Chapter 1

The plane' s wheels hit the runway with a hard jolt, pulling Ethan Miller from a light sleep.

He felt the familiar mix of exhaustion and victory. He had won. The "Global Culinary Masters" trophy was packed securely in his carry-on, a heavy piece of metal that represented months of grueling work.

He was coming home a champion. Home to his restaurant, The Alchemist's Table, which had just earned its third Michelin star in his absence. Home to his fiancée, Sophia.

The thought of her made him smile. He imagined her surprise when he walked through the door a day early.

He moved through the airport quickly, a celebrity chef used to navigating crowds. A few people recognized him, pointing and whispering, but he just gave a small nod and kept walking.

He got a taxi and gave the address to his restaurant.

"The Alchemist's Table," he said, the name feeling good on his tongue.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"Big night for you guys, huh? The party for Chef Miller's big win."

Ethan frowned. "Party?"

"Yeah, read about it online. Big celebration."

He must have misunderstood. Sophia wouldn't throw a party without him. Maybe it was a welcome-home thing planned for tomorrow, and the news got it wrong.

He felt a small, strange knot in his stomach, but he pushed it away.

The taxi pulled up to the familiar elegant facade of his restaurant. But something was wrong. There was a velvet rope at the entrance, and two large security guards stood there, their arms crossed.

Ethan paid the driver, grabbed his bags, and walked toward the entrance he had used a thousand times.

One of the guards stepped forward, blocking his path.

"Sorry, sir. Private event tonight."

Ethan blinked. "I know. I'm Ethan Miller."

The guard looked him up and down, his expression unchanging.

"Can I see your invitation?"

"I don't need an invitation," Ethan said, his voice tight with confusion. "This is my restaurant. I'm the chef. Ethan Miller."

The second guard chuckled. "Sure you are, buddy. Look, we don't want any trouble. Just move along."

A cold wave of anxiety washed over him. This was a joke. It had to be some kind of prank from his staff.

"Guys, very funny. Marco put you up to this? Let me in."

He tried to step past them, but the first guard put a heavy hand on his chest, stopping him easily.

"Sir, I'm not going to ask you again."

Through the glass doors, Ethan could see the bustling dining room. It was filled with his friends, food critics, his entire staff. They were all laughing, holding champagne glasses.

And then he saw it.

On a large screen behind the bar, a video loop was playing. It was a highlight reel from the competition he had just won. But the man on the screen, the one holding the trophy, the one kissing it for the cameras... it wasn't him.

The man looked almost exactly like him. Same height, same build, same dark hair. But his smile was different. Colder.

Ethan's blood ran cold. He felt a dizzying sense of unreality, as if the world had tilted on its axis.

"Who is that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The guard glanced at the screen. "That's Chef Ethan Miller. The best chef in the world. Now, if you don't leave, we're going to have to call the police."

"You don't understand," Ethan's voice cracked. "That's not him. I'm him. I am Ethan Miller."

His mind raced, trying to find a logical explanation. An actor? A long-lost twin? It made no sense. This was his life, his face, his victory.

He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out his driver's license.

"Look! This is me. Ethan Miller. See?"

He shoved the ID at the guard. The guard took it, studied it, then looked back at Ethan with a hint of pity.

"This is a decent fake, I'll give you that. But we know what the chef looks like."

Just then, two police officers walked up. The guards had already called them.

"What's the problem here, gentlemen?" one of the officers asked.

"This guy is trying to crash the party," the guard said, handing the officer Ethan's ID. "Claims he's Chef Miller."

The officer took the ID, then looked at Ethan. He pulled out his radio and spoke into it, reading off the license number.

A moment later, a voice crackled back. The officer listened, his brow furrowed.

He looked at Ethan, then back at the ID.

"The system says this ID was reported stolen two weeks ago. By Mr. Ethan Miller."

The officer handed the ID back to the guard. He looked at Ethan with suspicion.

"Sir, you're carrying a stolen ID and harassing people at a private event. We need you to come with us."

"No," Ethan said, his voice shaking with a mix of anger and sheer panic. "No, this is a mistake. A huge mistake. I can prove it. Let me just talk to someone inside. My fiancée, Sophia. She's in there."

The officer's face hardened. "We're not doing that. You can tell your story down at the station."

The world felt like it was crumbling around him. He was an outsider looking in at his own life, and no one could see him. He was a ghost.

As they put his hands behind his back, he stared through the glass door one last time. He saw the imposter, the man with his face, moving through the crowd. He was shaking hands, accepting congratulations. He walked over to Sophia and put his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, smiling up at him with a look of pure love.

A raw, guttural sound escaped Ethan's throat.

"Who am I?" he asked the empty air, the question echoing in the silent, terrifying space that had opened up inside him. "If I'm not Ethan Miller, then who the hell am I?"

The officers pushed him toward their car. The celebration inside his restaurant continued, loud and joyful, without him.