The sun timidly rose over Washington, softly piercing through the white curtains of the villa. Dylan was already awake, sitting at the edge of his bed, eyes lost in the void. Ever since Ryder had overheard that strange sentence from the fake Victoire, he knew the trust they had built was fragile. But Dylan didn't know that yet.
Meanwhile, Ryder hadn't slept a wink all night. He kept replaying that sentence in his mind: "I'm tired of playing this role." The words echoed in his head, stirring memories, doubts, and buried pain. He looked at his watch. 9:03 AM. He suddenly got up, pulled on his hoodie, and quietly left his room.
He walked down the stairs of the villa and stopped in his tracks in front of the living room door. There, sitting on the beige leather sofa, Diego was sipping coffee with a relaxed expression, as if nothing was wrong.
"Morning, Diego," said Ryder, a little tense.
"Ryder! Sleep well?" Diego asked with a smile.
"Not really," he said as he sat down. "I've been thinking a lot about... Victoire."
Diego raised an eyebrow but remained impassive.
"Victoire? Ah… him again?"
"Yes. You know, it's strange that we hadn't seen him all these years. And now he's back, without a word, no clear explanation... He looks so much like the old Victoire, but sometimes he acts weird."
Diego slowly put down his cup.
"You're doubting him?"
Ryder stared at him.
"I don't know. Some things just don't add up. And... I overheard something yesterday. He was talking to someone and said he was tired of playing this role."
Diego suddenly stood up, pretending to be surprised.
"That's not possible. You must have misheard, Ryder. Maybe Victoire was just talking about the pressure of being back in the spotlight. You know, it's not easy."
"Maybe," Ryder replied, skeptical. "But I'd like to talk to him one-on-one."
"Of course," said Diego with a slight smile. "But don't push him, okay? He just got back. It takes time."
---
In Dylan's room, the mood was tenser. Diego joined him shortly after talking to Ryder.
"He's starting to suspect something," he said quietly.
"I figured. Ryder's smart. He's more attached to the past than we thought."
"We need to act fast. We have to make their trust unbreakable. Today, we implement the new plan."
Dylan nodded.
"Have your guy come tonight. He needs to be even more convincing than last time. And me… I'll play my role perfectly."
---
The afternoon passed calmly. Daniella and Andrea had gone out for a photoshoot. Ryder, meanwhile, stayed distant, lost in a fog of suspicions. He scrolled through old videos of their performances, trying to find a clue, a detail, a flaw.
Then he had an idea.
He logged into the villa's computer, opened the surveillance footage files, and searched for the moment when Victoire had spoken with Diego. Unfortunately, the cameras in that room hadn't recorded anything.
"Of course," he muttered.
But he didn't give up. He needed to be sure.
---
That evening, Diego invited everyone to the living room. He had organized a small private dinner. In the middle of the meal, he raised his glass.
"I just wanted to thank you all for being here. Tonight, I have a surprise."
He turned toward the door, and the fake Victoire entered, smiling. He wore an elegant jacket and a shiny necklace.
"Here's Victoire," Diego said. "He wanted to speak to you."
Victoire stepped forward. He looked at Daniella, Andrea, then Ryder.
"I'm sorry for my attitude," he said softly. "I was angry. At you, at myself. I suffered so much after the coma. Waking up and realizing everyone had forgotten me… it was awful."
Daniella stepped closer, tears in her eyes.
"We never forgot you, Victoire. We thought you… you'd never come back."
Andrea added:
"We looked for you, but your family had moved away. We were young, lost."
The fake Victoire took their hands.
"I forgive you. But I don't want to talk about the past anymore. I need you now."
Ryder remained silent. He watched the scene. It felt like a poorly written dream, a play too perfectly rehearsed. Something was off. But he felt trapped.
---
Later that night, after everyone had gone back to their rooms, Ryder slipped out discreetly and headed to the villa's surveillance room. He installed a facial recognition program he had downloaded. He had found an old video of teenage Victoire performing at a concert.
He compared it to the current fake Victoire's face.
"No way," he murmured.
The software showed only a 63% match.
He frowned.
"It's not him. It's almost him. But not quite."
He saved the results to a USB stick and went to bed, his heart pounding.
The next morning, Dylan walked into the kitchen where Ryder was alone.
"Hey, sleep well?" he asked, feigning innocence.
Ryder looked him straight in the eyes.
"Perfectly. You?"
"Like a baby."
A silence.
"You know," Dylan said, "sometimes we see things, hear words… but they don't always mean what we think. Sometimes, we imagine stories."
Ryder gave a faint smile.
"Maybe. But sometimes, those imagined stories reveal the truth."
Dylan stared at him.
"You're saying that like you know something."
"I don't know anything. Not yet."
And Ryder walked out.
Dylan stood alone, tense. He understood the game was becoming dangerous. Very dangerous.