Encrypted Hearts

Thea, a sharp and quick-witted woman, leads a quiet life in the city with her trusty laptop, a solid iced coffee habit, and a suspicious number of online admirers. One afternoon, yet another DM comes into her messages: a “billionaire tech investor” who just wants to chat and give her money for being sweet.

But this time, Thea decides not to delete the message. This time, she’s going to play along, not because she believes him, but because she’s working on something—something very specific. Something classified.

To the people around her, Thea was a workaholic writer who loved dogs, loved to cook, and kept to herself. Her recently published book “Pawsitively Scrumptious” flew off the shelves and received so many positive reviews.

But Thea was more than she seemed. Unbeknownst to many, she also worked freelance for an international cybercrime watchdog group—and she’s about to unmask a high-profile scam ring that’s been targeting women worldwide.

And she’s going to do it in sneakers and skorts.

~ ~ ~

Thea’s iced coffee was sweating in the heat, just like the man in her inbox.

His name was “Elliot,” and he claimed to be a Fortune 500 investor with abs, a private jet, and a very generous heart. According to his opening line, all he wanted was “a beautiful companion to talk to each day.” Also, possibly her Cash App ID.

She rolled her eyes, took a sip of coffee, and cracked her knuckles. “Oh, Elliot,” she whispered, “you picked the wrong gal to mess with today.”

Thea opened a new document, titled it Operation Catfish, and began a fresh chat window under her alias. “Jules Santiago,” age 37, marketing consultant, mildly flirtatious, entirely fictional. She adjusted her glasses and grinned.

She typed.

Jules: Hi, Elliot. It’s lovely to hear from you. What made you reach out to me?

Click. Send. Let the games begin.

Elliot responded faster than a microwave beep.

Elliot: Your smile, Jules. It’s so comforting. I just want someone like you in my life. I’ll pay you $1,000 a week, just for your company. No nudes. No sex. Just you. Loyalty. I’ll take care of everything.

Thea snorted so hard that iced coffee nearly came out of her nose.

“I bet you will,” she muttered, fingers flying across the keyboard. Every word Elliot typed got logged in the file. Every red flag—timestamped, highlighted, color-coded. The watchdog team would love this.

She leaned back, stretching, her brain already running laps. She opened a second tab to trace the IP address.

Disposable VPN, of course. Nigeria. Same as the last three.

Jules: That’s so sweet of you, Elliot. But before we go further, could you tell me your favorite kind of soup?

A pause. Then ...

Elliott: Chicken.

She smiled. The last guy said, “tomato.” She clicked over to her tracker file, labeling the file “Chicken Catfish.”

~ ~ ~

The café was quiet—just the low hum of a coffee grinder, the occasional hiss of milk steaming, and Thea’s fingers tapping on the keysboard of her laptop quicky.

She glanced at the screen. Another guy, Chris, a.k.a. “Afghanistan Guy,” was back. She called him that because he introduced himself as an active U.S. Military member who was currently stationed in Afghanistan in the middle of the warzone.

How ludicrous is that! She shook her head and laughed. TikTok has been banned in Afghanistan since 2022. She wondered how many women he conned with that profile.

Afghanistan Guy: I just want someone I can trust again. My ex took everything. My house. My savings. I was ready to marry her. But she cheated, and I’ve been broken ever since.

Classic. Thea sipped her latte, deadpan. She typed.

Jules: That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. I’m glad you got out of that toxic relationship early enough. By the way, it’s 9:12 p.m. here. What time is it there? Just curious.

She already knew it was 5:42 p.m. in Kabul. But she wanted him to say it, so she waited. He replied but evaded the question.

Afghanistan Guy: You seem different from other women. I don’t even care about anything sexual. Just you. Your words. Your voice. Your companionship.

A smile curled at her lips.

Wrong move, soldier boy.

She clicked open a side window on her laptop: Voice Modulator Suite: Jules Mode. A library of a pre-recorded soft, sultry voice—layered accent, subtle tonal shifts, warm hmmms, and practiced sighs.

If he asked for a voice note? She’d be ready.

Across the counter, a quiet voice asked, “Refill?”

Thea blinked up. The barista—dark hair, unreadable green eyes, a slight stubble that probably wasn’t trying but absolutely worked—held up a glass filled with iced coffee.

She nodded. “Please.”

As he slid the glass on the table, his gaze flicked to her screen—subtle, not nosy, but aware.

“You do freelance?” he asked casually as if reading JavaScript instead of romance scams.

“Something like that.”

He smiled a little. “Lots of tabs open.”

She smirked. “You have no idea.”

He set the glass down and walked away—but not before she noticed the patch sewn under the hem of his apron: a tiny dolphin. Dark gray, barely visible, but there.

Her eyes narrowed.

Now that … was interesting.

Wrapped around the glass, Thea’s hand had gone cold, but not from the ice.

That patch. Her patch. A leaping dolphin—dark gray, outlined in white, almost invisible unless you knew where to look.

It wasn’t something you found in a mall. You didn’t pick it off a shelf. You earned it. It was the signature of a retired faction of EchoNet, a covert digital collective that tracked cyber fraud in the early 2000s. Before the rebranding. Before anonymity went corporate.

And she had designed that patch.

Her eyes flicked back to the barista.

He was rinsing a milk jug. Calm. Steady. No signs of mischief, no awkward smile. Just … focused. Unbothered. As if he hadn’t just dropped a breadcrumb into the middle of her real-life storyline.

Thea closed her laptop slowly. The lid clicked. She wasn’t going to say anything. Not yet.

He came back. “Need anything else?”

His voice was soft—almost too soft—the kind you had to lean in to hear.

“Actually,” she said, folding her hands around the glass, “can I ask you something weird?”

He smiled faintly like he was expecting it. “You just did, but sure.”

She gestured casually at his apron. “Your patch.”

His fingers brushed the corner of it. He looked down like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh,” he said. “That old thing. I found it online. Thought it looked cool.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You ‘found’ it?”

He shrugged. “Well, someone sent it to me. We used to work on a few backchannel projects together. Back when I still did security audits for digital nonprofits.”

Backchannel projects. Security audits. He was speaking her language but not saying her name.

She leaned forward. “Do I know you?”

He didn’t flinch. He just looked at her like she was the one holding secrets. “I don’t think so,” he said, then added, “Not officially.”

Her pulse ticked.

Not officially?

He didn’t say anything else about the patch. And Thea didn’t push.

Instead, she watched as he wiped the counter, checked his phone, and paused, just briefly, like something behind the screen pulled him sideways.

“Hey, Xander!” a voice called from the back. Another barista, younger, harried. “Need you on the register!”

Xander gave Thea a small shrug. “Duty calls.”

Thea blinked. Xander.

She tucked the name away like a key slipped under a doormat. “Thanks for the coffee.”

He offered a smile, crooked and real. “Anytime, Jules.”

She stiffened. Jules? Her current alias. She hadn’t said that name out loud.

But he was already gone, disappearing into the backroom like a shadow slipping off the edge of a dream.