The smell of barbecue filled the air as I arrived at my boss Jill’s house. It was my first company party, and I was eager to make a good impression. But something felt off. Jill’s husband, Mark, kept staring at me—long, intense stares that made my skin crawl.

Then he whispered, “Meet me behind the house in 10 minutes.”

Curious, I went. What he said next floored me: “We need a cover story. I didn’t realize you work for Jill, but she doesn’t have to know about us.”

“Us?” I laughed. “I’ve never met you before.”

He pulled out his phone, showing months of messages—flirty, intimate, personal—all from “me.”

My stomach dropped. It wasn’t me. Someone had been using my identity.

Then I remembered: a dating profile I made as a joke nearly a year ago. But I never used it…

I made a call. Twenty minutes later, my mother walked around the corner. She froze when she saw Mark.

“Mom,” I said, voice steady. “Have you been texting him under my name?”

Her silence confirmed everything.

Jill appeared, face unreadable. “Mark, pack a bag. Get out.”

The next morning, I resigned. I couldn’t face the whispers, the humiliation. My phone buzzed with yet another message from my mom. I deleted it. Some things can’t be undone.

She had stolen my identity. Mark had fallen in love with a lie. And Jill’s marriage was over.

All I could do was walk away and never look back.