A month had passed since their return to Washington. Life seemed to have resumed its normal rhythm for Ryder, Daniella, Andrea, and even Dylan and Diego. The fake Victoire, still convincing, played his role to perfection. But Ryder still couldn't silence his doubts.
That morning, Ryder came home earlier than expected from a rehearsal. As he approached the villa, he heard a familiar voice through the slightly open living room window. He recognized the voice of the fake Victoire:
— "I can't take it anymore, seriously... I'm tired of pretending!"
Ryder froze, his heart pounding. He pressed against the wall, listening carefully.
— "It's fine, it's almost over," Diego's voice replied. "Just hold on a few more weeks, and everyone will be completely convinced that you're Victoire."
Ryder clenched his fists. He slowly backed away, trying to process what he had just heard. He wasn't dreaming. He had to talk to Daniella and Andrea as soon as possible.
But first, he needed answers. That evening, he returned to the studio alone. Sitting on a bench, he pulled out an old notebook—the one Victoire used to jot down their musical projects, their dreams... Flipping through it, he stumbled upon a phrase Victoire used to write often: "One day, our music will make the stars cry."
Ryder whispered:
— "You always said that, Victoire. And you... you fake version, you've never said it."
The next morning, Diego and Dylan were talking in the courtyard. Diego was on the phone with the fake Victoire, who claimed to be sick to avoid a public appearance. Meanwhile, Ryder made a big decision. He called Daniella and Andrea.
— "I need to see you. It's about Victoire. The fake one."
They met up in a discreet café. Ryder told them everything: the conversation he had overheard, the memories the fake Victoire seemed to ignore, and the words he had spoken.
— "It's too much to be a coincidence," Ryder concluded. "There's a lie."
Daniella nodded, visibly troubled:
— "I also felt his gaze was empty. As if he were playing a role..."
— "And he didn't even recognize me when I mentioned our first improvised street performance," Andrea added. "Victoire would've remembered."
Ryder looked at his friends:
— "We have to find the truth. For him. For us."
Meanwhile, Dylan felt a strange mix of triumph and guilt. He could see the meaningful looks Ryder gave him. He knew time was running out.
Diego, worried, tried to reassure him.
— "If things heat up, we'll make up another story. Say he lost his memory. Or that he changed after the coma. We'll improvise."
But Dylan lowered his gaze. An inner conflict was eating away at him. He remembered everything: the smiles, the dreams he had shared with his friends. He no longer knew if he even wanted to keep lying.
That night, Diego quietly entered the studio where the fake Victoire was resting. He wanted to talk to him, but Ryder, who had followed Diego, hid behind the door.
— "You know," Diego told his look-alike, "you've been perfect so far. But you're going to have to be even more careful. Those three aren't stupid."
— "I'm getting fed up," the fake Victoire replied. "I have a real life, you know. And playing the ghost of a kid I barely know... it's draining."
Ryder's eyes widened. Now he was certain he was right. But instead of confronting them, he decided to wait. He wanted to gather more information, to expose everything at the right moment.
As Diego left the room, Dylan was waiting for him in the hallway.
— "We're screwed," Diego whispered.
— "Yeah. And I feel like the truth is closer than ever."
That night, Ryder lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. He whispered:
— "Victoire, if you're out there, if you can hear me... I'll find you. I promise."