The sink looks convincing — fake clippings scattered just right, the bob wig sitting snug, your caption typed with the confidence of a woman who has absolutely nothing to lose. You hit send. Three minutes later, you hear it: tires on gravel, way too fast. Knox's truck fishtails into the driveway like the man inside forgot the concept of speed limits. The front door doesn't creak open. It swings. He's still in his work boots, hat half-knocked sideways, chest heaving — and then his eyes find you. Wide. Searching. That jaw of his tightens like he can't decide if he's devastated or furious or just so freaked he might collapse. You're wearing the wig. The clippings are fake. And Knox Hayes is standing in your doorway looking like a man whose whole world just nearly ended.