A Mirror Too Honest

CHAPTER 1 - THE ASSIGNMENT NOBODY WANTS

Sophia Hayes had survived worse mornings than this-broken printers, delayed sources, last-minute rewrites, and the occasional editor meltdown-but nothing prepared her for the email blinking at the top of her inbox like a dare.

SUBJECT: New Feature Collaboration Assignment - Needed ASAP.

She clicked it, expecting another high-stakes investigative report or a solo deep-dive into one of the rising social dilemmas she'd been pitching all month. Something big. Something worthy of her skillset. Something worthy of her reputation as the journalist who never missed.

Instead, her eyes froze on the words that should have come with a warning label.

"You will be partnering with Dean Mercer for our upcoming feature on modern love."

Sophia stared at the name.

Dean Mercer.

Dean freaking Mercer.

She exhaled through her nose, the way people did seconds before flipping a table.

Everyone in the office knew Dean. Not because he was a serious professional-God forbid-but because his messy curls, loud laugh, and chaotic comic art series had somehow become the magazine's viral golden child. His online fanbase worshipped him. Management adored his ability to turn anything into click-magnet humour. The internet treated him like a charming disaster they wanted to adopt.

Sophia treated him like a walking migraine.

They had spoken exactly twice. Both times he was late. And both times she had warned herself not to get dragged into the orbit of someone who functioned like human confetti-colourful, scattered, and impossible to control.

She read the email again.

"Modern Love: A multi-format feature blending narrative journalism and illustrated storytelling."

"Collaborative structure required."

"Deadline: 6 weeks."

"Schedule a joint kickoff meeting immediately."

Joint.

Collaboration.

Immediately.

Her brain short-circuited.

She closed her laptop before she threw it across the room.

It didn't matter that she had delivered award-nominated pieces. It didn't matter that she had pitched three fully-researched features this quarter. It didn't matter that she was the most reliable writer on staff.

This was her big assignment-

and they stuck her with an artist who didn't believe in schedules.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her editor, Marianne.

Marianne: Saw the email? Stop making the face. It's good for you.

Sophia: Good for me how exactly??

Marianne: You need to loosen up. He needs to tighten up. Meet in the middle. It'll be magic.

Sophia: Or murder.

Marianne: I believe in you. And in your self-control.

Sophia: Your faith is misplaced.

Sophia dropped her forehead into her hands.

Magic.

Right.

The last time she and Dean had even been in the same room, he'd spilled coffee onto her notes while waving his hands around telling someone about "emotional elasticity in comedic timing."

Whatever that meant.

And now they were expected to write-together-a defining piece on love.

Yes. Murder was more likely.

She stood, straightened her blazer, and marched toward the bullpen with the dignity of someone who absolutely was not contemplating faking her own death.

The office was its usual blend of urgency and caffeine dependency. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Someone somewhere shouted about needing fact-checking "yesterday." It was home.

Until she reached his desk.

Dean's workspace looked like a gorgeous explosion. Sketchbooks everywhere. Mismatched pens. Sticky notes with half-ideas. Three empty energy drink cans. A tablet with a half-finished drawing-a cupid wearing headphones and sunglasses. Of course.

Dean himself was nowhere to be found.

Typical.

She folded her arms tightly, mentally drafting what she'd say when he finally wandered in at whatever time suited his artistic flow. Something professional. Something firm. Something that clearly stated: We do this my way or not at all.

But as she stood there, his sketchbook caught her eye.

She shouldn't look.

She absolutely shouldn't.

So naturally, she leaned closer.

The top page held a rough drawing of two figures standing on opposite sides of a city-one tense and precise with clean lines, the other loose and free, drawn in warm messy strokes. Between them, a skyline. With a heart stuck in the middle like an inconvenient truth neither knew what to do with.

She frowned.

Was this... him?

Was this... them?

Before she could decide whether to be irritated or weirdly thrown off balance, a voice behind her said:

"Careful. The characters in that one bite."

She spun around.

Dean Mercer leaned against the wall like he'd been placed there for dramatic effect. Tousled dark curls. Hoodie halfway zipped. A smile that looked too soft to be safe.

He was holding a smoothie with a neon straw like it was part of his personality.

"How long have you been standing there?" she demanded.

"Long enough to watch you almost snoop." He grinned. "I knew you'd cave."

"I wasn't snooping."

"Oh no, of course not. You were... appreciating the art?"

Sophia inhaled sharply.

"Where were you?" she snapped. "We have a mandatory meeting."

He blinked. "I was here."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I was," he said, pointing to a beanbag chair behind his desk she hadn't noticed. "I was lying down and contemplating the emotional architecture of love."

"...you were napping, weren't you?"

He sipped his smoothie. "With purpose."

Her eye twitched.

"Dean, this assignment is important," she began.

"I know." His voice softened unexpectedly. "It's the first meaningful piece they've trusted me with in months. I don't want to screw it up."

She blinked, startled by the sincerity.

But then he added cheerfully:

"So obviously, you're in charge."

"I-what?"

"You're the organised one. The planner. The queen of outlines." He bowed dramatically. "I surrender to the structure."

Sophia stared at him, caught between relief and suspicion.

"Good," she said slowly. "Then let's schedule-"

"But!" he cut in. "I have one request."

Her relief evaporated.

"Dean-"

"Just one," he insisted, raising a finger. "We do this together. Not just your way."

"That's not-"

"You don't get to run everything. I don't get to float around aimlessly. We find a middle. Deal?"

It was reasonable.

Irritatingly reasonable.

Sophia crossed her arms. "Fine. Middle."

Dean brightened like a child handed a paint set.

"Great! We should start by going outside."

She deadpanned. "Why?"

"Because inspiration. Because sunlight. Because humans. Because modern love is literally happening everywhere, and we can't write it from inside an office."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already gathering pens, sketchbook, tablet, and his smoothie with the efficiency of someone packing for a day trip he planned twelve seconds ago.

Against her better judgment, she followed him.

Their walk started in silence.

Sophia kept her pace controlled, professional, efficient. Dean, however, walked like he was on a scavenger hunt for life's hidden jokes. He stopped to watch a dog wearing a tiny raincoat. He paused to smile at a couple arguing playfully over a pastry. He sketched a child giving a pigeon a stern lecture.

Sophia watched him, annoyed but... grudgingly fascinated.

Everything seemed to inspire him. Everything had meaning. Everything was a story.

"So what do you think love looks like now?" he asked suddenly.

She wasn't prepared for the question.

"Love?" she echoed. "Love is... complicated."

"That's a cop-out."

"It's a summary."

He gave her a knowing look.

"You don't trust it."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Sophia stiffened, caught off guard by how easily he read her.

"What about you?" she countered. "What does love look like to you?"

Dean shrugged. "Messy. Chaotic. Unpredictable. But worth it."

"Figures."

"What does that mean?"

"You find beauty in disorder," she said. "I find... danger."

He studied her for a moment too long.

"Well," he said softly, "maybe this assignment is supposed to teach us something."

She ignored the tightening in her stomach.

They walked in tense silence until they reached the waterfront. The breeze was cool, the city glowing beyond the river. Dean sat on a bench and started sketching rapidly, eyes flicking between her and the skyline.

She felt strangely exposed.

"What are you drawing?"

"Nothing important."

"Let me see."

"Nope."

"Dean."

He held the sketchbook against his chest protectively.

"It's not done."

"Then why did you look at me while drawing it?"

He froze.

For one fragile second-the playful mask slipped.

Dean looked at her with an expression she didn't know how to read.

Something softer. Something quieter. Something that made her breath catch.

"I draw what feels real," he said finally.

"And I feel real?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He swallowed.

"You're"-his voice faltered-"you're sharper than most people. Harder to capture. But... yeah. You feel real."

Sophia turned away, unsure what to do with the heat pooling in her chest.

It was too much.

Too early.

Too intimate.

"So," Dean said suddenly, forcing lightness back into his voice, "how do you think we should start the feature?"

"We outline interviews," she said. "We design a timeline. We identify themes."

"And then?"

"And then we begin drafting in segments, merging narrative and visual sections."

Dean nodded slowly.

"That... makes sense."

"Thank you."

"But," he added, "you're forgetting something."

"What?"

He angled his sketchbook, revealing just enough for her to see-

A rough drawing of her standing in the exact spot she was in now, hair tousled by the wind, gaze distant, expression unreadable... but powerful.

And across the page, written in the corner:

"Love doesn't follow structure. It breaks it."

Her breath hitched.

"Dean..."

But he wasn't looking at her anymore. His expression had shifted-darker, heavier, like a shadow had slipped beneath his smile.

"I didn't draw this today," he said, voice too quiet.

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I started it... weeks ago."

Sophia froze.

"Why?" she whispered.

Dean closed the sketchbook slowly-too slowly.

"We should head back," he said, standing before she could press further.

"No," she insisted, stepping in front of him. "Dean, why did you draw me before we were assigned together?"

He hesitated.

And then-

A phone buzzed sharply.

Dean looked at the screen.

His face drained of colour.

Sophia had never seen him look frightened.

Not once.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

He didn't answer.

He just whispered:

"...This can't be happening."

"Dean-"

He turned to her slowly, eyes wide, voice trembling-

"Sophia... we have a problem."

Dean didn't move.

He didn't blink.

He didn't breathe.

He just stared at the glowing phone screen like it was a detonator and he was seconds away from blowing up everything he'd ever built-including the very thin, fragile thread of trust forming between them.

Sophia stepped closer.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice steady even as her pulse kicked up. "Dean, talk to me."

He swallowed hard, thumb hovering over the screen, fingers trembling.

"It's-" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled shakily. "It's someone I didn't think I'd ever hear from again."

Her brows tightened.

"Who?"

Instead of answering, he shoved the phone in his pocket and took a shaky step away from her. The movement wasn't casual-it was evasive, defensive, scared.

Sophia's gut twisted.

Whatever this was, it wasn't small.

"Dean," she said carefully, "you're scaring me."

He laughed-not the warm, disarming laugh he was known for-but a broken, hollow one.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I'm scaring myself too."

She reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his sleeve.

He froze.

But he didn't pull away.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth-

closed it-

then opened it again-

"It's someone I used to care about," he finally said. "Someone who... didn't exactly leave quietly."

Sophia's pulse stilled.

"A past relationship?"

Dean's jaw flexed.

"You could call it that." He rubbed his forehead. "But you'd be wrong."

She frowned. "Then what-?"

But he cut her off abruptly.

"Look, let's not do this here. Not now." He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We have work to do."

"You can't just pretend nothing happened," she argued. "You look like you saw a ghost."

He let out a breath.

"...I did."

The wind picked up, brushing cold air between them.

Sophia's voice lowered. "Dean. Who texted you?"

The question hung heavily.

He dug in his pocket again, pulled out the phone hesitantly, as if it physically hurt to show her.

The screen lit up.

One message.

One sender.

One line.

And not just any contact name.

A contact saved with no name at all-just an initial:

"M"

Sophia felt a sting of something she didn't want to name.

Before she could ask anything, Dean's phone buzzed again.

Another message from M.

Dean flinched.

This time, before he could hide it, she read the preview line lighting the screen:

"We're not finished. Answer me."

Sophia's heart dropped into her stomach.

"That doesn't sound like someone harmless," she murmured.

Dean shut off the phone like he was slamming a door.

"Let's go," he said, voice tight. "We need to get back."

But Sophia didn't move.

"Dean."

"Please," he said. "Just-drop it."

"No," she replied quietly. "Not when it clearly affects you. And not when we're supposed to be working closely for the next six weeks."

She took a steady breath.

"You need to tell me what's going on."

His shoulders slumped.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the ground, twisting the strap of his sketchbook between his fingers.

Then-

"I didn't leave things clean," he admitted. "And someone got hurt. Badly."

Sophia's chest tightened.

"Did you... hurt them?" she asked carefully.

Dean met her eyes. His were dark, haunted.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered.

Something about the way he said it-so quiet, so raw-made her stomach flip.

She wanted to step closer. She wanted to step away.

She stayed exactly where she was.

"Is that why you drew me before the assignment?" she asked softly. "Because you knew something from your past was coming back?"

He blinked, startled.

"That-no." He rubbed his face. "That part has nothing to do with... this."

"Then what does it have to do with?"

For the second time that afternoon, Dean struggled to find words.

He opened his sketchbook slowly... but stopped short of revealing the page.

"You don't have to see this," he said, voice almost fragile. "Really. It's just... personal."

"Dean," she said gently, "you're a part of this story too. And whatever is affecting you will affect our work."

He exhaled shakily.

"You're going to think I'm ridiculous."

"Try me."

He hesitated-then finally flipped open the sketchbook.

Sophia looked down.

It was her.

Not polished, not poised-

but soft.

Unarmored.

Human.

A version of herself she didn't show anyone.

Her breath caught.

"It's... beautiful," she said quietly.

Dean's cheeks flushed faintly.

"I didn't mean to draw you," he murmured. "I don't usually draw people I barely know. But that day, you walked past the conference room window and-"

He broke off.

"And?" she whispered.

"You looked... lonely."

Sophia's chest constricted.

"And I thought," he continued, "maybe I should capture that before the world makes you hide it again."

She swallowed hard.

"Dean..."

"I know it was weird," he rushed. "And unprofessional. And probably invasive. I wasn't planning to show it to anyone. Especially not you."

He snapped the sketchbook shut.

"But then this assignment happened and I thought maybe-maybe-it meant something."

Sophia's mind spun.

She didn't know if it was comforting or terrifying that Dean had seen her with that much clarity before they'd even spoken properly.

But before she could decide how she felt-

Dean's phone buzzed again.

This time, he didn't check it.

He didn't have to.

Because seconds later-

Her phone buzzed too.

Sophia frowned and pulled it from her pocket.

Unknown number.

No contact.

Just a single message.

Her blood went cold.

"Tell Dean to answer me. You're with him, aren't you?"

She froze.

Dean saw her expression.

His skin went pale.

"What does it say?" he whispered.

She turned the screen toward him.

He stared at it in horror.

"Oh God," he breathed. "No. No, no-this isn't supposed to touch you."

Sophia felt her heart begin to pound, her body responding before her mind fully processed the fear curling in her stomach.

"Dean," she said slowly, "how does this person know about me?"

He didn't answer.

"Dean," she insisted, louder now, "how do they know I'm with you?"

He closed his eyes like he was bracing for impact.

"Sophia," he said quietly, voice trembling, "there's something I need to tell you. Something I should've told you the moment I got that first message."

She stepped back, adrenaline spiking.

"What did you do?" she demanded.

He met her gaze-haunted, guilty, desperate.

"I didn't tell you the truth," he said. "Not about the past. Not about 'M.' Not about why I drew you. Not about why they care."

Sophia's entire body went cold.

"Why do they care, Dean?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth.

But before he could answer-

Her phone buzzed again.

Another message.

Another line.

This time, it knocked the air from her lungs.

"If he won't answer, maybe you will."

Sophia's breath stopped.

Dean's face drained of every shade of colour.

"Sophia," he said hoarsely, "we need to leave. Right now."

"Dean," she whispered, shaking, "what's happening?"

And he finally said the words that changed everything:

"I think... I think you're in danger because of me."