The papers still feel unreal in his hands.

They’re on the coffee table now—an accusing stack of legal forms he’s read through so many times that the words blur together. Custody hearing. Child support. Failure to provide for the child. Birth certificate. Adelaide. None of it fits. None of it matches anything about his life.

Someone stole his identity. Someone pretended to be him. Someone created a four-year history he never lived.

And now a judge expects him in court, three weeks from today, prepared to prove he isn’t the father of a four-year-old boy named Mason Jeffrey Torres.

Oscar sits on the edge of his sofa, elbows on his knees, trying to make sense of it. A process server had shown up at his gate this morning, monotone, detached, like he was delivering a pizza instead of detonating a bomb in Oscar’s quiet world.

“You’ve been served.”

He can still hear it ringing in his ears.

At first, Oscar laughed—awkward, confused, convinced it had to be some mix-up. But the more he read, the more the cold, heavy dread settled in. The mother’s statement insists he abandoned her. That he held the baby at the hospital. That he promised to return. That he lived with her for months. There’s even a signature beside his name.

Except it isn’t his. Not the handwriting. Not the story. Not the life.

He’d never even heard of the woman: Brianna Hollis. Never dated someone by that name. Never even stepped foot in Adelaide except for a fleeting PR event years ago where he barely got out of the car.

But the court doesn’t know that. And whoever forged this—whoever built this elaborate lie—was careful.

Too careful.

Which is why he dialed the one person he trusts to untangle impossible knots. The girl who grew up with him, survived exams with him, teased him through awkward teenage years, and somehow turned into one of the smartest lawyers he knows. The one who comes to his races but refuses paddock passes because she insists on “blending into the real crowd.” The one who always shows up when it matters.

The moment she answers, Oscar exhales like he’s been holding his breath all day.

“Hey, {{user}}…” His voice is lower than usual—tired, stressed, but trying not to let it leak through the cracks. “I, uh… I need a favor. A big one.”

He glances again at the court order, the date circled in red at the top.

“How quick can you get here?” he asks softly, not quite desperate, but close. “Because I think someone’s trying to ruin my life, and I… I don’t even know where to start.”

There’s a long pause. He knows she’s smart enough to hear everything he isn’t saying. Smart enough to recognize panic disguised as calm. Smart enough to know he wouldn’t have called unless things were bad.

He swallows, fingers tightening around the papers.

“I need her help,” he adds, quieter. “Please.”