him about the wedding trap.

This notion made my skin crawl.

He didn’t just happen to come across this chance. He had planned this. He researched us. He knew Sophia intended to embarrass me, and he utilized that information to slip into Rodney’s persona at the right time.

Isabella glanced up from her tablet. “This is way more calculated than just some guy pretending to be someone else for fun. This is someone with a grudge or an obsession who saw a chance and took it.”

I spent the rest of the day checking my door lock every twenty minutes. Every notification on my phone caused me to jump. Every footstep in the corridor outside my flat made me stop and listen until it passed.

Isabella stayed all afternoon despite having work to do. We ordered Chinese food because I couldn’t imagine going to a restaurant and having Lucas show up.

The delivery man knocked and I made Isabella answer the door while I watched from the kitchen. I felt silly, violated, and enraged all at once.

We ate on my couch while watching TV, but I couldn’t pay attention. Isabella kept up a stream of conversation about ordinary things — her job, her irritating coworker, a sitcom she was watching.

I was grateful she wasn’t making me talk about Lucas all the time, even though he was all I could think about.

When Isabella eventually left at eight, I shut the door after her and triple-checked it.

I attempted to watch TV but gave up after thirty minutes. I got ready for bed early, hoping to sleep off the worst of my anxiousness.

I lay in bed looking at the ceiling. Every sound in my apartment building seemed ominous — the neighbors’ door closing, someone walking up the stairs, the heater turning on.

My thoughts raced through worst-case scenarios. What if Lucas still had a key to my apartment? What if he’d copied anything from my laptop? What if he’d taken pictures of me without my knowledge?

What if he shows up at my workplace?

I checked my phone. At 11:30, I tried to close my eyes, but my head wouldn’t shut down.

At 1:30, I got up and double-checked the door lock. At 2:30, I checked all my windows. At 3:00 a.m., I gave up and texted Isabella.

“I know you’re probably sleeping, but I can’t stop thinking about what he’s going to do next.”

She wrote back within two minutes. “I’m awake. Do you want me to come back over?”

I told her no, but thank you — and that simply knowing she was awake helped. We texted back and forth for another hour about nothing important until I felt comfortable enough to sleep again.

I fell asleep at 4:30 and awoke at 7:00 feeling worse than if I hadn’t slept at all. But staying in bed concerned me more. I got up and prepared some coffee.

I needed to treat this as a challenge to solve rather than something that simply happened to me.

I opened my laptop and started a new document. I labeled it Lucas Timeline and began writing down everything I knew — when he first messaged me, the account name, every chat we had leading up to the wedding, everything he said during the wedding, and every interaction that followed.

I looked through my phone, taking screenshots of all of our text messages. I jotted down everything he told me about his claimed life — his employment, which he was hazy about, his flat, which he never invited me to. He claimed to go to a gym, but did not specify which one.

Every detail I previously ignored as normal suddenly appeared to be a red flag I should have seen.

Isabella returned around midmorning with more coffee and bagels. She sat next to me and examined my timeline sheet. “This is good. Really good. We need to find out where he actually lives and works.”

She accessed my phone’s location history. I watched as she scrolled through weeks of data. “Look at this. Every time you two met, it was either here at your house or in public places like coffee shops or restaurants. He never invited you to his apartment.”

I drew the laptop closer and added it to my notes. I attempted to recall particular discussions from the wedding and thereafter. Lucas had always avoided answering specific questions about his life.

When I mentioned visiting his house, he turned the conversation to how much he liked being in my apartment since it was comfortable. When I inquired about seeing his friends, he mentioned that they were all busy with work. Every deviation appeared smooth and natural at the moment — now they appeared to be blatant evasive tactics.

Isabella opened up our text message history, and we went through everything chronologically. He always texted first. He contacted me at odd hours — 2:00 a.m., 6:00 a.m. — as if he was trying to see whether I was available online.

The pattern now seemed uncomfortable in a way I’d dismissed as him being really interested when I assumed he was Rodney reuniting with an old friend.

Isabella pointed at the screen. “He was tracking your activity — figuring out when you were awake and active so that he could time his messages to appear natural.”

I put everything on my timeline. Then I accessed LinkedIn and looked for the actual Rodney. His profile showed up again, this time with a photo that looked just like the yearbook image but older.

I clicked the message button and began typing.

Hi, Rodney. This is going to sound strange, but someone impersonated you at my sister’s wedding last month. I’m trying to verify some information and wanted to confirm that you weren’t at a wedding in our hometown recently.

I was honest and kept it brief. I didn’t want to seem irrational or accusing — I only wanted proof that Lucas was not the real Rodney.

I pressed send and closed the laptop. Isabella stared at me. “Now what?”

“Now we wait to see if he responds — and I figure out what to do next if he confirms that he wasn’t there.”

Isabella closed her laptop and gave me that serious look she has when she’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear.

She advised that I hire a private investigator to find out who Lucas really is and whether I’m in danger. The idea made my stomach turn. I was already barely paying rent, and my savings account was nearly empty.

But the thought of not knowing who this person is or what he wants felt far more terrifying than being poor for a few months. Isabella must have noticed the worry on my face, because she instantly took out her phone and began looking for investigators in our area.

I watched her browse websites as my mind kept returning to the thought that I slept with someone whose true identity I didn’t know.

After about twenty minutes, Isabella discovered a website for James Porter, who specialized in digital investigations and identity verification. His rates were clearly posted — pricey, but not unattainable if I cut back on everything else.

Isabella looked at the consultation fee and offered to split it with me as a loan, which made me want to cry because I hate borrowing money — but I couldn’t do it on my own.

I nodded, and she quickly called to schedule an appointment for that evening.

While we waited for James Porter’s office to call back with a time, my phone vibrated with a text from Lucas.

My entire body froze as I saw his name on the screen. Isabella grabbed my phone before I could react and read the message aloud.

Lucas asked if I was okay and said he wanted to talk about what had happened, maintaining the same warm and loving tone he’d used during the ceremony. He wrote as if we’d had a minor disagreement, not as if he’d lied about his entire identity and duped me into sleeping with him.

Reading his message made my skin crawl. He acted as though I was overreacting to something small rather than being thoroughly violated by his deception.

Isabella handed me the phone and ordered me not to reply under any circumstances. She said Lucas was testing me to see whether I would engage. He was likely trying to figure out if I was angry enough to take action — or if he could smooth things over with his charm, the same way he’d done with others before.

Her outside perspective helped me recognize the manipulation I would have fallen for if I were alone — because part of me wanted to believe that his kind demeanor meant he wasn’t actually dangerous.

James Porter’s office called us back and scheduled an appointment for 7:30 that evening. I spent the rest of the afternoon compiling all of my material into a clear timeline, complete with screenshots and notes on every inconsistency I could recall.

Isabella helped me print everything and organize it into a folder so I looked prepared and serious, not like someone hysterical or making things up.

At 6:30, we went to James Porter’s office in a downtown building that appeared professional and real, which made me feel a little better about spending money I didn’t have.

James greeted us in the foyer and led us back to an office filled with file cabinets, computer equipment, and framed certificates on the walls. He was probably in his forties, with gray hair and glasses, and he treated the case seriously instead of making me feel stupid for being deceived.

That alone was worth it.

Following Sophia’s response that morning, I gave him my timeline and all of Lucas’s information, including wedding images and the phone number he had used to contact me.

James thoroughly reviewed everything and asked specific questions about Lucas’s actions and statements about his life. He said he’d start with open-source intelligence collection — examining the photos, phone number, and any other digital traces to determine who Lucas really was.

He advised that this might take a week or two, and that I should avoid all contact with Lucas during that time so as not to tip him off.

I asked James whether this type of thing happened often, since I felt ridiculous for not seeing through Lucas’s lies. He said identity fraud in dating situations happens far more often than people believe — usually for financial gain, but sometimes out of revenge or obsession.

Hearing that I wasn’t alone in my mistake helped a little, but I was still furious with myself for ignoring all the red flags that now seemed obvious.

Around eight, Isabella and I left James Porter’s office and returned to my apartment. Over the next four days, Lucas sent me sporadic texts that alternated between kind check-ins and passive-aggressive comments about me “ghosting him after such a good connection.”

I saved every single message exactly as James instructed. I didn’t reply to any, even though part of me wanted to confront him, to ask why, to demand an explanation.

Three days later, after sending my LinkedIn message to the real Rodney, he replied. My hands shook as I opened the message, knowing it would either confirm or deny everything.

Rodney said he was confused — he hadn’t attended any wedding and hadn’t been back to our hometown in six years since his parents moved to Arizona. He attached a current photo of himself: the same round face, shorter build, glasses — nothing like Lucas.

Seeing that photo made it real. Lucas was an impostor using Rodney’s childhood identity.

I messaged Rodney immediately, outlining the entire situation — how someone showed up at my sister’s wedding pretending to be him. Rodney replied within an hour, shocked and sympathetic. He said he vaguely remembered a kid named Lucas from elementary school who hovered around their friend group and always seemed desperate to fit in.

Rodney offered to call me so he could explain more, which felt like the first truly kind gesture since this whole disaster began.

We scheduled the call for that evening. When my phone rang at 7:30, I answered immediately.

Rodney’s voice was nothing like Lucas’s — softer, uncertain. He said Lucas used to mimic people, trying to copy their habits, and blamed others when he was left out. He’d moved away in middle school.

Then Rodney said something that made my stomach drop. He remembered Sophia and her friends — how cruel they were to other kids — and said Lucas was one of their targets. He’d tried to get revenge by spreading rumors, which only made things worse for him.

Rodney sighed. “He’s probably been holding that grudge for years. Your sister’s wedding must have felt like the perfect chance to get back at her — and at everyone who made him feel invisible.”

I thanked him for being honest and asked if he’d provide a written statement confirming he wasn’t at the wedding in case I needed it. He agreed, but asked to stay out of any public drama. I completely understood.

After we hung up, I sat there, the puzzle finally making sense — though the picture it formed terrified me.

For two days I barely slept, jumping at every sound, checking my locks constantly. Then James called with his first report.

He’d traced Lucas’s phone to a prepaid account bought with cash — no identity attached — but the wedding photos told a different story. The images’ metadata linked to a device registered under the name Lucas A—, and James was digging deeper.

He promised a full report in a few days.

Hearing that made everything suddenly real — validation that I wasn’t imagining things, mixed with dread that it was all true.

Isabella came over that night without asking, bringing cleaning supplies and trash bags. We spent hours scrubbing my apartment, throwing away everything Lucas had touched — cups, towels, sheets. It felt both practical and symbolic, like we were erasing his presence.

While we worked, my phone buzzed with another text from Lucas. This one was longer: he missed me, wanted dinner, even mentioned the little Italian restaurant I’d once said I liked.

The fact that he remembered that — while lying about everything else — made me feel watched in a way I couldn’t explain.

Isabella saw the message over my shoulder. “He’s keeping tabs on you,” she said quietly. “Don’t answer.”

Despite my shaking hands, I saved the text and didn’t reply.

Two days later, James emailed his full report. Opening it felt like standing on a cliff.

Lucas had a criminal record — a minor fraud conviction from three years ago. Worse, he’d been the subject of a restraining order eighteen months prior from an ex in another county.

I read the case summary three times. The woman described the same behavior: false identity, love-bombing, obsessive contact, manipulation. Every word echoed what I’d just lived through.

I was sick. I wasn’t his first victim — just his latest.

With trembling hands, I printed the report and grabbed my keys. Isabella asked where I was going.

“To the police,” I said.

I was afraid, exhausted, but determined not to let this go.

At the station, the desk officer listened and referred me to Detective Mark Davidson, who handled stalking and identity cases. His office was cluttered but warm — family photos on his desk.

He read James’s report carefully, then asked methodical questions: what Lucas had claimed, when I realized the lies, whether he’d threatened or taken money.

He was professional, serious — a relief after Sophia’s dismissive attitude.

Then he explained something that made my stomach twist. Unless Lucas had made direct threats or stolen from me, pressing criminal charges would be difficult.

I wanted to scream, but I just sat there while he outlined my options.

He told me I could file for a restraining order in civil court. It wouldn’t put Lucas in jail, but it would legally force him to stay away. He told me to save every text, call, and message — every proof — and offered practical safety advice: change routines, stay alert, trust my instincts.

I thanked him and left the station feeling a strange mix of powerless and prepared.

Isabella was waiting in her car outside. When I told her, she said, “Then let’s do it now before you lose your nerve.”

That afternoon we drove straight to the courthouse and filled out the paperwork for a temporary restraining order. I attached copies of James’s report, screenshots of texts, Sophia’s yearbook photo, and Rodney’s written confirmation.

The clerk said a hearing would be held in three weeks to make it permanent, and warned that Lucas would be notified. Isabella held my hand as the clerk stamped the documents.

We got coffee afterward, and she made me promise to call if anything weird happened.

That night, my phone rang — Lucas.

I let it go to voicemail, heart pounding. I wanted to delete it immediately but remembered Mark’s advice to document everything.

I played it on speaker.

His voice was calm, almost sad. He said he missed me, didn’t understand why I was avoiding him, that we’d had something special.

For a second I almost pitied him — then I remembered the lies, the fake name, the other victim’s restraining order.

I saved the voicemail and emailed it to Mark.

The next morning he replied, saying it strengthened my case. Every message was proof he couldn’t let go.

For once, that thought made me feel safer.

Three days later, Sophia called again, acting as if nothing serious had happened — asking why I wasn’t coming to family dinners.

Something inside me snapped.

I told her she’d set me up to be humiliated, that her cruelty opened the door for Lucas, and that I was done pretending everything was fine.

She got defensive, blaming me for not recognizing Lucas. I ended the call before she could guilt me, hands shaking but strangely proud.

That night Isabella said, “That’s growth.”

And she was right. For the first time, I’d refused to make myself small just to keep the peace.